De Grosmont dismisses him with a wave of his hand.
Harry hurries to his tent to pack for Paris.
Twelve
March–April 1340: Sword of the Beast
Harry and the lawyer and the Bishop ride to Paris in the company of a dozen loyal men-at-arms and a courtesy escort of French knights. He recognises one of them, the knight with the dark beard from his misadventure near Péronne. Harry wants to talk to the man further, but it’s impossible. The French knights keep their distance socially, even as they guard the caravan physically.
It’s slow progress. The heavy military ox-carts bearing their own belongings and the prisoners’ requirements crawl along at no more than a walking pace. From the Flanders border it’s five days to Paris. Harry reckons on Nomad, alone, he could make it in three. He almost suggests riding on ahead, but he can’t come up with any viable reason to excuse it. And he’d still need a courtesy escort.
In the end, he’s happy to have the Bishop and Geoffrey Scrope to share his awe with him when the French capital comes into view. Harry hasn’t been to London often, but compared to Paris, the English capital comes off as no more than a middling county seat. There are three times as many people, spread out over about four times as much space. London is, after all, little more than a square mile. The French king’s palace and administrative buildings, on an island in the middle of the Seine, are a square mile on their own. Paris’s streets are still narrow and crooked like London’s, but there are just so many more of them. Everything about Paris is more than London. Bigger, higher, busier, fancier. Older.
As they cross the broad wooden bridge to the Île de la Cité, Harry can see rooftops and spires lining the river all the way to the horizon. There’s a fortress on the right bank, and a tall, elegant tower on the left. When one of their French escorts casually identifies it as the Tour de Nesle, Harry has to stop his horse right there in the middle of the Grand Pont as a wave of dizziness hits him.
He’s reminded that Iain’s family built this city, this whole country, from a mere stronghold that was originally little more than the island in front of them. And then held it, for three hundred and fifty years.
Harry is overwhelmed by one thought as he enters the vast ceremonial courtyard of the Palais de la Cité: this, all of this, is Iain’s birthright.
Their party is met by palace officials, who send the men-at-arms down to the Salle des Gardes and show Harry, Geoffrey and the Bishop to their room in a gallery of guest chambers, along the southern bailey wall.
Harry dumps his saddlebags and strips off his shirt, immediately gravitating towards the washing bowl so he can clean the dust off himself from travelling. The palace servants are immaculate, and in comparison Harry feels a rough, dirty beast, slouched in from the provinces. He can hear the other two men also getting settled, sorting through their small bags while they wait for the servants to bring the rest of their personal luggage off the carts. ‘When do you think we’ll see the French king?’ Harry asks.
Geoffrey sighs and sits on the edge of the large bed they will all share. ‘Last time I only saw him once, at the end.’ The lawyer reaches up and stretches, his back cracking. ‘I warn you, Harry. Negotiating with French administrators is going to frustrate you immensely. Please don’t speak without checking with me first. They can be … touchy. There are hierarchies to be respected, protocols to be obeyed.’
Harry bristles at being treated like a child, but files it away as a fight to have at another time. ‘Noted,’ he says. He pulls on clean clothes, his good court outfit, and turns to Geoffrey. ‘Do you think it would be allowed for me to take a walk?’ Harry asks.
The lawyer nods. ‘I don’t mean to be harsh, Harry. They’re just … different here. More formal. I’d counsel staying quiet and learning the way things are done in this court, before saying something you might regret.’ He smiles, shyly. He’s a rumpled fellow, grey curls and lined face, deep circles under his eyes like bruises. ‘I’m only giving you the advice I wish someone had given me my first time here.’
‘I understand,’ says Harry, somewhat mollified.
‘There’s a fine garden on the western side of the Palace. Ask anyone; they’ll point you in the right direction.’
Harry nods his thanks and heads out. The garden isn’t hard to find, and it is indeed beautiful, its beds and bowers arranged in formal geometries. Harry settles himself on a bench near a wall of roses and relaxes in the spring sunshine, watching the Parisian courtiers go by.
Even cleaned up and in his good clothes, he feels frumpy next to them. It’s not that rich damasks, velvets and silks don’t make it to England, but so few people have them. Here in the Palais, everyone is wearing them, in every dazzling colour of the rainbow. And every cuff, every collar, is picked out with gold or silver embroidery. The fashions on the men are cut differently from the English court, too. It’s all so tight here. And so short.
Harry shifts uncomfortably as a young courtier walks by. He can see half the boy’s arse under his jacket, with thin hose that leave nothing to the imagination.
The boy sees him looking, and winks.
Harry hurries back to the chamber provided for him, blushing furiously, as the bells ring for supper.
The first few days of negotiation are, as Geoffrey promises, incredibly tedious. Their opposite numbers are a pair of French priests and the Chief Justice of the royal law courts. All they do at first is name an incredibly high ransom for Montagu and Ufford and then refuse to discuss it. The
