The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(66)
“How old?”
“Perhaps when you’re five, like Prince Henry.”
“I’m three an’ a quarter.” Kit looked up at him with wide brown eyes. “I’m a big boy.”
“I know. Now watch where you’re walking. We don’t want you falling down the stairs, do we?”
At the Holbein Gate they had to wait with the other minor courtiers whilst an army of heralds and palace servants guided all the spectators to the correct seats.
“Sir Maliverny Catlyn,” he said to the steward when they reached the gateway. “And family.”
“This way, sir. Gentlemen’s seats on the left.”
They followed the steward’s directions, past a great canopied stand where the Prince and Princess of Wales were enthroned. Prince Arthur sat at his brother’s right hand, along with senior courtiers including the earls of Northumberland and Essex, and in front of them the birthday boy himself, Prince Henry, resplendent in… full armour? Mal stared for a moment, slack-jawed, then remembered himself and looked away.
They found Sandy already seated about halfway up the stand, glaring at anyone who tried to sit too close to him. He broke into a smile at the sight of Kit, but when the boy did not immediately run to him like he used to do, the expression on his face was heartbreaking. We did the right thing, Mal told himself, and forced a smile as he took his own place, next to his wife. She had tactfully placed Kit on the bench between herself and Sandy.
“Prince Arthur’s idea, no doubt,” Mal muttered to her, nodding towards the lists below. “He does like to remind people how much he takes after his grandfather.”
“Did you see Prince Henry all in armour?” Coby whispered. “I thought this was an entertainment for his benefit. He is participating?”
“Looks like it. And his older brother too. See, there’s Edward, by the tents.”
He pointed to the competitors’ pavilion, where eight year-old Prince Edward, likewise clad head to foot in plate armour, was talking animatedly to a man whom Mal did not recognise.
“That sounds somewhat rash,” Coby said, “to risk both the Prince’s heirs like that. What if one or both is hurt?”
What indeed? A simple accident, and Prince Henry would be heir to the throne after his father’s death. Mal’s hand strayed to the hilt of his rapier. He should stop this, before something terrible happened. But who would listen? He could hardly denounce Prince Henry before the crowd, not if he wanted to keep his own head.
Trumpets blared, and Mal’s heart turned over in his chest. He had never cared much for jousting, but too much was at stake today.
“I want to see, I want to see!” Kit bounced up and down ineffectually.
Coby lifted the boy up onto the bench, steadying him with a hand around his waist. “There, see the horses now?”
To Mal’s relief the first jousters were adults: the Earl of Southampton, and… He frowned at the banner. The Earl of Rutland? Were the guisers out in force today, or was Manners simply showing off in front of his betrothed? The two combatants trotted up to the royal stand and saluted the Prince of Wales, their blued-steel armour flashing in the rich autumn sunlight. Hours of painstaking craftsmanship, costing hundreds of pounds, only to dent and scratch it for an afternoon’s entertainment. Mal supposed a lack of concern for such matters was what separated the nobility from a mere gentleman commoner like himself.
The two earls wheeled their mounts and cantered to opposite ends of the list. Trumpets sounded again, the herald lowered his flag and the riders kicked their horses into a gallop, thundering towards one another down the narrow field. The ground trembled under their passing hooves, and the crowd held its collective breath until the moment of impact. The lances clashed and shivered into splinters and the crowd roared.
Mal turned to his son. Kit was staring silently at the Earl of Southampton, who rode past with shattered lance held high.
“Why are the men fighting, Daddy?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.
“It’s just a game, pet. They’re showing what good riders they are, to stay on their horses even when they’ve been hit.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, no one will get hurt.” God willing.
Southampton and Rutland made two more passes, equally without mishap, though Rutland won the bout for breaking all three of his lances to only two of Southampton’s. They trotted back to the royal stand and saluted the princes again. Prince Henry sounded happy as he congratulated Rutland in his piping child’s voice, but the formal words robbed the exchange of any personal meaning. Damn it, there had to be a better way to identify their enemies! If only they bore a mark, like witches were said to do, or had some vulnerability that was simple to test. As it was, a guiser bound in iron was indistinguishable from any other human. Bound in iron. Or steel. Such as armour…
A shiver of horror and hope ran over Mal’s skin. If Prince Henry died jousting, Jathekkil might be destroyed. He looked across at Sandy, who frowned slightly. Mal leaned around behind Coby to whisper in his brother’s ear, but his words were drowned out by another fanfare. A squire dressed in royal livery brought a pony up to the stand, and Prince Henry was escorted down to it by his uncle. Prince Arthur hoisted the boy into the saddle from the offside, being careful to avoid the large shield that had been affixed to the saddlebow. So, they were taking no chances after all.