Harry wants to ask decided by whom, but he bites his tongue, for now.
The English can’t storm out of the negotiation, but they can prevaricate. So they ask to see the two earls, and on their third full day in Paris they are taken to the prison where Montagu and Ufford languish.
Harry is struck by how terrible both the earls look when they’re brought into the receiving room. Some of the English men-at-arms accompanying them actually gasp: Montagu and Ufford are filthy, with cracked lips and sores on their wrists and ankles from ropes. Montagu seems to have aged ten years in the past few weeks, and one eye is badly infected from a wound sustained during capture. Ufford is angry, yelling at everyone, telling them he’s an earl and needs to be treated as such. Montagu is no less furious, but he’s unwell and clearly conserving his energy. Other than Montagu’s bad eye, their bruises and cuts from capture outside Lille seem to be healing, though it’s hard to tell under the prison dirt.
Their men-at-arms give them beer, decent food and clean clothes.
The whole time, Montagu is watching Harry, his eyes malevolent.
‘What?’ Harry says finally.
‘The French have the Devil himself fighting with them. And yet you keep escaping his grasp,’ Montagu says, digging hungrily into the bread and cheese they have brought. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had switched sides.’ It’s said lightly, like a joke, and the Bishop even laughs.
But Montagu doesn’t joke about things like that.
‘Well, my lord, you see,’ Harry smiles back, ‘I know the Devil of old. Helped him out once.’
Rabbie glares. ‘You know who he is.’
‘Who who is?’ Harry asks, innocently, reaching for a piece of cheese off Montagu’s plate. ‘I’ve been at war for England for seven straight years, my lord. I was bound to meet the Devil sooner or later.’
Montagu snorts, and bats Harry’s hand away from his food. ‘When can we go home? Are their terms reasonable?’
‘We’re working on it,’ sighs Geoffrey, ‘and no.’
‘God damn it!’ Rabbie howls, slamming his fist onto the table. ‘They put me in a cage. Paraded us through the Paris streets like dogs. Peasants threw night soil at us!’
Harry holds up his hands, palms towards Rabbie, with a calm expression on his face. ‘I remember Lord Montagu once telling me that a cage was the safest way to transport a prisoner. Perhaps we have more in common with our French cousins than we thought.’
Rabbie stands up and throws the stool he was sitting on against the stone wall, his face choleric with fury.
As prison guards rush in to investigate the noise, Geoffrey Scrope rises. ‘I’m sorry, milords, we must leave now to attend our afternoon negotiating session.’
They make arrangements for men-at-arms from the English party to visit the two earls daily with better provisions, and then they depart.
Montagu’s eyes never leave Harry. Harry shivers, despite himself.
The English party eats in a lower hall than the King’s great hall with its vast black marble table. It’s not an insult, for their lesser hall is also the dining place of the French knights and senior household officials. But it isn’t an honour either. Harry itches to catch a glimpse of Philip and his retinue, but the royal family remains entirely separate from them.
Every corner of the palace blooms with the possibility of Iain. In the soft Parisian French of the courtiers’ speech, which reminds Harry so achingly of Iain’s wry turn of phrase. In a pair of broad shoulders seen amidst a distant knot of courtiers; in a dark head thrown back and laughing. Iain always had so much life in him, so much passion. Harry sees tantalising hints of it among the courtiers of the palace, but upon closer examination they all fade into shadows, dim and insubstantial, against his memory of Iain’s fire.
The aides that guide them around the palace have to chivvy Harry along multiple times when his eyes grow unfocused, looking across a courtyard or down a hallway at groups of young, bright noblemen.
And then he’s denied the use of the garden for a few days. King Philip is back from checking on construction work at Vincennes. The already not-inconsiderable population of the Palais de la Cité doubles overnight, the royal party overflowing across courtyards and parterres. For Harry, it means there are even more people to look at who could be Iain, but on second glance are not.
It’s driving Harry mad. It’s all driving Harry mad: being in the middle of this massive city. Being followed everywhere by well-meaning but stifling aides. The rigorous stratification of the great French palace. The formal negotiation process, which drags on and on without visible movement.
After ten days, he snaps. When the priests once again say they cannot lower the ransom because of ‘considerations’, Harry slaps his hand on the table between them and demands to know what considerations exactly, especially given that both earls are wallowing in filth in a common prison after a gruelling and humiliating journey across the country.
‘If you don’t know, then perhaps you are not the right people to negotiate with,’ the younger priest responds stiffly, looking down his Roman nose at Harry.
Harry glances at Geoffrey, who surprisingly doesn’t lay a cautioning hand on him. The lawyer must be as tired as Harry of the French obfuscation. ‘Well, you’re not actually negotiating, so perhaps we should petition King Philip for other representatives,’ Harry growls.
The older priest points at Harry. ‘Ah-ah, young man. This is not the time to be pushy.
