“Your mind is filled with nothing but stories of damsels and demoiselles, not sagas of the bravery and adventure of great knights and great kings! You are my son, my eldest son! Will you never learn the honorable, chivalric way of the warrior?” he stormed on, picking me up by my ear and throwing me onto a nearby bench. “Will you never learn of the great deeds of your ancestors, you foolish boy? You idiotic, ignoble, dastardly coward! Will you never learn how to rule, how to stride with confidence? Will you never learn how to fence, how to block the sword of the opponent? To strap armor upon yourself and to keep tears inside and to remain strong always, as an example to your subjects and knights? To accept surrender in a chivalric, honorable way but never surrender yourself?” I turned red and put my hand to my belt, but the tiny wooden knife I usually kept there was gone. I saw my father holding it.

“To speak Latin and Greek, French and German?” he sputtered on, turning red himself. “To speak to those of lower rank than you like their rightful sovereign, to speak of those of equal rank and higher rank with courtesy and respect? Will you never learn-” He was cut short by the arrival of my younger brother, Morrani. Marvelous Morrani. Magnificent Morrani. Majestic Morrani. Perfect Morrani. He could hold a steady sword; he could speak Latin and Greek, French and German. He knew well how to rule, he knew how to stride with confidence. If only he were the eldest. I hated the business of being an heir. I hated whoever had forced me into this position.

“Sire?” he asked in his light voice. He doesn’t have any worries in the world, I thought bitterly, watching him come closer. “My lord, my father?” He bowed and kissed our father’s hand. “I was wondering if it would please thou to learn that I have overcome the traitor, the barbarian dog, the dishonorable Sir Pordirall, the Black Knight who wished to overthrow your great majesty with his unintelligent plots.”

“Then call for a wonderful feast, a wonderful banquet, my son!” my father exclaimed, clapping his hands and turning from me to Morrani. “Hire jesters and fools and clowns to joke, and have pretty girls to come and dance! Have the chef cook up some wonderful dishes!” Morrani bowed another time and walked backwards out of the garden, his eyes showing sympathy for me.

The next day, most unfortunately, was a grand event. I hate grand events, with all the noise and the bad air and the colors and, of course, the frivolous gossip. The noise sounds like the squealing of a thousand pigs, mixed in with a few bad-tempered squawking chickens. The air smells of the lords and ladies’ bad perfume and the food on the table, which do not smell good at all when combined. The frivolous gossip would make any monk blush—I heard about Lady Teresa the Pious flirting with Elled, Count of the Estates of Gren, and other things I cannot list.

Our father came out into the dining hall decked splendidly in his golden robes and red silk stockings, with Morrani by his side of course, attired just as fashionably. He wore a tunic of the softest red velvet, with tight sleeves trimmed with lace and brocade. All the ladies of the court wore splendid gowns with huge skirts of brilliant colors that hurt my eyes when I looked at them. The lords wore their hunting gear—short purple doublets and black hose. I had managed to escape from my father, Morrani, and the Gentlemen of the Chamber who were to dress me, and I was spying on everybody from the third floor kitchen, which offered a clear view of my father’s great thrown below.

The banquet went on until midnight, with my father’s vassals vomiting outside like Roman men and then coming back in for more to eat. Morrani was pretty much the hero of the day—he was borne on the shields of the knights of my father and given gifts and cheered wherever he went. He smiled and waved to everyone, then retreated to his grand chair beside our father’s for a bit of food and taken round and round again. My father did not seem to notice my absence, which was good news for me. Instead, he had placed the elderly Elcuttis, Earl of Mid, in my seat, and was chatting to him about the newest, most modern torture devices. I found the talk too gruesome for my taste (they were beginning to show each other bloody portraits of what the victim looked like ten seconds after being tortured) and slipped away to my room. I was shocked to find Elyre, the pretty young maid who served Lady Annabelle Sandiris, weeping by my bed. She fell back with a little cry as I entered.

“Oh—your highness—forgive me, forgive me, I merely—I merely came in to change your bedsheets—”

“But then why were you weeping so depressingly, Elyre?” I asked skeptically, curious to find out why she was so sad.

“Oh…m-my mistress her ladyship is acting like a man, wearing a sword at her hip and holding a shield in her hand, riding astride horses like a man, instead of sidesaddle like a fine lady of her fine breeding should, and she has been putting on armor and going out on odd nights to do who knows what,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. “They say that milady is mad. Why should she want to go out to battle, methinks, when there is blood spilled enough in this empire of kingdoms? Why does she wish to slay and wound?”

“Yes, why would Lady Annabelle want to do such a thing?” I asked, stricken. “She is very lucky to be a lady. Ladies may stay at home, away from the blood of battle and the heat of war. Ladies may sew and embroider and wear fancy things, and ladies are treated with utmost respect and courtesy by all.” I couldn’t see why Lady Annabelle wanted to dress and act like a man. There was no advantage in it, to me. I’d much rather be a lady, able to own a fine house and not worry about kingship or other such affairs of state.