Eleven
November 1334–March 1340: The Bad Sleep Well
Harry awakens in a strange room.
There are men nearby, their voices low but earnest, and someone is brushing his temple with a cool, wet cloth. Whoever they are, they haven’t noticed he’s awake yet. He closes his eyes again and listens, trying to figure out where he is.
A fire crackles, and a man’s voice says, ‘I think we’re rushing to conclusions.’
Harry thinks dimly, Arundel. That’s the Earl of Arundel.
‘You heard Scrope; he’s being obstructive, not belligerent.’
‘He wants an excuse to seize the Duchy of Aquitaine, Your Majesty. Leave Scotland alone and come on his preposterous crusade, or else.’ It’s a voice Harry has heard, but doesn’t know well. William Bohun or Henry de Grosmont, perhaps? And he said Your Majesty. Wherever Harry is, the King is present.
‘Fuck his crusade,’ a voice growls, and Harry flinches. It’s Rabbie’s voice.
‘We will not postpone our campaign in Scotland. It is clear to us that Philip is being belligerent. This murder of our cousin proves his ill intent goes beyond idle threats,’ the King says. Harry stirs at that: murder of our cousin. Iain.
Iain’s dead—
‘No proof,’ Arundel is saying.
‘This is your proof,’ Rabbie yells, and Harry opens his eyes.
‘He’s awake,’ says the unfamiliar voice. It’s William Bohun.
‘Harry,’ Arundel sighs, hurrying over. ‘Are you able to tell us who attacked you?’
Harry tries to sit up but he’s hit with a wave of nausea so severe it forces him to lie back down. The pain in his head is crippling. He contents himself with turning slightly to face the room.
They’re in Rabbie’s bedchamber at Ordlington, and he’s in Rabbie’s bed. In front of him is an ad hoc council of war: the King, and England’s most martial peers. John of Eltham. Ufford. Arundel. Bohun. De Grosmont. Morley.
And in the corner sits William Montagu, smiling.
‘What happened, Harry?’ the King asks, his voice kind.
‘Iain, uh, Lord Iain was visiting from court. He, he used to live at Dartington,’ Harry says. ‘I’d met him a few miles off the Exeter road at the edge of our estate and we were riding home, around midday. A score of men jumped us. Not locals. Six knights, and the rest men-at-arms with crossbows. They were foreign-looking.’
‘Genoese mercenaries,’ Arundel supplies.
‘The leader asked if Iain was the Pretender, and then identified himself as a knight of Philip of Valois and ordered Iain to be killed. I tried to stop them, but—’ Shame fills Harry like a rush of freezing water. Sir Harry Lyon, tournament champion, great knight of England, and the one time he needed to defend what he loved most in the world, his sword was in his bedchamber, forgotten in haste. ‘—I failed,’ he whispers.
‘Harry,’ Arundel says, ‘we found this in your hand.’ He gestures to Rabbie, who holds up a navy-and-gold piece of fabric: the surcoat Harry grabbed as he fell. ‘Do you believe the knights who attacked you were agents of the French king?’
Harry’s head throbs with pain. He knows there’s something off, but he can’t think what. Iain had said something, as the men had attacked. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember, and all he can picture is the frothing pink of blood coming out of the strong column of Iain’s neck and he has to clench his jaw so he doesn’t throw up. ‘I believe so,’ he says at last.
Arundel squeezes his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ he says.
‘He’s dead, then,’ Harry says.
‘There was no body, Harry,’ says Rabbie, and the man sounds downright sympathetic. Harry vaguely remembers that they were almost friends once, when Harry was younger and thought he wanted what Rabbie had. ‘There was so much blood.’ Rabbie sighs and sits down. ‘Look. I hated the man. You know that. Ever since this,’ he says, touching the ragged top of his right ear, where Iain had bitten part of it off a lifetime ago. ‘But that was our issue to settle. Foreigners coming onto our lands and murdering our people? That’s something else entirely.’
Harry whimpers, and turns his head away. He has to swallow down bile.
He hears someone stand, behind him. ‘We leave for Scotland tomorrow. Retake the North, then we prepare for war with France.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Montagu says.
‘My lord of Arundel, you will stay behind in the South. Raise us a fleet,’ the King continues.
‘But,’ Arundel splutters. ‘What do I know of boats?’
‘More than any of us,’ William Bohun shrugs.
‘All of you, leave us,’ says the King. ‘We would have a moment alone in conference with Sir Harry.’
Harry can hear the scraping of benches and the rustling of fabric, the subtle clink of a scabbard shifting against a belt, as the assembled barons rise and depart the room. The heavy door shuts, and soon there is only the occasional hiss from the embers in the hearth.
‘He knew this would happen,’ Harry said quietly. ‘He truly had no desire to be king.’
‘I know,’ Edward replies. ‘He reminded me of my father, in some ways. My father didn’t want to be king either. He was a good man, though I fear history will not remember him as such.’
‘Born with the wrong name,’ Harry mutters. He wants to break, to grieve, but he won’t, not here in front of the King.
‘Indeed,’ says Edward.
Edward shifts, his blond beard glinting in the firelight. Harry is struck by the youth of the King. In the two years Edward has on him, has he learned not to be afraid in his quiet moments, as Harry is? Is he no longer terrified of being outmanoeuvred, of letting everyone down? At twenty-two, does he walk proudly now down the corridors of power, sure of his righteousness? Does it get easier?
The dark shadows under the King’s eyes suggest not. ‘I wish I had known him longer,’ Edward sighs.
‘Me too,’ Harry says.
‘Montagu says last year he took Iain from Scotland to keep him
