8/4/2019 Exclusive extract of VIII by H.M. Castor.

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VIIIExclusive Extract for Daisy Chain Book Reviews, pp. 88-91

Arthurs men release me and follow their master out, shutting the door behind them. Myfather and I are alone. Despite my best efforts, I am still trembling. I feel sick at the

thought of more blows.

He begins a little tour of the room, poking with his stick at the bed-hangings, a footstool,

twitching aside the curtain covering a mirror. I flinch every time he swipes the stick

through the air. He catches me cringing and I can see his disgust. I could so easily cry;my throat is tight, my eyes prickling. I mustnt. It will only make him worse. More angry,

more disgusted he will beat me across the room and back. Its happened before. And I

know that a beating hurts ten times more than sword practice with the strongest opponent

though its a mystery to me why.

My father stops, facing me again, both hands on his stick. His hair is greying, and hes

thin under his plush velvet gown. If someone saw him on the battlefield, they might think

they could take him out, no problem: That little collection of twigs? Ill snap him over myknee. They wouldnt realise each twig is as strong as steel.

He smiles now, but not pleasantly. That was some display, he says, jerking his head.

Out there.

Tha I squeak. I clear my throat. I mustnt sound like a mouse. Thank you, sir.

Quite a swordsman already, arent you? A crack shot too. Better than Arthur, would you

say?

I hesitate decide. Yes, sir.

And so charming. The Spaniards warmed to you, didnt they? He nods. Yes. But you

know that. You know what you are about.

I am honoured to have merited their approval, I say.

My fathers eyes widen in extravagant surprise. Did you think they admiredyou? They

were laughing! Not with you atyou. Your childish swagger! It was quite funny, even Ihad to admit that. They said to me: Contain that one. We can see hes a problem already.

Perhaps Im shaking my head, though Im barely aware of it, because he goes on,

Oh yes, Im afraid its true. You are, you see. A problem already. Dont blub. A boy

crying is a sight that makes me gag.

But I cant stop. My father moves quickly and the stick lands with a thwack across my

bottom. I hit the floor, on hands and knees.

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You pathetic little insect. Get up! Get up!

As I scramble to my feet my father is slipping off his long gown, keeping hold of hisstick. He barks, Take off that doublet. Take it off! I wont have expensive cloth ruined.

I undo the laces with quivering fingers. Im still crying. My father grabs the garment fromme and slings it onto a chair.

It is all a great game to you, isnt it? he shouts, hitting me across the back.

No, sir!

His arm whips round my neck, doubling me over, my head gripped against the side of hisbody, my back and bottom and legs in front of him. Remember this! he roars, hitting

me rhythmically now. It is the way to learn! It is how I was taught and I have never

forgotten

Stop! For the love of God! someone shouts.

My father suddenly lets go of me; I collapse onto the floor, unable to break my fall. From

under my arm lifted in front of my face in case of more blows I see my mother fly

into the room and my father catch her by the wrist as she heads towards me. She swings

round to face him, her skirts swirling.

No, dont go to him! my father growls, breathing heavily from his exertions. This isyourdoing, Elizabeth! The boy has been spoiled. He needs to learn his place.

Not like this!

If he learns now it may save his life.

But he doesnt understand!

Doesnt he? My father releases her, grabs a wooden stool from near the wall and bangs

it down in the centre of the room. Then let me explain. In simpletons terms. He sits,

and points at the floor in front of him. Stand here, boy. Stop crying unless you wantanother beating.

I get up, painfully, and stand where he indicates. Behind him my mothers face lookswild with agitation and concern, but she holds herself very still, her hands clasped in front

of her, the knuckles white.

My father stares at me, his small black eyes gleaming. He says, You are my second son.

Whats a kings second son for?

I dont know, sir, I say, thoroughly miserable.

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He hits me, open-handed, across the face. Whats a second son for? he repeats.

I swallow, blinking hard. I say, So that if the first son dies there will still be an heir, sir.

Thats right. You are a spare. A backup. In case our beloved first-born son dies. Fromwhich calamity God in His infinite wisdom has been merciful enough to spare us. Both

my parents cross themselves. My father goes on, And when the first-born son marries

and has sons of his own to continue his line guess what? That second son is not neededany more.

He leans forward, gripping his knees. Now. The Spanish envoys are here because Arthur

is about to?

Get married, sir.

Very good. And, God willing, the birth of Arthurs sons will follow soon after. So. Whatdoes this mean for you, I wonder? The backup, who is not needed any more? Hm?

I dont know, I whisper, afraid of being hit again.

My father leans in and whispers back, as if confiding a secret: It means you must be

very, very careful.