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and he didn’t have to walk on his head. If the troubadour were willing to battle to be a knight, he had to overcome his fears and deficiencies!
    The Master of Henchmen strode into the centre of the tiltyard, placed his muscular arms on his hips, eyed the boys, and roared, “Don your helmets and choose your sides!”
    Someone called out, “What’s the prize for winners, my lord?”
    “An hour’s hunt in the woods,” came the reply. A cheer of approval rose from the boys.
    “And for losers?” demanded someone else.
    “An hour’s ride in full armour.” This was met by a chorus of groans.
    The troubadour gave Richard a mischievous wink. “Our backsides will be raw for a week if we lose.” Richard picked up his weapon and followed his new friend with a smile.
    “My Lord of Gloucester!” the Master of Henchman roared.
    Richard gave a start. What had he done wrong already? There had scarcely been time to do anything.
    “Your axe must be held in the right hand, not the left!”
    “But,” Richard protested, “I’m left-handed, my lord; I can do nothing with my right.”
    “Then you must learn! Learn! ’Tis what you’ve been sent here for.”
    A nightmare followed. The weapon proved unwieldy in his right hand. His aim was poor, his reaction slow, his blows without force, and he found himself on his knees as soon as he engaged an adversary. To rub nettle into the wound, the Master of Henchmen called the apprentices’ attention to each of his many mistakes.
    At the end of the session, his face smeared with dirt, Richard lay down his weapon, unable to look his new friends in the eye. They’d lost because of him. God’s bones, lame would be better than left-handed! I’ll never be a knight; never be able to serve my brother the King.
    When everyone left for refreshments in the great hall, Richard disappeared around a corner and sat down in a small recess of the wall, between two water barrels. Resting his cheek on his knees, he relived his dim performance. Eventually a distant door creaked open. Footsteps crunched on the hard ground, grew louder. He dug deeper into his recess, praying that whomever it was would pass him by. But the footsteps turned the corner and stopped. Then a hound barked.
    “My lord, so there you are. I’ve spoken with the Master of the Henchmen. There’s been a grievous error,” said John Neville, the brilliant general and valiant soldier who, like Lancelot, had never lost a battle.
    Richard held his breath. He knew what John Neville had come to say: A grievous error, my lord. You were never meant to be a knight. We are sending you back to London at once, to spare you further humiliation.
    Richard shrank back. John crouched down beside him.
    “My lord, we didn’t know you were left-handed. That changes everything.”
    Startled at the kindness in his tone, Richard lifted his head and looked at him.
    John Neville’s heart twisted at the suffering in his little cousin’s face. To his astonishment, faint lines ringed Richard’s eyes and mouth. But why not? These wretched wars of succession between York and Lancaster had stripped the boy of childhood. He had been born in violence, had learned early that men died and that the world was a dangerous place, full of cruelty and wickedness. At six he’d been taken prisoner at Ludlow; at seven, he’d been left fatherless; at eight, he was an exile. Each blow had taken him a stride away from infancy until he’d sloughed off innocence like a mantle that no longer fit.
    He tore his gaze from the heartbreaking dark eyes. “You’re left-handed. That can’t be changed. The question is, what’s to be done? Most believe that such a person must learn to overcome his deficiency. That’s the view of the Master of Henchmen.”
    Richard nodded. “He said that until I learn to use my right, I shall always be beaten. And if I do learn, I’ll never be as good as those who are born right-handed.”
    “Because you’d be going against your inclination