Harry thinks it over. ‘It is one facet of the truth,’ he says at last.
The King exhales as he stands. ‘As always with Montagu,’ he says softly. Then, more loudly: ‘We ride north the day after tomorrow, against the Scots. If you are well enough, will you join us?’
Harry doesn’t even have to think it over. He knows with Iain gone, he isn’t living any more. He’s merely existing. And fighting makes the time pass.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Harry says.
In the end, it takes Harry a fortnight to follow in the King’s footsteps. Harry had barely thought before agreeing to go to war, only afterwards realising how much it would impact. How much still needed to be done before he could leave. Luckily, Arundel had brought Alys with him to Ordlington, and the three of them strategise as they ride to Dartington the next morning.
Alys falls in love with Dartington on first sight – half-finished walls and all – and Dartington falls in love with her. She agrees to give up the Christmas wedding at Arundel Castle and instead they are married, swiftly, by Father Gilbert in Dartington Church. Alys and Arundel will take turns managing the rebuilding of the hall while Harry is at war in the North.
Arundel complains the entire time about the navy he must raise, until Harry loses his patience and drags the man down to Plymouth, seeking the Halygast in port there. Jed tags along, hoping to see his cousin and hear news of home. They’re told by the harbourmaster that Captain Wekesa’s ship will be in from its usual run to France within the week, and they settle down at the dock’s least disgusting tavern to wait.
Five days later, the Halygast sees Harry before Harry sees the Halygast. There’s a shriek of joy from high up in the rigging of an anchoring ship, and then a short time later, a skiff bumps against the docks and Harry is nearly bowled over by two slim, tanned, tattooed forms.
Once he disentangles himself from the two sailors, he realises they are none other than Peter and Wat. Harry steps back to look at them, as Jed calls out cheerfully to Captain Wekesa in their native language.
Wat will always be scarred from his attempted burning. Little hair grows on his head; instead, tattoos of sea creatures and waves cover the area, ameliorating the rough appearance of the mangled skin. His body, too, is adorned with mermaids and monsters. Peter sports a flight of sparrows inked onto his forearms, and both boys are sun-brown, fit, and clearly happy. Harry finds himself smiling at the couple’s infectious enthusiasm for life.
And then Peter peers over Harry’s shoulder and says, ‘Where’s Iain?’
The spirit goes out of Harry so fast he has to support himself against a wharf post.
Peter steps back, aghast at Harry’s pale face. ‘No,’ the boy says, his own face scrunching up in stubborn refusal.
‘What’s wrong?’ Captain Wekesa asks in his soft, Continental French, striding up, looking between Peter and Harry. His French—
Harry clutches at his stomach in horror as everything falls into place. He turns to Arundel, who hangs back, both confused and fascinated by the sailors being disgorged by the skiff. ‘Richard,’ Harry says. ‘The knights. They. I was wrong.’ He swallows, his throat dry. ‘They weren’t French.’
‘What?’ Arundel says.
Harry closes his eyes. ‘Iain said “Liar” when the knights attacked. I didn’t understand then. Everything happened so fast.’ He opens his eyes and looks at Captain Wekesa, and then at Arundel. ‘But I know now. What he meant was they were not knights of France. A knight close to Philip of Valois would speak like Iain, or like Captain Wekesa. You, you know how Iain speaks. Spoke.’ Harry takes a shuddering breath. ‘The knights who attacked us, their accent was common Norman French like you and me.’
‘The French king’s men speak High Court French,’ Captain Wekesa says. ‘As did your friend. Once you hear it, you never forget it. And it’s an accent almost impossible to replicate unless you grew up in a French palace.’ Then he looks at Harry. ‘What happened? Is Iain wounded?’
Jed turns to his cousin and rattles out something complicated in their native language, and all Harry can think is that the captain looks a lot more affected than he should about a man he met once, and only briefly.
‘We saw them,’ Captain Wekesa says.
Harry stands up so fast his head spins, and he has to lean onto Arundel for support. ‘Are you sure you should be going to war?’ Arundel whispers.
‘Shut up,’ Harry says. Then, to Wekesa: ‘When?’
‘Two weeks ago, at twilight,’ Captain Wekesa says. ‘They loaded a body onto a French ship, docked a few piers down from us.’
Harry feels a desperate hope lurch in his chest. ‘Is it still—’
‘Long gone,’ Captain Wekesa says. ‘Whoever the men who brought the body were, they didn’t board the ship, and there was a lot of angry negotiation with the captain.’ He sighs. ‘We keep an eye out round here, most of the captains do. Sometimes folks get the bright idea to sell unfortunates into slavery. So any prisoner or body going onto a ship attracts some quiet notice, if you know what I mean.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ Harry asks. ‘Was he alive?’
Captain Wekesa indicates Peter. ‘You’ll have to ask our little sparrow in the rigging. He’s the one who saw.’
Peter’s mouth opens and closes, as he thinks. And Harry realises that while at sea, Peter has learned to speak French. ‘I couldn’t see much. It was a big man, limp and bloody. There was dark hair, like Iain, but he was bigger, broader,’ Peter says, a note of sadness in his voice. ‘His clothes were fine; that’s what caught my notice most of all.’
Harry struggles to breathe. ‘He got bigger over last winter,’ he gasps, through new tears. ‘Grew up. And he … he is the King’s cousin.’
‘Which
