VIII by H. M. Castor

that makes me gag.”
    But I can’t stop. My father moves quickly and the stick lands with a thwack across my bottom. I hit the floor, on hands and knees.
    “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 his stick. He barks, “Take off that doublet. Take it off! I won’t have expensive cloth ruined.”
    I undo the laces with quivering fingers. I’m still crying. My father grabs the garment from me and slings it onto a chair.
    “It is all a great game to you, isn’t 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 his body, 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 ne ver… 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, don’t go to him!” my father growls, breathing heavily from his exertions. “This is your doing, 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 doesn’t understand!”
    “Doesn’t 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 simpleton’s terms.” He sits, and points at the floor in front of him. “Stand here, boy. Stop crying unless you want another beating.”
    I get up, painfully, and stand where he indicates. Behind him my mother’s face looks wild 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. What’s a king’s second son for?”
    “I don’t know, sir,” I say, thoroughly miserable.
    He hits me, open-handed, across the face. “What’s 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.”
    “That’s right. You are a spare. A backup. In case our beloved first-born son dies. From which 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 needed any 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 Arthur’s sons will follow soon after. So. What does this mean for you, I wonder? The backup, who is not needed any more? Hm?”
    “I don’t 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.”
    He straightens, spreading his hands. “So. You have a choice. First option: generally make a loud noise, draw attention to yourself. Like you did in the hall just now. Prove yourself
    a man – eh? Eh? You want approval! You want to be noticed! You want to be loved .” The way he says it, it sounds like the word means something shameful.
    “Well, what do you think that leads to?” Springing up, my father stumps to a table under the window where my chess set is laid out. He takes a knight – a St George on horseback – and slaps it down in the middle of the board. “Here you are: the Duke of York. Powerful landowner, brilliant militarycommander, charming, popular – with a large following