Archie was reluctant to leave, but Francis saw that everyone else was dismissing their aides as the clerks asked, and he didn’t want to be different.
“It’s all right, Archie,” Francis assured him. “Go with Gustav. I’ll be fine.”
Once separated, Francis followed the other competitors down the mosaic tiled path. They came out on an impressive lawn, framed by trees in the distance. The lawn was set up like anOlympiad with set areas arranged for different sports.
A rather fabulous Bedouin style tent had been erected on the far side of the lawn for the spectators to gather and watch them.
Francis looked around for a royal tent but saw none, nor any royal family. Only clerks, dozens of palace clerks with ledgers and ink pens at the ready, watching his every move.
The clerks would likely report back to the king, then.
Distantly, Francis heard the dull drone of Montferrat’s voice, and he tried not to roll his eyes.
Amidst all this activity, Francis was disappointed to see no cats at all. A few birds, including a large peacock, wandered the grounds, but no cats.
Then again, if he were a cat and fifty men and hundreds of other guests descended on his home at once, he would probably hide too.
The competitors were divided into two groups, and Francis’s group would first be tackling archery.
That was a pleasant relief.
Francis was good at archery, and best of all he wouldn’t have to speak to anyone.
At least, that’s what he’d thought, until to his greatest dismay he found himself sandwiched between Montferrat and Wittensbach.
How awful.
Francis did his best to ignore them both and focused on his equipment. This bow was uniquely different from the European bow he was used to.
The two men, however, did their best to distract Francis.
“Don’t miss, little prince,” Montferrat teased.
“You’ll never hit that target, Stormburg,” Wittensbach sneered.
On the first round of shooting, Francis hit his targetclose to the centre. Closer than his opponents on either side; Wittensbach’s arrow went wide and almost hit a stray peacock. The bird squawked indignantly before strutting away.
They shot another round. Francis was getting the hang of this curved bow, but Wittensbach wasn’t.
Montferrat fared slightly better, but he was no match for Francis.
The archery went on for a couple of hours, as those with the lowest scores were shooed off to the spectators’ tent, and those with the highest scores left to compete against each other.
The final round was between Francis, and Prince Hiro of Japan.
The clerks just behind them scribbled away in their ledgers, always watching. The spectators cheered, although some jeered.
He focused on his target, let the background noise fade away. Francis shot his arrow and got his arrow quite close to his earlier dead centre shot.
Prince Hiro, looking very dashing in his billowing golden robes and long black hair, shot his arrow dead on and split the first.
No one was beating that.
The crowd applauded. Francis smiled and bowed his head politely in a show of sportsmanship.
Prince Hiro returned the bow in what Francis took to be a sign of respect, but when Hiro raised his eyes at Francis, he shot him a very dirty look.
Francis was taken aback for a moment, until he remembered this was a competition, and it seemed he had made a new enemy.
