The prince smiled. “That’s good! Keep that attitude and you’ll be fine. Just don’t say anything crazy or agree to anything. Don’t mention Scotland. Don’t say anything about my dead mum. Don’t be Jewish either, and if you are, don’t say you are.Just be normal. Try to speak a little better English too. Hell, French if you know any.”
Prince Edward led us to the largest tent in the center of the camp. It was about the size of a circus tent and inside we entered into an expansive chamber that was a far cry from standard military barracks. Torches and silent guards lined the canvas walls and there was sleek wood flooring. The space was mostly all one room, but there were curtains and dividing walls that could be repositioned as necessary to create privacy. There were chests and beds in the corners, rugs and desks. I was overwhelmed.
In the center of the room was a large table, and standing at the table, watching us as we entered, was the king. There was no mistaking who he was—he was the most naturally occurring instance of a king you could imagine. Of course he was king, he was the tallest man on earth. His face was long and weathered. His nose was smashed and crooked but artfully, like a battered Greek statue. His eyes pierced mine with purpose and mission and I felt the orchestration all around him, the machinery of his days filled with appointments, wars, traveling, ruling. It was hard to believe that Simon and I had been huddled up in a stone shack through the dead of winter while all this was going on. All these other ways of living.
The four of us bowed—Piers Gaveston and Prince Edward kneeling, Simon and I crouching hesitantly, unpracticed. I heard Simon’s breath catch on itself. It was like we had approached a sentient hundred-year-old oak tree. The king spoke.
“Clear the room.” His accent was more modern than anything I had heard before. His voice was low and grizzled. Quietly, the entire perimeter of guards filed out of the tent. As they left, KingEdward reached under the table and retrieved a polished wooden box with gold hinges. He placed the box on the table and looked at me and Simon, then looked at Piers and held his gaze. “I said clear the room.”
The prince stepped forward. “Father, Piers has been appointed my personal protectorate and I don’t think—”
“OUT.”
Piers Gaveston ducked his head and fled the tent without a word. The prince was left aghast and brattish, revealing every one of his few years.
We were invited to sit at the table. The prince plopped down next to Simon and me. The king surveyed each of us.
“You’re all children,” he said. “George of Greenwich. Your age?”
I had to think for a second. “Thirty-four, sir.”
“Your Majesty,” the prince corrected me.
The king waved him off. “A man of thirty-four and yet by appearances you must be the youngest thirty-four-year-old I’ve ever seen. Or perhaps the oldest child. You seem sheltered and protected. Magicked upon or a con man.”
“He’s not Welsh, Father.”
The king raised his hand again to silence his son. The prince flinched and recoiled. Simon and I, for the first time, were able to share a glance.
The king continued his examination, looking me up and down. “Miraculous generation of wealth. Unseemly, impervious youthfulness. Predilection toward sodomy, or so I assume based on the feyness—another sign of magicking.” He shook his head. “You’re not from here.”
“I am from England, yes,” I said. “But I’m not exactly—”
“I’ve studied your relics,” he continued. “The clothes of your people, the fabrics. I know the Lord of Greenwich personally. I write to his parish in Ghent and he keeps me informed of the goings-on in his manor—I have an altar on the hill there, you know, a favorite of my wife before she passed. I try to visit whenever I can. I go there to feel peace. To be with her. But suddenly the last time I go to visit, I’m alerted to a cacophony of complaint, about the sudden appearance of this man-child in the wilderness, his strange speech, the foreignness of his clothes, his health, the signs and rumors that have caused such perplexment amongst the townsfolk.”
“Father, he’s not what you think he is,” said Prince Edward.
King Edward closed his eyes. “Child, if you speak one more time—utter one single extra sound—you’ll be unhesitantly smitten by a hand that has held clenched all the day’s fury.”
The prince closed his mouth and sank low in his chair, blushing red.
The king turned back to me and studied my face again. Silence passed among all of us. Then he said one single word that shot violently through me. A word I was completely unprepared to hear.
“Plastic.”
It was a jolt. My eyes widened. I took a sharp intake of air, which triggered my cough. I tried to clear my throat, but suppressing it made it even worse. I coughed twice loudly, then tried to ease my breathing and the tension in my chest. Simon touched my knee under the table.
“That’s what it is, correct?” King Edward continued. “Plastic woven into the fabrics, mixed with other fibers. You call it plastic. Polyester.”
“Yes.” I coughed. “But how did you—”
“You’ve heard the stories, I presume, of the dragon attacks along the eastern coast? You should know, as they’re happening in your own back garden.”
I said nothing but Simon nodded.
“Have you seen one?”
“No,” said Simon.
