The Bishop of Lincoln leans forwards, brow furrowed. ‘Pardon. I got lost along the way somewhere. What are their crimes?’
The younger priest spreads his hands and looks heavenwards. The judge, however, shuffles the papers in front of him and begins to read. ‘William Montagu and Robert Ufford did plot to murder Queen Marguerite of France, eldest child of Philip the Fair, and her son, Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, called Prince Iain of Galloway, in order to instigate war with France.’
‘Hogwash,’ says the Bishop of Lincoln. ‘You lot sent a squad of knights and mercenaries over to kill the boy.’ He turns to Harry. ‘Didn’t they?’
‘We have a witness,’ says the judge, steepling his fingers.
‘I would like to speak to this witness,’ Harry says, before he can even think about it.
‘Alas,’ says the older priest.
The younger priest leans forwards and jabs his finger in Geoffrey’s direction. ‘These men have royal blood on their hands. They must pay our full ransom, from their own lands and purses, or we will hang, draw and quarter them for their crimes against France.’
The older priest pats the young one on the arm, in a hamfisted attempt to calm him, as if he were one of the little lapdogs that are in fashion with the French court ladies. ‘Beh,’ the old priest says. ‘This sort of machination is to be expected, but the trouble is, they have been caught, no? So now they pay.’
‘Oh, and once released they must never return to France, on pain of arrest and death,’ says the judge.
‘We will retire for the day,’ says Geoffrey. ‘We must discuss this.’
The three of them go back to their chamber, bidding their aides goodbye until they are fetched for supper. ‘English,’ Geoffrey orders. ‘And stay away from the windows and doors.’
‘This is,’ whispers the Bishop of Lincoln, ‘a farce.’
Harry sighs, perching on a chest and leaning his head back against a bedpost. ‘It’s all true. I witnessed it too.’
Geoffrey and the Bishop fall silent and turn slowly towards Harry, their eyes full of questions.
‘I rode with Montagu and Ufford into Scotland after Halidon Hill. I was there when they killed Marguerite and everyone else in her castle except Iain. That’s how he ended up as my squire.’ Harry scrubs his hands through his hair. ‘I also overheard Montagu and Ufford talking about pushing for war with France so they could gain lands over here. I don’t think that’s much of a secret, though.’
Geoffrey pulls a bench over in front of Harry, the wood scraping across the stone floor. He sits on it, putting himself in Harry’s field of view. ‘Harry, do you have any proof that Montagu killed Suo—, uh, Sine—, ah, the Scottish boy?’
‘I don’t think Iain is dead,’ Harry whispers. ‘As to who paid for him to be attacked, I have a former vassal who now sails out of Plymouth harbour. He saw a man of Montagu’s description checking Iain’s body and paying off the boat that took him to France.’
‘Hmm,’ says Geoffrey.
Harry waves his hand, as if shooing away a fly. ‘So no, I don’t have any real proof of any of this. That’s why I’ve never acted on it.’
‘Christ’s blood,’ sighs Geoffrey. Then, to the Bishop, ‘Sorry, Your Excellency.’
‘Find the boy,’ says the Bishop. ‘Find him and we can make a real case for them having to pay that ransom. We can’t leave them here, although a silk rope might be kinder in the end than the way the French are planning to bankrupt them.’
‘But we’re at a stalemate until we find the boy,’ Geoffrey agrees. ‘I need a drink.’
Harry doesn’t move; just keeps staring up at the ceiling. ‘The boy is a man now. And I don’t think he wants to be found.’
‘For England’s sake, try,’ hisses the usually mild-tempered Bishop.
‘I have been,’ Harry growls back. ‘I have been.’
‘What can we do to help?’ Geoffrey asks. 'What do you need?'
Harry throws up his hands. ‘A miracle. Or for us to get close to King Philip and his retinue. If Iain is anywhere, it’s with them.’
They all agree it would be wise to take a day’s break from the negotiations. Harry nearly falls apart when the Bishop takes him aside and says, ‘I only met the boy briefly, with the King, but he was the full measure of what a knight should be. As are you.’ Then the man winks. ‘I can’t promise miracles on command, but Geoffrey and I have been known to do the impossible before.’
Then they both vanish to the depths of the palace, leaving Harry alone – or as alone as he can ever be, with a French courtier hovering outside his door.
Having nothing else to do, Harry wanders outside for a walk in the afternoon sunshine, trailed by the inevitable aide. To his delight, he finds the palace gardens have reopened, and he goes inside.
The aide waits a polite distance away as Harry finds his favourite bench. The rose hedge behind the bench is fully in flower, and the rich perfume of its crimson-and-white rosa mundi sends Harry tumbling into memory. First of his mother, who loved roses and kept beautiful lemony-white ones lining the kitchen gardens. And then of Iain, bright and passionate like the vermilion in the rose.
He feels his eyes grow wet and he asks the aide for a few minutes alone to pray. The man nods and backs off further, to the end of the garden path. It’s an excuse, just something to get a moment of privacy, but as Harry sits there he finds he really does want to pray.
He pulls a rose down to him, careful to leave it on its stem so it may continue to grow, and he breathes in the heady
