EIGHT
A HEAD ON THE EAST GATE
IN DECEMBER THERE WAS A state visit from Prince Jeremy of Romsey, in return for that of my father’s which had been cut short a year before. He brought his eldest son with him, and they stayed for the Christmas Feast.
Prince Jeremy was a fattish, small, ineffectual-seeming man with a gingery mustache and beard, both delicately trimmed. His polymuf barber was one of the party and he spent an hour closeted with him each morning and came out oiled and scented. To my father he was deferential, almost obsequious, continually seeking his opinion and only offering his own when it was requested. In fact, his opinions were often worth having. Although he looked weak and effeminate his mind was shrewd.
The son, James, was a little older than I but a good deal taller and more adult in appearance; when he sometimes missed being shaved (as I think he did by design rather than accident or slovenliness) his chin was blue-stubbled with whiskers. I was astonished by his attitude to his father, which was one of condescension, almost of contempt, and by the father’s acceptance of it.
To me he offered at first the same condescension. I made it clear that I would not stand for it, and his manner changed to a rather oily affability. I found that he followed me around; little as I cared for his company I could not without rudeness be rid of it for long. And it was not possible to be rude: this was a state visit and I had a duty to perform. I cut him short in his criticisms of his father but had to tolerate the rest of his whinings. He was envious of Winchester’s wealth and prosperity and under cover of praising it continually bemoaned the poverty of his own city and of his father’s palace. They had no painter to compare with Margry, their musicians were inferior, their buildings small and mean against ours—even the dogs no match for our Winchester breed. All this, with its barely concealed jealousy and resentment, was increasingly irritating as the days passed and I grew more and more familiar with his complaints.
But if it was bad enough having to endure his company on my own, it was worse when Martin and Edmund were there. Martin he practically ignored, except for a faint air of surprise that I should associate with a commoner. He gloated over Edmund. It was not done openly—there was no particular thing said to which one could take exception—but there was no mistaking it. He had known Edmund, after all, as the Prince’s son, and he was plainly delighted by the reversal in his fortunes and the family’s present poverty.
Edmund for a time tolerated it, returning an equal but silent contempt which I think James was too stupid to notice. The break in his composure only came when one day in the street we met Edmund’s sister, Jenny. She did not notice James right away and stopped to say something to her brother about a domestic matter: a drain at the house that needed unblocking. It was only after some moments that she saw James and her words faltered. Her face, already pricked to color by the frost in the air, crimsoned further.
James said, his voice cool and it seemed to me with an edge of mockery:
“Greetings, lady. We have met before, I believe.”
The meeting, as we all knew, had been two years earlier and had been the occasion of their betrothaclass="underline" the daughter of the Prince of Winchester and the heir to Romsey.
She said: “Yes, sir.”
He smiled at her. “Should you ever come to Romsey, you must call on us.”
The tone of insult was unmistakable. Their eyes met and his, in cruel arrogance, bore her gaze down. I had not thought I could be sorry for her but I was. She mumbled something and turned, walking away quickly over the packed snow. James called after her:
“Present my compliments to your lady mother.” Jenny did not reply or look back. “Tell her I regret that I shall not be able to visit her in her new home.”
Edmund, stung at last beyond endurance, started moving toward him, his fist doubling for a punch. I caught his arm and Martin did so from the other side. No provocation could be held to justify striking the son of a Prince who was a guest of the city: the offender must be charged and convicted and publicly lashed. James had seen his move and was smiling.
Edmund said: “Let me go. I’ll . . .”
“No.” I tightened my grip on his arm, making sure I hurt him. “It’s not worth it.” Our eyes locked. He was angry with me as well and I could see why. I said: “Go after Jenny. I’ll see to this.” He still struggled to get free. I whispered: “If you hit him, I must defend him. I have no choice. And then . . . do you want to have him watching while they take the lash to your naked back?”
He gave me a single look. I let go and he walked away. I motioned to Martin to go with him. James said:
“A pity you did not let him try.”
I turned on him fiercely, so fiercely that he started back. I said:
“I did it for his sake, not yours. But if you insult a friend of mine in my presence again it will be I that cracks you, state visit or no state visit.”
I walked away toward the palace. He followed, protesting that it was all an error: he had meant no insult. I did not answer. He caught up with me, and said:
“All the same, do you think you are wise to make a friend of such as him?”
I said sharply: “I do not need advice on choosing my friends.”
He laughed, high and thin. “Of course! But I worry about you, Luke. You are too trusting.”
I kept silent. I wanted no counsel from him, of any kind. Nor was it true. I knew myself well enough to know that with me trust was never constant but something which ebbed and flowed. I might trust a few in my good humor but when my mind was black clouded I trusted no one. This one, though, I would not trust under any conditions.
• • •
That evening, talking alone with my father, I asked how much longer they would stay. He said:
“Do you find that young James tries you?”
I gritted my teeth. “Almost beyond bearing.”
He smiled, “I have noticed the effort you made and been proud of you for it. One can see why some lads are unpleasant—this one has ruled his father since he was in the cradle—but one does not dislike them less for the knowledge. But it may prove to have been worth it.”
“I do not see how, sir.”
“No, but I will tell you. The father is a soft man in some ways but at the same time cunning. He has been impressed by our success the last two summers. He realizes that we have the aid and blessing of the Spirits. He wants an alliance.”
“For fear that we might attack him next?”
“In part, but not only through fear. He looks for advantages.”
“What advantages?”
“This, like all things said in this room, is not to be spoken of.” I nodded. “He proposes that next summer we join together in an attack on Andover.”
Andover was due north of Romsey, about fifteen miles distant. The cities were old rivals but in recent years the northerners had been greatly the stronger. Romsey had paid much in tribute and yielded valuable land. I said:
“I can see why he wants our help. But there is not much honor for us in defeating Andover with Romsey’s help.”
“I felt the same. But there is more to it than honor. Or a shared ransom. Ambitions have grown all round since we took Petersfield. He says he can take Andover, as well.”
“How?”
“There is a Sergeant in Andover who will see to it that one of the gates is opened. For a price.”
“But that is treachery! There would be no honor . . .”
“Listen,” my father said. “There are times when the world changes, when the customs of generations shatter and things are no longer fixed. Ezzard has told me we are in such a time. Because of this a man born a commoner became Prince of Winchester. Andrew of Petersfield used machines against us. We in turn took his city; and on the Spirits’ command have kept it. The changes are not yet ended. If Prince of two cities, why not three?”