At the Crossing Places by Kevin Crossley-Holland

not,” I said hotly.
    â€œYour brother’s twice as strong.”
    â€œSerle’s not my brother,” I replied, raising my voice.
    Alan looked down his nose and pointed his little black chin beard at me. “So I’ve heard,” he said slyly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAnd you won’t last long on crusade. You’ll get…mulched!”
    After this unpleasant conversation, Alan watched me with his dark eyes as I practiced my somersaults and headstands and cartwheels, and swung from the ring suspended from the old oak tree, and walked along the raised, narrow plank, and he made me feel more and more uneasy.
    â€œChild’s play,” said the armorer. “Now, what about the quarterstaff?”
    The staff’s at least two heads taller than I am. I reached up with my left hand and down with my right hand, and gripped it.
    â€œThe other way round,” Alan said.
    â€œI’m left-handed.”
    Alan bent down, picked up the other staff, and suddenly leaped at me. I was taken completely by surprise, and as we crossed staffs, my left heel caught the ground. I tripped and fell on my back.
    Alan pounced on me. He planted the quarterstaff across my neck.
    â€œ Pax! ” I croaked.
    Alan glared down at me. “Pulp!” he muttered.
    â€œ Pax! ”
    â€œI’ll…mince you.”
    â€œWhy? What have I done?”
    Alan’s beard was full of spit. “I’m not good enough,” he growled. “Is that it?”
    â€œWhat…” I began. Then I coughed and began to choke, and Alan slightly relaxed the pressure on my neck.
    â€œIs that it? Is it?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œWhy him?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe armorer from Ludlow. Turold.”
    I gripped Alan’s staff with both hands and levered it away. Then I sat up, gingerly fingering my neck, while Alan squatted beside me.
    â€œI didn’t choose,” I said. “Sir John did. Turold made a new helmet for him last year.”
    Alan sniffed and stood up. His eyes were dark slits. Then he turned and stalked away.
    Alan will tell Lord Stephen I’m not a good swordsman, and it’s true I’m not much good at tilting at the ring either. I might be, though, if I were allowed to use my left hand. I wish squires needed to be good at archery, because I’m good at that—I can even beat Sir John.
    I know Alan is upset because Sir John didn’t choose him to make my armor, but he almost strangled me. I can’t tell Lord Stephen, though. He might think I’m too weak and not really able to look after myself.
    I’m not a milkweed! But will I be strong enough when we’re crusading? I’ll have to fight grown men. Men like Sir William—except he’s not a Saracen!
    Once, when I went to Gortanore, Sir William showed me the shield of a Saracen he had killed. It was circular, and at the centerwas a man’s face with glaring eyes and wild hair and a long, curling mustache. His mouth was open, as though he were yelling terrible threats or bloodcurdling cries…
    If I were at home—at Caldicot, I mean—I could talk to Merlin about all my worries, or even to Oliver. I could go and give Gatty a hand, or elbow-wrestle with Howell and Jankin, and play with Sian. But here there’s no one like that. Only my chestnut colt, and I haven’t taught him how to talk yet.
    It’s already three days since Winnie went home.
    â€œWhen are you coming to Verdon?” she asked. “You can ride over with Lady Judith.”
    â€œI’ll ask Lord Stephen.”
    â€œI’ll tell him I want you to come,” said Winnie. “Arthur, you know your writing?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen you write what you want?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œWill you write about me?”

14 SIR THEW–HIT
    W HEN I STARED INTO MY STONE, I SAW KING ARTHUR and Merlin riding together.
    â€œI’m as bad