Montagu watches him, amusement tugging at the corners of his thin lips. ‘Be careful of the path you tread, Harry. You walk it well, but it is narrow, and the rocks below it are deadly.’ He flicks his reins, urging his horse on a bit faster, his dismissal of Harry clear. ‘Feed your pet wolf tonight,’ Montagu murmurs. ‘Maybe he won’t bite you.’
At camp that evening, barely three miles over the border into England, Harry stands at the bars to the cage and holds up one of the trout they’ve cooked over the fire. He tells the Scottish boy he’s removing the gag. That he can’t cry out. That if he’s quiet, he can have the food.
The boy shuffles towards him and bends his head submissively, allowing Harry access to the knot at the back of the gag. The twisted muslin has tightened so much that Harry has to cut it off him, nicking the boy’s jaw in the process.
The boy immediately launches himself at Harry.
He bites Harry’s forearm so hard that Harry drops the knife. It clatters onto the floor of the cage. The boy howls bloody murder in Gaelic as his bound hands scrabble for the weapon.
Rabbie pushes past Harry, throws the cage open and clubs the boy unconscious.
Harry gapes, aghast at how wrong everything has gone, how fast.
There’s a trickle of blood making its way down the boy’s forehead. His face looks so young, relaxed into unconsciousness. His lips are raw and cracked from the gag, but when his mouth isn’t forced into the rictus caused by the tight fabric it’s revealed to be strangely delicate. Everything about his features is refined, more an expensive, pedigreed hunting dog than a feral wolf.
Rabbie shoves him. The other knights are laughing; even Montagu is amused. ‘This is what happens when you try to domesticate a wild animal,’ Lord Waldegrave shouts. Rabbie shakes his head and mutters that they should just put all the Scots to the sword and resettle the whole damn country with sheep. Then he smacks Harry once on the side of the head as he struts back to the campfire. ‘Dunno what that old knight taught you, but when we get back to Devon you’re coming with us and learning how to fight properly,’ Rabbie grumbles.
Harry rubs his sleeve. It wasn’t his fault. The boy was fast. He glances down at the bloody teeth-marks on his sword arm and sends a quick prayer to God that it won’t infect.
There’s a shout from the edge of camp. ‘Rider,’ Billy Shayler echoes, backing slowly towards the fire and reaching for his shield.
They all look up as the clatter of hoofbeats grows louder. It’s late, almost dark, and nobody good travels at night. Swords slide unbidden out of sheaths; bodies tense.
Montagu stands up. ‘Johann?’ he says, as the rider’s face comes into view.
It’s one of Montagu’s men-at-arms, from the main body of his retainers and chattels. The Baron’s household is winding its way south with the King, now a good week ahead of them. The man dismounts and strides up to Montagu, taking a quick knee then leaning in to whisper in his ear. Montagu’s expression turns stormy, and he swears under his breath.
‘What is it?’ Rabbie asks.
‘The Earl of Arundel lies in wait for us at Carlisle, with questions,’ Montagu hisses. Richard FitzAlan, Lord Arundel, is a latecomer to the King’s graces. His father, Edmund FitzAlan, had sided with the King’s father, Edward of Carnarvon, against Queen Isabella and Mortimer. For that, Mortimer had him executed with a blunt sword. They say it took twenty-two blows to separate the old Earl’s head from his shoulders. Then Mortimer had seized the FitzAlan family lands – his aim all along, the gossips said.
But young Richard, rich as Croesus and twice as splendid, had convinced Edward of Windsor to restore him to his extensive holdings in Sussex and the Welsh marches. Harry knows there is no love lost between Montagu and Arundel, with Arundel’s victories in Wales vying with Montagu’s leadership against the Scots for who could do greater service to the crown.
Montagu stalks away from the fire, hissing and swearing like a wet cat. He returns a few moments later, a strange, mask-like calm over his features. Where Rabbie is easy to read, Harry feels like he never sees more of Montagu than exactly what the Baron wants him to see. Harry has no sense for the man himself, what he’s like underneath the political machinations.
Perhaps there is nothing under the politics. Perhaps the game is all.
Montagu is smiling at him. That never ends well.
‘You’re a knight now,’ Montagu says pleasantly, his fingers resting lightly on the old leather of Sir Simon’s belt. His smile grows wider. ‘You will need a squire.’
Harry stutters. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, sir.’
Montagu puts an arm around Harry, and walks him back towards the cart and cage. Montagu’s voice is deceptively light, as if he were asking for Harry to help round up some costumes for a court masquerade. ‘You will take the little wolf, and he will be your squire. Don’t bring him anywhere public until he can behave. Don’t harm him permanently. Try to get him on our side. Oh, and don’t let him escape, whatever you do.’
‘Do I have a choice in this?’ Harry asks. He already knows the answer, he’s just curious what Montagu will say.
Montagu purses his lips, feigning thoughtfulness. ‘Well, if you don’t want to look after him, I can ask Rabbie. Either way, we tuck the Scottish boy away in the West Country where nobody will look for him.’
‘What if he escapes?’ Harry says, running his thumb over the scabbing wound on his forearm.
‘Ah, see, as soon as I return home to Salisbury I’m going to buy up all the debts of Dartington Manor,’ Montagu replies, and Harry can feel a spectral silk cord tightening around his neck. ‘Keep him alive
