Harry realises on the march that he’s been away from England for more than a year. Both his children will be walking now, and another harvest has passed without him cutting the first wheat. And, rather than finally laying Iain’s memory to rest in France, Harry feels increasingly haunted by him. It’s as if at any time Harry will open his eyes and find Iain standing there, ghostly pale, asking if Harry really believed a grave could keep him down.
Philip of Valois raises an army while Cambrai is under siege, but for another stultifying fortnight the two armies move parallel to each other, as if shadow-boxing, neither willing to make the first move. They drift south, towards the Somme, and finally near the town of Péronne the distance between them is narrowed to fifteen miles. Yet still Philip doesn’t repel the invaders. He sits. He waits, either for his courage to appear, or Edward’s money to disappear. Nobody is sure.
War is as boring in France as it was in Flanders. The knights ride out on raids. Edward has raised more than sixty squires to knighthood and the boys are keen to show what they’re made of. Harry can hear them bragging to each other as he sits around the campfire with Sir Hugh their first night near Péronne. One with a light, high voice swears he’ll take a French life within a mile of their army, so help him God.
Sir Hugh shakes his head.
But then Harry gets an idea. He spends another night sleepless, but this time with excitement, and in the morning strides to Montagu’s tent. Both Montagu and Rabbie are out, probably in attendance on the King, but a couple of his boys are there. And that’s exactly what Harry was hoping.
‘You look like shit, Lyon,’ mutters Billy Shayler, looking up from his breakfast.
Harry puts a hand to his face. His hair is still cropped fairly short, but he’s let his beard grow. Hasn’t mended the holes in his surcoat. Can’t remember the last time he washed. He looks down at his arms, at the webs of scars from sword and armour that cross them like silver bands, and sighs. It’s too late now. ‘Haven’t been sleeping,’ he says. ‘Bored and restless.’
‘Mm,’ Shayler nods in agreement.
‘Thought I’d take some of the young ones out raiding. Wondered if any of you wanted to come.’ Harry tries to smile, tries to pretend he’s excited for the reasons they would be excited. Not for a different reason. Not because he’s in love with Death, and keen to chase him across the French countryside. ‘Wanted to get the good stuff before anyone else had a chance.’
Sir Roderick Griffith stretches, rising. ‘Amen to that. I’m going mad with boredom. I’ll come.’
Billy Lang shakes his head.
The other Billy, Shayler, jabs him. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of that curse malarkey,’ he says.
Lang fidgets, and when he speaks, his voice is a near-whisper. ‘I had a nightmare about him. The Black Knight.’
Shayler jabs him again. ‘You’ve just been doing nothing too long. We all have. Inactivity makes us cowards. C’mon, Billy.’
But the man doesn’t get up from his seat.
Roderick Griffith and Billy Shayler do, and they grab four of the new knights and set out for a small keep they’ve heard mention of, a little west of Péronne. It’s a poor thing, a single tower surrounded by mud huts, defended by a few men-at-arms with spears and swords. But it’s close enough to the French lines to be an insult to Philip of Valois and a provocation to his deadly enforcer.
Harry’s stomach turns as the knights ride in and kill everything in their path: the poorly armed, terrified soldiers; the merchant whose cart is in the wrong place at the wrong time; an old man who just doesn’t get out of the way fast enough.
Harry curses to himself. Of course the Black Knight isn’t going to magically appear, just by the force of Harry’s desire. France is vast. The territory between the two armies is huge. Even if the Black Knight is with the French army, the chances of him being here, in this little town, are minimal. Harry knows it’s just a paranoid delusion that the Black Knight has spies watching over him, but the idea stubbornly remains. As does the hope that a man he watched die is somehow, miraculously, still alive and causing all the trouble he possibly can.
Harry looks around and signals to the other knights, time to go. One of the young ones looks a little green, taking off his helmet to get some air. He must be no more than eighteen. His brown eyes are wide and frightened against his olive skin and short brown-black hair.
Harry rides up to him. ‘You well?’
The boy shakes his head.
‘You’re from the South,’ Harry says. It’s not a question. The campaigns in Scotland over the past few years have meant that there have been no tournaments since Smithfield. But it was only Northern knights, after a while, who rode to fight in Scotland. The Southerners stayed home. Boys like this who were squiring for Southern knights, Harry knows, would have spent the last few years with not even the play warfare of tournaments to ease them into battle.
‘Near Colchester,’ the boy says, his French almost incomprehensible through a strong Essex accent. ‘My name’s Nicky. I mean, Sir Nicholas.’
Harry places a hand on the boy’s mailed shoulder and switches to English. God’s teeth, these boys were so green they didn’t even speak French properly yet. ‘Welcome to knighthood, lad. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t get better?’ the boy asks, his voice cracking.
Harry shakes his head and rides to the keep’s gate. ‘No. It does not.’
Then he realises: Sir William Shayler is missing.
