The Prince in Waiting by John Christopher Page B

splitting with pain.
    One of the pegs that supported the guttering, weakened by the heat perhaps, had given way and I had fallen. A soldier in the crowd below had tried to break my fall. He succeeded in part—my recently knitted leg did not snap again—but my head struck something which knocked me unconscious and, as sometimes happens, took away my recollection of the accident as well.
    Wilson told me this, sitting beside my bed with his long face, never much better than melancholy, a solemn mask. He was Sergeant in charge of the palace, an old and well-trusted follower of my father. They had served in the ranks together as young men. My father, on becoming Prince, had wanted to make him a Captain, to ennoble him, but he would not have it. He had had a wife many years before but she had died, broken-hearted, after giving birth to a polymuf child. He had not married again and apart from my father had no real friends.
    My mind was confused, my head aching. I sat up and it was worse. Wincing, I said:
    â€œAnd the fire? What happened . . .?”
    â€œThat wing is gutted. The rest was saved.”
    I think it was his look of misery which recalled what my own purpose had been. I said:
    â€œMy mother . . .”
    He shook his head very slowly. No more was needed. I could not believe it, though I knew it was true. I had seen her only a few hours before, her eyes half closed, foot tapping, head slightly swaying to a tune she loved. She was fond of music which I was not. I had slipped away without, I now remembered so sharply, bidding her good night.
    I concentrated my wits and asked Wilson questions, which he answered. I think he thought me strange, perhaps callous, to do so at such a time; but it seemed to me that my sorrow was my own, a private thing, and not to be talked over even with one so well known and well trusted as Wilson. Pigeons, he told me, had been sent to Romsey, calling my father back. To my query as to how the fire had started he said it was fairly sure it had been deliberate, a murderous act. This had always seemed likely because, living in wooden houses as we did, we observed strict precautions against accidental fire. A special patrol checked the palace each night. But it was not a matter of supposition only. One of the guard had found a polymuf watching the fire from hiding. He had flint and steel on him, and oil-soaked wadding. Moreover he was known for a crazy loon who loved playing with fire. There had been trouble before and he had been exiled in the end; he was not allowed in the city and lived in a ramshackle hut beneath St. Catherine’s Hill, shunned even by the other polymufs.
    I asked: “How did he get into the city?”
    Wilson shrugged. “It is not difficult.”
    That was true. The gate guards were supposed to check all who passed through but I had myself slipped past their backs when I did not want to call attention to myself.
    â€œAnd why the palace?”
    Wilson said: “That will bear looking into.”
    â€œHas he been questioned?”
    â€œNo. We await your father’s return. But we have him safe. I set the guards myself. No one will get to him, either to rescue him or to close his mouth.”
    â€œNo other trouble?”
    If this were a plot, laid by the Hardings or the Blaines, maybe both, now would be the moment to rise, before my father could get back. I saw by Wilson’s face that he took my meaning.
    â€œNo trouble. And we are ready for any that comes.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    My father was back before evening. It snowed heavily in the afternoon, obliterating the familiar tracks, but that did not stop him. He rode up through the city streets and into the courtyard in advance of his laboring escort. I heard a distant cry—“The Prince!”—and the clatter of hoofs on stone and ran to the window of the room in which I had been bedded. I saw him dismount, a snow man from a snow horse, and