Rabbie is unbearable. He’s not a patient man at the best of times, and the endless grind of the French campaign is wearing on him. He badgers Montagu and de Grosmont to let him attack this town, that castle. Their refusals are taken as personal insults; the whole camp can hear him rage afterwards.
Finally, one morning in early March, Montagu strides out of his tent and pulls Rabbie aside. Their heads are bent close together as Montagu whispers something Harry can’t overhear. But then Rabbie straightens, his eyes bright, and the message is clear.
They’re going on the attack.
The target turns out to be Lille, a good-sized city just over the border into the Walloon part of Flanders, which had thrown its chips in with France rather than England. It wasn’t technically an act of war against France, but it might distract the French king from his naval preparations. It would, of course, bestow great honour on Montagu and Ufford if they take the city.
Harry cleans his armour, washes and repairs his surcoat. Checks his shield for cracks or warping. And waits for Montagu or Ufford to summon him.
They never do.
The two earls ride for Lille a week later with a thousand men-at-arms, leaving only a skeleton camp behind. When Harry confronts Montagu on the eve of departure to ask why he’s not invited, Montagu smiles genially at him. ‘You’re trouble,’ is all the Earl says. ‘Things go wrong when you’re along on a raid, yet you never seem to get hurt. It’s curious.’ Montagu flicks his fingers towards the door, dismissing Harry, as his attention returns to the map spread before him. ‘And I don’t have time for curiosity right now. You’ll stay and help de Grosmont manage the camp until I return.’
Except they don’t return.
Nine hundred and fifty men of the thousand do. Harry rushes to Henry de Grosmont’s tent to hear the captains of the men-at-arms – exhausted, road-dirty, but unhurt – give their report. It seems Montagu took Ufford, Billy Lang and about forty other knights and men-at-arms to reconnoitre the approach to the city. They had ridden in close to its walls, assuming they were hidden from the Walloon forces’ view by the great defensive earthworks set up around the town. But the earthworks also hid them from their own army’s eyes.
The men-at-arms talk of their panic, watching the low sun descend in the sky, hearing the distant bells for Sext, then None, watching for a sign of their leaders’ return. It was as if the city’s earthen bulwarks had just swallowed them whole. Finally, as dusk approached, the main force abandoned position and fled back across the border, leaving only a small party of scouts behind. The scouts caught up with them two days later and confirmed their greatest fear: capture.
The two earls were French prisoners.
The others, including Billy Lang, had been put to the sword.
Henry de Grosmont sends for Harry again early the next morning. He stumbles into the Earl’s tent to find William Bohun there, as well as the Bishop of Lincoln and the King’s lawyer, a rumpled Yorkshireman named Geoffrey Scrope. Two other knights are just leaving, men Harry recognises from around the camp but doesn’t know well. They’re still wearing travelling clothes.
De Grosmont sighs, and sits heavily on a wooden travelling chest. ‘The Earls of Suffolk and Salisbury have been taken by the French,’ he says to the newcomers. ‘You, you and you will leave in the morning for Paris to negotiate their ransom.’
It takes Harry a moment to realise de Grosmont has indicated him as the third, to accompany the Bishop and Geoffrey Scrope. The priest and the lawyer immediately excuse themselves to begin preparations for the journey.
Harry points to himself, confused. ‘Me?’ he says, his voice going high. It’s more than he dared wish for. If Iain really is alive – if this isn’t some fantasy constructed by Harry’s grief-maddened mind – he will be in Paris, near to the French king. Then paranoia slams down on his hopes like a steel hunting trap. ‘Why me?’ he stutters. ‘I’m not very important.’
De Grosmont sips from his cup of wine. ‘You have the reputation of an honest man,’ he explains. Then his brow furrows. ‘And didn’t you take care of that Capet boy? Try to save his life?’
Harry blanches, then nods. ‘Yes, my lord. He was my squire. And … a close friend.’
De Grosmont smiles. ‘That gives you an advantage,’ he says, as if it explains everything.
‘An advantage,’ Harry repeats, his voice flat. He tucks his hands behind his back to hide how white his knuckles are.
‘Yes,’ de Grosmont yawns. ‘Some of the more traditional barons were very loyal to the Capets. Your being the boy’s protector may gain you some powerful friends. Or at least it’s an interesting conversation starter.’ De Grosmont flexes his fingers, cracking them one by one. ‘I trust you’ll use it to best result.’
Harry’s lips twist into a grim little smile; he nods. It’s either that or completely lose his temper. He’s digging his newly-clean nails into his palms so hard he’s close to drawing blood.
‘Go. Get them back,’ de Grosmont says. Then he shifts, a heavy hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose. And Harry realises then that de Grosmont is just as bored and fed up as the rest of them. The circles under his eyes attest to just how Goddamned tired he is of being in a foreign country, in a campaign that’s been grinding on for a year and a half yet has gone absolutely nowhere.
‘I heard they are being taken in a cage to Paris,’ de Grosmont says, staring absently towards the lead wine cup in front of him. ‘Like common criminals. Nasty business, an earl in a cage. Who would do such a thing?’
Harry’s heart does something funny then. Shifts and swells as if, after a long silence, it remembers a time when it would
