For a sick man the weight of Henry's body is like a marble slab; illness has narrowed him and whittled all his strength into a needle-point of cruelty. Impossible to think of him jousting now, standing proud in the saddle like St. George astride, but he has the brutal grip of a dead man, like one of those stone figures that rests atop a bishop's tomb. All of Hal's young viciousness cannot withstand him. Henry's erection is pressing into the backs of his thighs; the points of his hose have come undone, and his father's hand is thrust against the naked skin beneath the linen. What's worse, that he thinks Hal can't recognize the exact tenor of his anger, or that he takes pleasure in that knowledge? There is the possibility, however tragic-comic, that even he is not aware — his erring body sins without his permission.

He wouldn't dare if he thought they might be seen — not even at his most frantic has he ever lost sight of whose eyes are on both of them now, what the two of them are. Henry the king and his delinquent son, rigid with pride as he receives his discipline and not squirming away from slipping grinding friction. Such are the advantages of long gowns; the emphasis they lend to gestures like these comes with the benefit of privacy, the heavy swing of fur-lined skirts buffeting against him and the smell of burnt cloves. Henry's voice comes guttural-quick in his ear.

"Why do you run from me? Where do you think you can hide?"

The back of his neck burns. Hal presses back against him, gripping a hanging sleeve and twisting it in his fist. The sable edge bristles against his hand as if it is a living thing, and the king grunts against his shoulder.

Hal would pray aloud, if it would do him good — he would fall to his knees and let his tongue absolve him, or he would grin and take a beating if it were any other man pressing him into the painted plaster. He presses the humiliation from his voice, and smiles.

“I would think you’d be glad to see the back of me, if I'm so very wicked. You'd rather I were out of sight.”

“You are my son,” Henry says, full of magnificent disappointment, “you belong to me. I should hammer the wantonness out of you.”

“Would you do it like this?”

Pressing against him Hal can fairly feel his father's yard throb — it’s properly nauseating, that terrible and familiar shape, but it is something of certainty with which he can work. Hal raises his head, and Henry growls.

“I should haul you out and thrash you like a schoolboy.”

Hal swallows fast breaths, like a hunted animal. The absurdity of it all has him faint-headed — the heat and pressure, the medicinal smells of his father the king’s own person all mingled up with pomander-balls and seamy sweat. He should double back and kiss him — or stick him with a fruit knife, only shallowly, if it wouldn’t have him roaring murder.

“I’ve never been beaten, not once. Not even while you were away — no tutor would dare, and Richard would never have stood for it. He was never whipped either, I expect that’s to blame for the two of us together.”

“No doubt."

"It isn't true, really, I made it up. But it's as good a reason as any, isn't it?" He can slip two fingers inside his father's sleeve and touch skin, just as his father now does to him. "Don't be angry with me."