 “Your Highness!” Tristan ignored the voice echoing across the stable yard, and the rumble of the thunder as the rain began to pound against the small outhouse windows. He remained perched on the little wooden stool he had brought with him into Hal’s stable and carried on with what he was doing. The prince tapped the top of his horse’s front-left hoof with his index finger and Hal obliged him by lifting his foot. Tristan took hold of it and rested it in his lap as he got to work with the hoof pick, cleaning out all the dirt and debris which had built up during the day. Let them come and find him, he thought to himself as the voice rang out again, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Hal snorted; Tristan knew how he felt. He hated to admit it, but there was a reason why he was sitting on a stool; he still wasn’t fully recovered. Sometimes he felt light headed or uncomfortably warm, as if his fever was reluctant to release its hold on him entirely. On other occasions he found himself short of breath, or experienced weakness in his arms or legs. It frustrated him; he had always been capable more than that he had been good and he had lost it. He did have to take things easier, and he really felt it when he pushed himself too hard.
He had just finished dealing with Hal’s final hoof when the back door of the stable block was pushed open and a voice called out; “Prince Tristan? Are you in here?”
“Got to go, boy,” Tristan muttered, patting Hal affectionately on the shoulder and putting the pick back on its hook as he slipped out of the stall. He used the front door and grabbed his over-coat from the barrel inside the door as he stepped out into the rain. Tristan shrugged it on as he hurried over the cobbles with Celidon on his heels. The prince turned his collar up against the wind as he splashed through the puddles. He didn’t head back into the castle, and instead took a right turn and followed the cobbled path which led out to the lake and gardens. He wasn’t ready to go back to the court just yet. He knew what waited for him, it was nearly dinner time and he’d be expected in the great hall. He’d have to make small talk and listen to Humphrey’s father waffle on and on about how Humphrey had beaten Tristan in the training yard. He didn’t think he could take another evening of it.
A thought struck him, and Tristan changed his course, turning away from the lake and back to the castle’s outer wall. He followed the outside of the keep to the training yard. Someone had left the quintain out, and rain water dripped from the sandbag which acted as a counter balance to the target. Tristan stopped beside it and crouched down to pick up a handful of pebbles from the floor. He rolled the little round rocks between the heels of his hands for a moment before extracting one and lobbing it at the infirmary window. He missed. Swearing under his breath, Tristan tried again and to his relief he succeeded in hitting the glass. It didn’t make much impact, certainly not enough to attract anyone’s attention, so he tried again. This time the pebble hit the glass hard.
“Shit,” Tristan cursed, ducking behind the quintain in case one of the nurses or doctors looked out of the window to investigate. No one came. Tristan risked throwing another stone, “come on, Thoth,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the window, “come on.”
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