Chapter Four

San Diego, California, Holy Empire of Britannia, January 2006 ATB

The stadium was packed.

From his vantage point on the high circle, Alexander looked down on a sea of humanity. Tens of thousands of faces, bright in the sun. Tens of thousands of voices, blending together in low, dull roar that hung in the air.

He had never seen anything like it; not in Krugis, not since he had come to Britannia. The stadium was vast, like something out of ancient Rome or even Atlantis; a great hollow oval five hundred metres across. The high circle was full of enormous skyboxes, some of them with corporate logos or heraldic escutcheons displayed on small but easily visible screens. Above them, hanging from the roof, were a series of enormous screens, each eighty metres across. The field in the centre was arranged for the jousting; the floor covered in soft green turf, a long barrier running along the centre.

Alexander stood where he was, the wind ruffling his hair, taking it all in. He was glad his father had allowed him to go off on his own for a while. Just so long as he was back in time for the main event, when the knightmares would battle. But the jousting before that would take at least a couple of hours, not counting time to prepare the field. He had, for all intents and purposes, all the time in the world.
He glanced along the circle, towards the next cluster of skyboxes.

There were only a few people around, taking the air before the main event. There seemed to be an event mix of children and adults, either alone or in pairs or small groups. Some talked among themselves, others looked down at the field as he had been doing, or at the screens. From their clothes and bearing, they were all nobles.

Like he had been for the past two years.

He scanned a loose eye over them, taking in as much as he could without appearing too interested. The adults were all pretty much the same; similar in bearing, similar in dress, similar in manner and speech. He could not quite make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be in reasonably good humour.

The children were a little more varied. The younger ones were more energetic, more excitable. They ran like children, talked like children, laughed like children. For all their fine, expensive-looking clothes, and their neatly-arranged hair, they acted at least a little like the children he remembered from Krugis.
The older children, those around his own age and older, were very different. Their outfits were more elaborate, more expensive-looking. They didn't seem to move very much at all, and what movements they did make seemed much more controlled, almost choreographed. Even their facial expressions looked the same. It was almost as if they were putting on a play; keeping up a constant act.

He did not particularly feel like speaking to any of them. He didn't know a single one of them, and simply introducing himself seemed…rude somehow. He was content to keep to himself, and to leave them to their own business.

Especially the girls.

There were quite a few of them; more than he might have expected for such an event. They seemed more convivial than the boys, talking animatedly in small groups while the boys were mostly alone or in pairs. Their dresses were very elaborate, heavy on frills and bows. Some carried parasols, and almost all carried fans. They talked, sometimes giggling, their movements all part of the same repertoire.
Alexander didn't think much of the boys. He knew too little of them to pass judgement, but he'd fought off enough boys on the streets of Tehran to be wary. But the girls were even worse. They were completely opaque, like another species.

A species with the mysterious power to unsettle him, for no apparent reason.

He felt the wind pick up. The girls let out a collective eep, gloved hands rushing to hold down their suddenly billowing skirts. A few of the boys glanced their way, though Alexander could not imagine what they hoped to see.

A louder, closer cry made his head snap round. He saw a young girl in pink, staggering forward, her arm outstretched. Alexander followed it, and saw a pink parasol floating away on the wind.

For many, many years to come, Alexander would never be able to explain why he did what he did next.
He moved. A quick leap took him to the top of the parapet. Bracing his feet in the guard rail, he leant out over the gap, stretching as arm as far as he could go. In the back of his mind he could hear gasps and cries of surprise, but he paid them no mind. He reached…

His hand closed around the shaft. He gripped the parasol, then bent his feet up against the guard rail and leant back, drawing in his arm to add momentum. As he straightened up he stepped back, drawing in his knees and allowing himself to fall. He landed on both feet, the impact juddering up through his legs, then straightened in one smooth motion.

A collective oohhh rose from his audience, followed by a smattering of applause. Alexander paid them no mind, instead turning to face the young girl whose parasol he had just rescued.
She was not smiling. She looked like she was about to cry.

"You could've fallen!" she wailed. "Oh I wish you'd let it go! What if you'd fallen down?"

Alexander was taken aback. He didn't know much about females in general, but he would have at least expected her to be happy, or at least pleased that he had bothered to catch her parasol.

"I…I could not do otherwise, my lady," he said, cursing himself for stammering. He glanced through one eye at the gaggle of girls. Their attention was now firmly fixed on the two of them, and they were whispering among themselves. His stunt seemed to have sharpened his hearing, for he could now just about make out what they were saying.

"…embarrassing…"

"…fawning like that…"

"…crybaby…"

"…who is she anyway?"

"…my dress is nicer than hers…"

Alexander looked her up and down as he offered the parasol. She was a little shorter than him, but everyone knew girls grew faster, so she might be a couple of years younger. She had very long pink hair, parted over her left eye, with the bangs curling down to the right. A white ribbon was tied in a bow at the back, the ends hanging down to her neck. Her dress was bright pink with short puffed sleeves, flaring out like a bell from the waist to her knees, with white frills and lace, and a white sash tied in a large bow at the back. Her big, bright eyes were a shade of purple leaning to blue.

"Oh, I'm being silly," the girl admonished herself, and took the parasol in a lace-gloved hand. "Thank you kind sir. I would've had to apologise to mother if I lost this."

"It is of no consequence, my lady."

Technically it wasn't. Two years of sword training and running around the obstacle course his father had improvised out of the estate's buildings and grounds had honed his muscles and reflexes to a level he could never before have imagined. Even the worst urchins in Tehran would be no match for him now.
"I think it is," insisted the girl. "May I have the honour of your name, good sir knight?" She beamed, and Alexander felt his face heat up. He had never felt anything remotely like it before.

"Alexander…Alexander Waldstein, at your service." He bowed, the short bow his father had taught him to use when one is uncertain of another's station.

"Oh!" The girl seemed surprised. "Then you must be Lord Bismark's son! The one everyone's talking about!"

Alexander didn't know what to say. His mind was awhirl, his face getting hotter and hotter.

"He's blushing!"

The girls were giggling. In all his life, even amid the darkness of the streets and slums of old Tehran, he had not heard anything quite so nerve-wracking as giggling. It made him want to sink into the floor and disappear.

"Oh, I forgot." The girl plucked at the hem of her dress and genuflected like a ballerina. "You can call me…Euphie."

Alexander was entranced. Never had he felt anything like this before. Never had he seen anything quite so…beautiful.

"I think the jousting must be about to start," Euphie said, glancing down at the field. Alexander followed her gaze, and saw the liveried attendants and uniformed stadium staff swarming at either end of the barrier. Racks were being set up, upon which stood long lances and spare shields.

"Will you please escort me to my skybox?" Euphie sat her parasol on her shoulder and offered her arm. "I wouldn't want to miss the start."

Alexander gulped, as another bout of giggling broke out. His father hadn't taught him much etiquette, but there was only one proper response.

"It would be my pleasure…my lady." He took her arm, and together they began to walk back along the gallery.

"Ignore them, Alexander," Euphie said airily, once they were out of earshot of the girls. "They're just bored. Besides, it's funny when a girl makes a boy blush."

She let out a little giggle, then faltered as she saw the look on his face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Oh, I wasn't!" pleaded Alexander. His words caught in his throat, and he tried to master himself. "I mean…it was no trouble, my lady."

"Please, call me Euphie," insisted the girl, giggling. "I get titles all the time."

That, at least, made sense. She was obviously a noble. It was plain to see. That effortless grace with which she moved, that gentle aura that seemed to shine out of her like the morning sun.

That, and that she could not have been in the high circle otherwise.

"Do you like the jousting, Alexander?"

"I do…Euphie."

"I love it!" Euphie's eyes sparkled. "I love the shiny armour, and the surcoats with the coats of arms, and the beautiful horses!" Then her smile faltered. "But I hate it when they get hurt."

"I'm sure that will not happen, Euphie." Alexander paused a moment, trying to clear his head. "They manage these things very carefully."

"I'm sure they will." The smile returned. "But, since you are a boy, I assume you like the knightmares more?" One delicate eyebrow went a just a little.

"I…" Alexander trailed off as he noticed the trap. "I…I confess I like them…"

"It's all right!" The smile briefly became a smirk. "My sister likes them too."

Their stroll took them to the rear of the gallery, and the lavishly-decorated corridors leading to the skyboxes. Many of the other guests were doing likewise, as the preparations on the field drew closer to completion.

Two girls were hanging around the doorway as Alexander and Euphie passed. They watched the pair intently from behind their fans, vulpine smiles just visible. Euphie merely smiled and gave them a friendly nod. To Alexander's surprise, both girls immediately genuflected. Still they smirked, as if privy to some great joke.

"Don't let them upset you." Euphie patted his arm in a friendly sort of way. "It's their way."
Alexander knew which he preferred. Euphie might have been a girl just like them, but there was something different about her, something special. She seemed more open-hearted, more genuine somehow, and so much less unsettling.

"I fear you did not say, Euphie," he said. "Where is your skybox."

"It's right here." Euphie looked up at the entrance they had just reached, then faltered. "Funny, that crest wasn't there when I left."

Alexander saw the sign on the screen by the door, his own father's personal symbol. He had been so distracted by Euphie that he had wandered up to his father's skybox without even realising.

"And just where have you two been hiding?" demanded a stern, yet familiar voice. Euphie jumped, and Alexander's heart skipped a beat as Princess Cornelia came strolling into the corridor.

"P…Princess Cornelia!" Alexander babbled. His mind tied itself in knots, trying to figure out how to respond. He couldn't bow or kneel, not without disentangling himself from Euphie. What should he do?
"Nell!" babbled Euphie, suddenly in a panic. She pulled away her arm and stepped sharply away from Alexander, her face bright red. "This is…"

"Lord Bismarck's skybox," replied Cornelia, smiling indulgently. "And we are his guests for today."

"Euphie, do you know her highness?" asked a thoroughly bewildered Alexander.

"I should say so," Cornelia cut in, chuckling. "Inside, both of you."

Alexander had no choice but to silently follow Cornelia into the skybox. Euphie walked beside him, head down, face still red. He had never seen anyone look quite so embarrassed.

"There, now that no one can hear us," Cornelia went on. "Alexander, I present my sister, Princess Euphemia li Britannia. Euphie, Alexander Waldstein."

"P-p-p-p…" Alexander stammered, his mind utterly discombobulated. "Princess?"

He glanced at Euphemia, who could not meet his gaze.

"Ah! Your highness!" He dropped to one knee, his face burning with embarrassment.

"Now now, stop that!" Cornelia was trying very hard not to laugh. "Officially neither of us are here, so you really don't need to do that."

"I don't?" Alexander asked, confused.

"Dear boy, this is advanced etiquette; the course you'll be taking from Marianne from next week onward. For now just relax. And as for you, young lady." Her tone hardened just slightly as she turned to Euphemia. "You and I must have a word."

Euphemia followed Cornelia away into the skybox, looking utterly miserable. Alexander watched her, not knowing what to think or feel.

"Don't worry about it lad." The gravelly voice was familiar. Alexander looked up, and saw Andreas Darlton looking down at him, grinning.

"Captain Darlton, sir."

"I've watched over the Princess since she was born," Darlton went on. "Both of them actually. I know her better than most. You've nothing to fear from her."

"I was not afraid, Captain sir," replied Alexander awkwardly. "But…I fear I've upset her highness."
"You have, but it's not your fault." Darlton sighed. "She shouldn't be taking advantage of your good nature like that. I understand her reasons, but all the same it's not fair."

"I don't understand, Captain sir."

"She likes making friends, that's all." Darlton cocked an eyebrow. "Would you have been half so friendly had you known she was a princess?"

Alexander opened his mouth to reply, then faltered as Darlton's words sunk in.

"I…suppose I would not, Captain sir."

"Well there's here reason. All I ask, young lord, is that you don't hold it against her."

"I would never do that." And it was true. As bewildered as he was, he bore her no malice. It didn't seem right somehow. In Krugis he had known malice, but only to those who would rob him, hurt him, kill him even. The idea of feeling anger, hatred, over something like this just felt…alien.

"Well that's good to hear!" Darlton barked a laugh, and patted Alexander on the shoulder. "Come now lad. It'll be starting soon."

Alexander followed Darlton through the foyer into the skybox itself. The skybox was truly lavish, more so than he had expected. The seats facing the windows, and the field below, were enormous armchairs and sofas. Behind the seats stood a fully-equipped dining room, as fine as the one at La Casa Pacifica but that it was smaller and more compact. The table was covered with trays of drinks and food, and a pair of nervous-looking maids stood nearby. Alexander wondered if Cornelia had brought them.

Standing in the open area between dining area and seats was his father, along with two other men. One was as tall as his father, with black hair hanging down his neck and curving out in sharp spikes. His face was similar too, with a lantern jaw and a pair of bushy eyebrows. He wore a red cloak emblazoned with the Imperial military crest; a stylized combination of a sword, a pair of wings, and a fleur-de-lys. The other man was shorter, but still stocky, with greying hair. He wore the white uniform of a flag-rank officer.

"Ah, you've arrived," Bismark said, noticing him. "Gentlemen, I present my son, Alexander. Alexander, this is Lord Michele Manfredi, Grand Master of the Order of St Michael, and General Gerard Bruckner, Commandant of the Imperial Military Academy at Caerleon."

"Good day, my lords." Alexander bowed low, bringing back his right leg and pressing his right hand over his chest. He hoped, desperately, that he had gotten it right.

"And good to you, young sir," replied Manfredi, a grin plastered across his face.

"Young sir." Bruckner acknowledged him with a nod.

"I have allowed my son to accompany me here on sufferance," his father went on, his stern tone making his true audience plain. "Be assured, gentlemen, that our business will not be disturbed with childish behaviour."

"Ah! What's the use of being a child if you can't be childish!" roared Manfredi, laughing a deep, throaty laugh. "Bismark, he's your very image, only much better-looking!" He laughed again. Alexander forced himself not to fidget or look away, however uncomfortable he might feel.

"Though a tad impetuous I think," harrumphed Bruckner. "Young sir, I would not think much of a young lord who would not put himself out for a lady in distress, but all that for a parasol?"

Alexander shivered. They had seen him? He glanced at his father, and saw the look in his one good eye.
"And what's wrong with impetuosity?" Manfredi slapped Alexander on the shoulder, so hard that he almost lost balance. "Give me a fiery heart over a cold one any day!"

"I have always favoured the virtues of a cool head," retorted Bismark. "Nevertheless Alexander, you have done a good job of keeping her highness amused. I would deem it a good service if you would continue."

"I shall do my best, father." Alexander paused, suddenly awkward. "Though…I fear I have upset her highness."

"Then you must do your utmost to make amends," replied Bismark, in a tone that made clear that he wasn't getting out of this duty.

"Exactly!" added Manfredi, still grinning. "A gentleman cannot fail to please the ladies, after all!"

"If you gentlemen aren't too busy," Cornelia spoke up, having returned to the skybox without anyone noticing. "The jousting is about to start."

The five adults took the seats in the centre of the skybox. Alexander was about to follow, then he saw Euphemia sitting on one of the sofas to the right, looking rather downcast. Nervous, but remembering what his father had said, Alexander slid onto the sofa, keeping a respectful distance.

Trumpets sounded, and the crowd roared as the contestants rode out of the tunnel and into the sunlight. There were twelve in all, as the joust was meant as a warmup act rather than a full event. They rode in a line around the outer edge of the field, showing themselves off to the adoring crowds. Their plate armour gleamed mirror-bright in the sunlight, their mounts barded with rich cloth emblazoned with noble heraldry. As they completed their circuit, the knights lined up before the VIP podium, on which sat a selection of local dignitaries.

Seeing them, a thought occurred to Alexander. Princess Cornelia and his father, not to mention Lord Manfredi and General Bruckner, were considerably more important than the local aristocrats and politicians on the podium; with the possible exception of the Duke. So why were they in a private skybox and not on the podium? Why had the two princesses come in secret like this?

But his train of thought rapidly derailed as his glance fell on Euphemia, who was watching the proceedings with what looked like polite attention. He supposed that such things might not be of much interest to a young girl, but that didn't sit well with what she had said before.

Or with how she had acted when they ran into Cornelia.

"The first joust! Sir Roderick Landstrom and Sir Gildas Sloan!"

The crowds cheered as two of the knights broke off from the line-up and cantered over to opposite ends of the barrier. Alexander watched as they took helmets, lances, and shields from the attendants, and manoeuvred their horses into position. The noise of the crowd receded, and an air of tense expectation settled over the stadium.

A klaxon sounded, and a pair of heralds waved bright flags. Both horses broke into a gallop, the lances dropping sharply into position. Alexander's heart clenched as the knights drew closer. It all felt unreal, as if time were slowing down.

Impact. An almighty crash resounded through the stadium as Sir Roderick's lance struck Sir Gildas' shield, knocking him back over his saddle. But Sir Gildas had aimed for his head, and Alexander almost gasped as Sir Roderick fell back over his saddle and toppled to the ground, his lance flying from his hand. The crowd roared, and Sir Gildas trotted back to his attendants, saluting the crowd with his lance.
Alexander sat back, revelling in the rush of adrenalin. It took a few long breaths to calm himself, to let his pounding heart settle.

Unhorsed. Three points. A clear win.

"The second joust! Mr Gilbert Guilford and Mr Francisco Allende!"

Two more knights trotted into position. Allende regarded the crowds with a cocksure smile, saluting them with his lance. Guilford did not do likewise, instead keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Allende. The sound of the crowd changed, a high-pitched shrieking arising amid the roar.

Helmets, shields, lances. The riders took up position, waiting for the signal. The klaxon sounded, and the horses thundered. Guilford's lance caught Allende on the plastron, knocking him back over his horse's rump. He hit the ground hard, and the crowd roared. Guilford came around in a tight arc, trotting back towards the barrier. Alexander watched him, wondering why he delayed.

Out on the field, Allende's attendants had reached him. They crouched around him in a cluster, pulling off his helmet. The cheers of the crowd had faded into a low rumble. Alexander wondered if he was hurt.

Then the cheers rose as Allende stood up, helped by his attendants. He gave Guilford a cheerful wave, and the cheers grew louder as Guilford raised his lance in salute.

Alexander watched him as he rode back to the podium. There was something about that knight, something he could not help but admire. Not merely strong, but dignified and restrained, so much like his father. He hoped he would become half so noble himself.

He glanced at Euphemia, opening his mouth to ask her opinion. Then he trailed off, as he saw that same face. So perfectly fixed was it, so unmoving, that she might as well have been a porcelain doll. He felt a twinge of remorse.

"I hope your highness is enjoying the tournament," he said, in a voice just loud enough for her to hear, yet not so loud as to impinge on the adults and their conversation.

No reply. Alexander looked away, feeling his cheeks heat up again. The silence was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry."

The words made his heart jump. Alexander looked, and saw that the cold face had gone. Now she just looked sad.

"Your highness?"

"Nell said I shouldn't have lied to you," Euphemia went on. "She said I shouldn't have pretended to be someone else." She looked down at her shoes.

"But…would you have believed me, Lord Alexander?"

"Yes, I would."

Euphemia looked up, barely stifling a gasp. Then looked away again, her cheeks reddening.

"Is it…so obvious?"

Alexander gulped. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't a courtier, a silver-tongued flatterer who could bend his words to any occasion, any emergency, any emotion. Such skills were not taught on the streets of Tehran, and would have been of little use in any case. His only teacher had been his father, and he had never been one for idle conversation. He didn't know how to talk to her. He didn't know what words might upset her, or anger her.

But he couldn't just say nothing, not now.

"It is to me, your highness."

"The third joust! Sir Juan de Almazan and Sir Richard Keighley!"

He gulped again, trying to force his mind to clear. He could not pay much attention to the joust.
"Only mother and my brothers and sisters call me Euphie," Euphemia said, looking down at her feet.
"Even my friends all call me princess."

"It is…normal, your highness."

"I don't mind you calling me that," she went on. "Everyone else calls me your highness. They're always polite, always careful, always think about what they say. Even my friends are kind and sweet, at least when I'm there. They're horrible to each-other when I'm not…some of them anyway."

Alexander wondered what she was trying to tell him, what the aura he was sensing from her meant. It was sad, obviously, but sadness could mean so many things.

Was she lonely? Was that what this was called?

Alexander didn't know, for he had never felt anything that he could call loneliness. On the streets, being alone meant there was no one to hurt him or steal his food. And he had rarely been alone while living with his father. If he had ever felt lonely, he wouldn't know what to call it.

"You're sad, your highness." It was a bold thing to say, but he was out of ideas; and the strange feeling, the hurt he felt, demanded an answer. "Please tell me how to please you."

Euphemia stared at him as if he had told her the moon was made of cheese. Alexander tensed, fearing that he might have been too bold, and offended her.

"I like my friends," she said, somewhat cautiously. "They're not bad, not really. But there's only one or two I really trust." She looked up, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Can I trust you, Alexander Waldstein? The way my father trusts your father?"

Alexander felt a sudden and profound weight upon his heart, a feeling he had only felt a few times. Her father was the Emperor, whom his own father had served for all his life. He knew he owed her the same service, the same loyalty. But never had he dreamed that she, or any of her family, might ask him so directly.

"Whatever your highness needs of me, you need only ask," he replied, hoping he sounded half as grave as he felt. Euphemia stared at him, her cheeks as pink as her dress.

"Whatever?" The grave look vanished from her face, replaced by an almost feline grimace. "You'll do whatever I want?"

Alexander's blood ran cold at the sight of that smile. His mind boggled at the thought of the trials and humiliations a young princess might invent, trials he had just pledged to fulfil at her command.

But there was no going back now.

"Anything, your highness."

"Good!" Euphemia's slyness was suddenly replaced by the brightest smile he had ever seen. She shuffled along the sofa and plonked herself right next to him, hooking her arm through his.

"I, Euphemia li Britannia, name you, Alexander Waldstein, as my official friend." She beamed, looking for all the world like a cat after a successful raid on the cream store. Alexander blushed as he heard what sounded like a snort of derisive laughter. He was sure it was Cornelia.

He couldn't pay much attention to the jousting. He was too distracted by her presence, even as she ooh'd and ah'd at the thunder of hooves and the clash of lance on shield. She would squeeze his arm tight every time she got excited. Her dress would rustle as she moved, making him wonder what was underneath it. Her scent, something floral he couldn't place, kept invading his nostrils every time he took a breath.

"It's too bad you won't be living with us," Euphemia said, as the six winners paraded before the VIP podium. "Mother wanted to have you for her page. She's terrified you'll become a terrible brute because you live with your father only."

"I…see, Euphie." Alexander did not have an answer to that.

"But I'll tell her you're not a brute," Euphemia reassured him brightly. "She'll be so relieved! And my friends will want to meet you too! They're all girls, but they won't mind you."

Alexander did his best not to gulp. The thought of having to entertain a pack of five or six-year-old girls did not much appeal.

"Oh and since you're going to be Lady Marianne's page, you'll be living with Lelouch and Nunnally too!"
Alexander suppressed a shiver. He had quite forgotten about Queen Marianne's children, Prince Lelouch and Princess Nunnally, with whom he was going to be living. A part of him wondered which was worse; Lelouch and Nunnally, or Euphemia and a horde of companions.

"Begging your pardon, Euphie, but do you by any chance know them?"

"Of course I do. I play with them all the time." She grinned. "Lelouch is a year older than me, and he's very clever and nice. But he's very proud too, so be careful not to offend him. Nunnally's sweet, but she's only three, so don't gets upset if she does silly things."

"I shall endeavour not to, Euphie." It was the only thing he really could say. Though something in her tone made him wonder what she meant by silly things.

"The first semi-final! Mr Gilbert Guilford and Sir Gildas Sloan."

Alexander looked up as two of the first round winners rode into position. The great screens focussed on him, and once again Alexander could hear that strange, high-pitched screeching from the crowd.

"Well there's a handsome fellow," commented Manfredi. "The girls are going wild."

Alexander watched Guilford's face closely. It was narrow, with very fine features, his black hair pulled back in a pony-tail. He could not have contrasted more with the stout Gildas Sloan.

"Handsome isn't the word," added Cornelia, leaning out of her seat to stare at the distant screen. "He can't be much more than a boy. Are they letting children ride now?"

"He doubtless wants to get noticed," mused Darlton. "He has to win his spurs somehow."

"I don't understand," Euphemia spoke up. "Is he a commoner?"

"Not as such, your highness," replied Bruckner. "He's from a knightly family, but a knight's position can't be inherited like a title. He has to earn his dubbing like any other knight."

Alexander knew what he meant. Despite being, in many respects, the lowest level of the aristocracy, the status of knight was not hereditary. It was one of the great old stories of Britannia, the ancient dream, that a commoner might become a knight, and rise almost to the nobility. In practice Britannia's knights came from a vast chivalric class, made up of knights and their immediate families. But it was still just possible for a commoner to become a knight, and even the child of a knightly or noble family had to prove his or her worth in the traditional way.

Alexander watched intently as the contestants donned their helmets and rode into position. He felt the tension rise again as they stood in place, horses pawing the ground, a hush descending over the crowds.
Sir Gildas Sloan sat straight in his saddle. Alexander could picture the confident smirk on his face, hidden behind his ornate visor. Gilbert Guilford did likewise, his back straight, his narrow chevron visor aimed straight at Sloan.

They were matched. Alexander realized it, in that brief moment. It was as if their minds, their very souls, were engaged in a battle of their own; invisible to all but him.

The klaxon squawked. The flags flew. The horses galloped.

Time slowed down. Alexander stared as the lances snapped down, straight and unerring. Sloan's lance was aimed at Guilford's head, but Guilford's lance aimed unerringly for his opponent's plastron. He stared, hardly daring to breathe, as the two drew closer.

They struck, the sound reverberating across the stadium. Guilford's head was flung back, and for a moment Alexander thought he would fall. But his lance struck true, slamming into Sloan's chest. Sloan fell back over his saddle, his right leg coming free of his stirrup. The crowd roared as he rolled off his horse and fell to the ground.

Thunder rolled across the stadium as the crowds clapped and cheered. Alexander was almost bouncing in his seat. Never, not once, had he felt such euphoria.

"I'd say that warrants a dubbing," mused Cornelia, a smile on her face. "Wouldn't you agree, Alexander?"

"Yes, your highness! I..." Alexander trailed off, remembering himself.

"You have something to say, Alexander?" Cornelia asked, eyeing him with a penetrating gaze. "Speak up then, we are listening."

Alexander gulped, as he saw all eyes were upon him.

"I...I knew that he was going to win," he said, awkwardly. He paused, half-expecting to be laughed-at or scolded. But neither ocurred.

"And what makes you say that?" asked Cornelia. She was smiling, but those purple eyes were still fixed upon him.

"It was...it was because he aimed for Sloan's chest," he said, trying hard not to blurt it out and sound even more foolish than he knew he already did. "Sir Gildas aimed for Mr Guilford's head, as with Sir Roderick. If you recall, Sir Roderick was obviously stunned by the blow, which made him lose his balance. It's easier than aiming for the plastron, because the shield cannot protect the head."
He paused, drawing another breath, trying to master his thoughts.

"Then why did Guilford not do likewise?" Cornelia cocked a eyebrow. "It's still two points, and he had a better chance than aiming for the chest. Most who try that end up hitting the shield, and get only one point."

"Because it's a trick," insisted Alexander. "Sir Gildas wasn't just hoping for two points. He was trying to frighten his opponent too. If his opponent shied, or tried to dodge, then he was more likely to fall off."
"An effective trick though," commented Manfredi with a grin. "Bismark, your son is quite shrewd! Did you teach him jousting too?"

"I taught him nothing of this, Lord Manfredi." Bismark fixed him with his eye. "But perhaps he can tell why Mr Guilford chose not to attempt the same trick?"

All were watching him expectantly. Alexander faltered, and glanced nervously at Euphemia. She stared at him, her eyes bright and full of interest. He cleared his throat.

"I think...that Mr Guilford is a proud knight, though he is not yet dubbed," he said, forcing himself not to stammer. "I think he rejected that trick because he thought it beneath him. He wanted to unhorse his opponent, and would settle for nothing less."

Silence. Alexander's heart hammered, and he felt his cheeks heating up.

"A good answer!" declared Cornelia fulsomely. "General Bruckner, has that young man by any chance applied for the academy?"

"As it happens, he has," replied Bruckner. "Though it's still being processed."

"I assume you were intending to admit him?"

"Certainly, your highness. As it happens I already know him. He works for my brother as a test-devicer."
"I had forgotten." Cornelia turned to Bismark. "Lord Bismark, isn't he the devicer for Britannic's entry today?"

"He is, your highness."

"Then we'll see him twice." Cornelia turned back to the window, staring out at the field as two more knights rode towards the barrier.

Alexander's eyes widened as he saw Guilford sitting atop his horse before the podium. He was looking straight at their skybox.

He wondered for a moment if his and Cornelia's eyes had met.

Phew! Just got this done!

I apologise once again for the delay. For anyone who's dropped out due to being sick of waiting, I hope this will convince you to keep on reading. To those who have tolerated my slowness, my sincere gratitude.

I had intended this sequence to be longer. But just this part came to 6000 words, so I thought it as well to call a halt here. Besides, I'm going away for the weekend, so although I may be able to reply over that time (internet access depending), I wouldn't have been able to post the chapter until Sunday night at the earliest.