‘Harry Lyon, of Dartington,’ he says, his voice shaking. He reaches his left hand down to his right wrist, slowly, so it’s not a threat, reaching under his gauntlet to the mail of his hauberk. He pushes up his sleeve until the little half-moon scar on his forearm is visible among straighter, newer souvenirs of war. ‘Believe it or not, he bit me once.’
Harry watches as the lancer’s eyes flick down to his forearm, then back up to what little of his face is visible. The man looks over to the bearded knight. ‘Louis,’ the man hisses.
The bearded knight puts his sword in his scabbard and pulls off his helmet. He stuffs two fingers in his mouth and lets out a whistle so piercing that Harry flinches involuntarily. Then the man turns to Harry. ‘Take off your helmet,’ he says.
Harry does.
He thinks he sees a sliver of darkness shift, in the long shadow of the farmhouse. In the dusk it could be a man in black armour, on a black horse. Or it could be a trick of the half-light.
Harry’s heart starts battering in his chest like a caged bird against its bars.
The bearded knight says, ‘You should be more careful, Sir Harry, coming out by yourself so close to our army,’ and then gestures. He and the other knights fade away, heading back towards the French lines, just … leaving Harry there, alone, without another word.
He drops his hands. Nomad whickers, the skin over his shoulder twitching. He can feel Harry’s unease through the saddle and his ears flick back, testament to his own nerves. Harry pats his neck and makes shushing noises.
He squints at the shadowed wall of the farmhouse. Nothing moves.
‘Iain?’ he calls softly.
He suddenly feels ridiculous, sitting there on his horse in the middle of the road at twilight, talking to what is probably an old, upturned cart, or a restless farm cat. ‘I just want you to know I still think of you,’ Harry says, his voice cracking. ‘Every goddamn day.’
He waits.
Nothing happens. Nothing moves.
Then he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. He turns Nomad around.
Maybe Sir Hugh is right. Maybe he is cracking up.
He gets back to the English camp as a hunter’s moon begins to rise.
Two days later, the English and French armies finally line up to do battle. The French army dwarfs England’s twelve thousand, yet rather than trying to run right over them, Philip of Valois draws up his troops in a defensive formation. The lines glare at each other all day. Edward and his earls assume the French will attack their invaders. The French wait for Edward to make the first move.
The day ends without a battle being fought.
Each king claims a victory, of course. Philip of Valois returns with his court to Paris, bragging that the English hadn’t made it more than fifty miles over the border before they turned tail and went home.
The English march slowly back across the border to Flanders, with no plans to return. It is money, in the end, that curtails the French campaign, not force of arms. Technically, the English remain undefeated, and that is the narrative the King spins. Just after Epiphany, Edward stops in Ghent on the way to Antwerp and officially decrees himself King of England and France. He invaded France without opposition; clearly, he must be the country’s true ruler.
(Harry looks at the ground, schooling his expression.)
The bulk of the army continues onwards to the coast of Flanders, towards the Channel and home. King Edward is bound for England, too, frustrated and out of funds. The army is eating through his treasury at an alarming rate, and the crown’s Italian lenders have been reticent to extend more money to England without a distinct victory in hand. The King plans new taxes, but those take time to levy.
Four earls remain in Flanders as spring of 1340 approaches: Ufford, Montagu, de Grosmont and Bohun.
And Harry.
He jots a quick letter to Alys apologising for his long absence, and asking for news of the children and of Dartington. He entrusts it to Sir Hugh, who is crossing the Channel with the King. ‘Is there anything I should add?’ Sir Hugh asks, tucking the letter into his saddlebags.
‘Just tell her I think I’ve seen a ghost,’ Harry says.
Sir Hugh nods. Then he puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Be well,’ he says. ‘I hope you find him.’
There’s little to do in Antwerp while they wait for the King’s return. Rumours spread that Philip is massing another navy to keep the King and the bulk of his army from coming back to France, and strange men go back and forth from Montagu’s tent at all hours of the day. Harry knows they are spies. Much as he despises Montagu, he’s grateful for the Earl’s web of informants if they keep the King alive.
But Harry is bored. Tired of weeks of inactivity; sick of the damp cold. The declining temperatures cause the mud all around his tent to grow a thin crust of ice, perfect for slicing bare ankles, or turning incautious feet. The vastly reduced camp means that he can’t slip over to France to chase his ghost without raising suspicion. And they are no longer raiding. They’re just sitting and waiting.
Perhaps, Harry thinks, he should have gone back to England. Perhaps they all should have. But then a foolish hope will bloom in Harry, and he dreams that maybe a camp-follower will slip him a note, telling him to be at a certain place at a certain time. Or that he’ll wake up in the night to a ghost’s warm, thick arms around him.
Harry rounds up some of the other equally bored knights and they start training again. They spar for hours, until their muscles feel like jelly and
