King of the Middle March by Kevin Crossley-Holland

And you brought it all the way from Caldicot? Look! The stave’s exactly right.” I fingeredthe ancient yew, and for a moment I remembered the bow made of shining elm that Will made for me and Sir John gave me almost three years ago. “I’ve stopped growing now,” I said. “I think I have, and the stave’s just half a fingerspan taller than I am.”
    At noon we feasted and after that we all rode down to the strand. I showed a trick Rhys has taught me, leaning right down out of my saddle at full gallop, and grabbing a jackknife stuck into the sand. I missed it the first time but got it twice after that. Then, in honor of Sir John, I displayed my bowmanship, shooting a full furlong. I’ve never been best at Yard-skills, but I’ve always been able to notch fast and shoot straight, and it was the same today.
    After this, Serle and Bertie and I tilted at the quintain, and then I fought them at quarterstaff and swordplay.
    â€œYou, Arthur,” said Milon approvingly. “Sharp as a Venetian’s tongue.”
    â€œNot really, sir. I wish I were.”
    â€œI invite sea-feast councillors,” Milon said. “But they not come. Shipwright not come.”
    â€œI’m not surprised,” Lord Stephen said. “The Venetians are extremely impatient and angry.”
    â€œSir Arthur! Sir Arthur!” my father mumbled. “Well! The bloody Saracens had better watch out.” I looked at him, and then I had to look again to be sure. He was nodding at me, and smiling. “As for the Venetians,” he boomed, “people around here accord them far too much respect.”
    Away east, out over the sea, it looked very murky, and before long I heard a low growl. An old sea-god, yawning. A gruff warning.

24
STILL BURNING
    Y OU REMEMBER THOSE SARACENS,” I SAID, “TELLING your fortune?”
    â€œWhat about it?” Bertie replied.
    â€œYou don’t have to believe them, you know. It’s not like believing the Gospel.”
    â€œWho says I do?” said Bertie, and he swiped at the long grass with his stick.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI told you!” Bertie said angrily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    â€œI swore oaths when I became a knight,” I said, “but I don’t actually believe all Saracens are evil. I hope it’s not wrong to take a vow you don’t completely believe in.”
    For a while, Bertie and I walked down towards the food-barge in silence. The quartermaster recognizes us now, and sometimes gives us extra food.
    There was a horseman ambling towards us and I could tell by his sword he was a knight. When we drew closer, I saw his forehead was marked with a cross.
    The cross wasn’t made of parchment or linen or anything like that, and it wasn’t a paint or a dye. It was a scar. It had been branded into him with a burning stick or a knife. A suppurating, purplishbrown cross that stretched from the roots of his hair to the bridge of his nose, and from the top of one ear across to the other.
    â€œGod be with you!” said the knight.
    â€œAnd with you,” we replied.
    The knight’s face was so disfigured, I could scarcely look at him, but his manner was courteous and gentle.
    â€œGood luck with the quartermaster, Bertie,” the knight said. “Good luck to you and your friend.”
    â€œSir Arthur,” Bertie said rather proudly. “Sir Arthur de Gortanore.”
    The knight smiled and inclined his head, and then rode on.
    â€œI’ve met him before,” Bertie explained. “He comes from Provins and once he gave me two quails’ eggs.”
    â€œHe looks horrible,” I said.
    â€œI know,” said Bertie, “and he said the cross is still burning. He told me this crusade is a penance and the more we suffer, the more certain we are to reach paradise.”
    â€œBy wounding ourselves?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Bertie