by the King and the people of Delain.
How could Thomas compare with goodness like that? A simple question with a simple answer. He couldnât.
Unlike Peter, Thomas was the spitting image of his father. This pleased the old man a little, but it didnât give him the pleasure most men feel when they have a son who carries the clear stamp of their features. Looking at Thomas was too much like looking into a sly mirror. He knew that Thomasâs fine blond hair would gray early and then begin to fall out; Thomas would be bald by the time he was forty. He knew that Thomas would never be tall, and if he had his fatherâs appetite for beer and mead, he would be carrying a big belly before him by the time he was twenty-five. Already his toes had begun to turn in, and Roland guessed Thomas would walk with his own bowlegged swagger.
Thomas was not exactly a good boy, but you must not think that made him a bad boy. He was sometimes a sad boy, often a confused boy (he took after his father in another way, as wellâhard thinking made his nose stuffy and his head feel like boulders were rolling around inside), and often a jealous boy, but he wasnât a bad boy.
Of whom was he jealous? Why, of his brother, of course. He was jealous of Peter. It wasnât enough that Peter would be King, Oh no! It wasnât enough that their father liked Peter best, or that the servants liked Peter best, or that their teachers liked Peter best because he was always ready at lessons and didnât need to be coaxed. It wasnât enough that everyone liked Peter best, or that Peter had a best friend. There was one more thing.
When anyone looked at Thomas, his father the King most of all, Thomas thought he knew they were thinking: We loved your mother and you killed her in your coming. And what did we get out of the pain and death you caused her? A dull little boy with a round face that has hardly any chin, a dull little boy who couldnât make all fifteen of the Great Letters until he was eight. Your brother Peter was able to make them all when he was six. What did we get? Not much. Why did you come, Thomas? What good are you? Throne insurance? Is that all you are? Throne insurance in case Peter the Precious should fall off his limping nag and crack his head open? Is that all? Well, we donât want you. None of us want you. None of us want you. . . .
The part Thomas played in his brotherâs imprisonment was dishonorable, but even so he was not a really bad boy. I believe this, and hope that in time you will come to believe it, too.
16
O nce, as a boy of seven, Thomas spent a whole day laboring in his room, carving his father a model sailboat. He did it with no way of knowing that Peter had covered himself with glory that day on the archery range, with his father in attendance. Peter was not, ordinarily, much of a bowmanâin that area, at least, Thomas would turn out to be far superior to his older brotherâbut on that one day, Peter had shot the junior course of targets like one inspired. Thomas was a sad boy, a confused boy, and he was often an unlucky boy.
Thomas had thought of the boat because sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, his father liked to go out to the moat which surrounded the palace and float a variety of model boats. Such simple pleasures made Roland extremely happy, and Thomas had never forgotten one day when his father had taken himâand just himâalong. In those days, his father had an advisor whose only job was to show Roland how to make paper boats, and the King had conceived a great enthusiasm for them. On this day, a hoary old carp had risen out of the mucky water and swallowed one of Rolandâs paper boats whole. Roland had laughed like a boy and declared it was better than a tale about a sea monster. He hugged Thomas very tight as he said so. Thomas never forgot that dayâthe bright sunshine, the damp, slightly moldy odor of the moat water, the warmth of his fatherâs
How could Thomas compare with goodness like that? A simple question with a simple answer. He couldnât.
Unlike Peter, Thomas was the spitting image of his father. This pleased the old man a little, but it didnât give him the pleasure most men feel when they have a son who carries the clear stamp of their features. Looking at Thomas was too much like looking into a sly mirror. He knew that Thomasâs fine blond hair would gray early and then begin to fall out; Thomas would be bald by the time he was forty. He knew that Thomas would never be tall, and if he had his fatherâs appetite for beer and mead, he would be carrying a big belly before him by the time he was twenty-five. Already his toes had begun to turn in, and Roland guessed Thomas would walk with his own bowlegged swagger.
Thomas was not exactly a good boy, but you must not think that made him a bad boy. He was sometimes a sad boy, often a confused boy (he took after his father in another way, as wellâhard thinking made his nose stuffy and his head feel like boulders were rolling around inside), and often a jealous boy, but he wasnât a bad boy.
Of whom was he jealous? Why, of his brother, of course. He was jealous of Peter. It wasnât enough that Peter would be King, Oh no! It wasnât enough that their father liked Peter best, or that the servants liked Peter best, or that their teachers liked Peter best because he was always ready at lessons and didnât need to be coaxed. It wasnât enough that everyone liked Peter best, or that Peter had a best friend. There was one more thing.
When anyone looked at Thomas, his father the King most of all, Thomas thought he knew they were thinking: We loved your mother and you killed her in your coming. And what did we get out of the pain and death you caused her? A dull little boy with a round face that has hardly any chin, a dull little boy who couldnât make all fifteen of the Great Letters until he was eight. Your brother Peter was able to make them all when he was six. What did we get? Not much. Why did you come, Thomas? What good are you? Throne insurance? Is that all you are? Throne insurance in case Peter the Precious should fall off his limping nag and crack his head open? Is that all? Well, we donât want you. None of us want you. None of us want you. . . .
The part Thomas played in his brotherâs imprisonment was dishonorable, but even so he was not a really bad boy. I believe this, and hope that in time you will come to believe it, too.
16
O nce, as a boy of seven, Thomas spent a whole day laboring in his room, carving his father a model sailboat. He did it with no way of knowing that Peter had covered himself with glory that day on the archery range, with his father in attendance. Peter was not, ordinarily, much of a bowmanâin that area, at least, Thomas would turn out to be far superior to his older brotherâbut on that one day, Peter had shot the junior course of targets like one inspired. Thomas was a sad boy, a confused boy, and he was often an unlucky boy.
Thomas had thought of the boat because sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, his father liked to go out to the moat which surrounded the palace and float a variety of model boats. Such simple pleasures made Roland extremely happy, and Thomas had never forgotten one day when his father had taken himâand just himâalong. In those days, his father had an advisor whose only job was to show Roland how to make paper boats, and the King had conceived a great enthusiasm for them. On this day, a hoary old carp had risen out of the mucky water and swallowed one of Rolandâs paper boats whole. Roland had laughed like a boy and declared it was better than a tale about a sea monster. He hugged Thomas very tight as he said so. Thomas never forgot that dayâthe bright sunshine, the damp, slightly moldy odor of the moat water, the warmth of his fatherâs
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