against his skin, Fulke began to understand. And that he, in his favoured position of eldest son, his inheritance secure, was being made a scapegoat. 'My father says that we are one body. The head cannot function without a torso or limbs. What you do to one, you do to all.'
'My father says,' John mimicked. 'Christ, do you know how often you trot that out?'
Fulke flushed. 'If I do it is because he speaks sense.'
'Or perhaps because you are a child who has not learned to think for himself.' John cast him a scornful look and closed the shutters on the wildness outside. The candles ceased to gutter and a sudden silence settled over the room, permeated with the smoky scent of burning wax. The Prince sat down moodily at the chessboard and fingered one of the bishops.
Fulke wondered rather desperately how long it would be before the dinner horn sounded. Judging by the advanced state of the dusk, it must be soon.
'What do you say to a wager, Bumpkin?' John gestured to the chessboard.
'A wager?' Fulke's heart sank. Reclaiming his shield, he laid his hand on the leather-covered lime-wood, exorcising John's touch.
'Defeat me at chess and I'll let you off the price of the flagon.'
Fulke did not miss the taunting note in John's voice. The Prince was an accomplished chess player and his skills had been honed by their tutor Master Glanville, whose incisive intelligence had led to him being appointed Justiciar. Fulke's own skills were erratic, developed not so much from logic and instruction as enjoyment of the game and the ability to think fast on his feet.
'If you wish it, sir,' he said with resignation and sat down.
John gave him a denigrating smile and swivelled the chequered board so that the white pieces were his. 'My move first,' he said.
Fulke touched his shield again for luck. He knew that whatever he did he could not win. If he lost to John then he would have to find the price of the flagon. If he were victorious, John would find other, subtle, malicious ways of punishing him. The safest ploy was to lose as quickly as possible and then lather the Prince in flattery. It was what any of the other squires would do.
Fulke reached to a knight, fully intending to give John the conquest, but against the main tide of his will, a perverse cross-current altered the move, and it became an open challenge.
John narrowed his eyes. 'Where did you learn that one?' he demanded tersely.
'From my father,' Fulke said to be irritating. It was strange. Now that battle was joined, he could feel the certainty and arrogance of that cross-current growing within him, becoming his true self. He was as good as John, but in a different way, that was all. If he played by John's tactics, he would be defeated whatever the outcome. But if he played to his own rules, then he was free and damn the consequences.
John tried to manoeuvre him into a corner but Fulke kept his distance, making little sallies that constantly ruined John's strategy. The Prince grew increasingly frustrated, as much by Fulke's audacious baiting as by the fact that he was unable to pin him down. He downed two more cups of wine; he fiddled with his rings and tugged at the sparse growth of black beard on his chin, his expression growing stormier by the moment.
Fulke moved a bishop. 'Check,' he said. And it would be mate in two moves, neither of which his opponent could circumvent.
John gaped in disbelieving fury. His eyes flickered, calculating the moves just as Fulke had done. A muscle bunched in his jaw. i suppose your father taught you to cheat too,' he said in a voice congested with loathing.
Fulke clenched his fists and struggled for the control not to knock John's teeth down his throat. 'I have won fairly. You have no right to missay my family's honour as an excuse for losing.'
John sprang to his feet. A wild swipe of his fist scattered the chess pieces far and wide. 'I have the right to do anything I want!'
'Not to me and mine!' Fulke jumped up too, his eyes dark with
'My father says,' John mimicked. 'Christ, do you know how often you trot that out?'
Fulke flushed. 'If I do it is because he speaks sense.'
'Or perhaps because you are a child who has not learned to think for himself.' John cast him a scornful look and closed the shutters on the wildness outside. The candles ceased to gutter and a sudden silence settled over the room, permeated with the smoky scent of burning wax. The Prince sat down moodily at the chessboard and fingered one of the bishops.
Fulke wondered rather desperately how long it would be before the dinner horn sounded. Judging by the advanced state of the dusk, it must be soon.
'What do you say to a wager, Bumpkin?' John gestured to the chessboard.
'A wager?' Fulke's heart sank. Reclaiming his shield, he laid his hand on the leather-covered lime-wood, exorcising John's touch.
'Defeat me at chess and I'll let you off the price of the flagon.'
Fulke did not miss the taunting note in John's voice. The Prince was an accomplished chess player and his skills had been honed by their tutor Master Glanville, whose incisive intelligence had led to him being appointed Justiciar. Fulke's own skills were erratic, developed not so much from logic and instruction as enjoyment of the game and the ability to think fast on his feet.
'If you wish it, sir,' he said with resignation and sat down.
John gave him a denigrating smile and swivelled the chequered board so that the white pieces were his. 'My move first,' he said.
Fulke touched his shield again for luck. He knew that whatever he did he could not win. If he lost to John then he would have to find the price of the flagon. If he were victorious, John would find other, subtle, malicious ways of punishing him. The safest ploy was to lose as quickly as possible and then lather the Prince in flattery. It was what any of the other squires would do.
Fulke reached to a knight, fully intending to give John the conquest, but against the main tide of his will, a perverse cross-current altered the move, and it became an open challenge.
John narrowed his eyes. 'Where did you learn that one?' he demanded tersely.
'From my father,' Fulke said to be irritating. It was strange. Now that battle was joined, he could feel the certainty and arrogance of that cross-current growing within him, becoming his true self. He was as good as John, but in a different way, that was all. If he played by John's tactics, he would be defeated whatever the outcome. But if he played to his own rules, then he was free and damn the consequences.
John tried to manoeuvre him into a corner but Fulke kept his distance, making little sallies that constantly ruined John's strategy. The Prince grew increasingly frustrated, as much by Fulke's audacious baiting as by the fact that he was unable to pin him down. He downed two more cups of wine; he fiddled with his rings and tugged at the sparse growth of black beard on his chin, his expression growing stormier by the moment.
Fulke moved a bishop. 'Check,' he said. And it would be mate in two moves, neither of which his opponent could circumvent.
John gaped in disbelieving fury. His eyes flickered, calculating the moves just as Fulke had done. A muscle bunched in his jaw. i suppose your father taught you to cheat too,' he said in a voice congested with loathing.
Fulke clenched his fists and struggled for the control not to knock John's teeth down his throat. 'I have won fairly. You have no right to missay my family's honour as an excuse for losing.'
John sprang to his feet. A wild swipe of his fist scattered the chess pieces far and wide. 'I have the right to do anything I want!'
'Not to me and mine!' Fulke jumped up too, his eyes dark with
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