Tears are coursing down his cheeks, hot and wet, and Harry wipes them away, fearful of who might see.
There’s a rustle in the rose bush behind him.
He freezes. The sound he heard was too loud, too wrong to be a bird.
Harry whirls to his feet and sticks his hand into the hedge. He had expected there to be a wall behind it, but no, the rose hedge is the wall.
The aide comes running back down the path towards Harry. ‘Sir Harry! You mustn’t do that! It is forbidden,’ the man admonishes, his voice sharp with second-hand shame.
Harry yanks his hand out of the hedge. He notices idly that it has several deep scratches from thorns. Bright red pearls of blood begin to well up as he stares. ‘I— I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I heard a noise and it surprised me.’ He smiles weakly. ‘Battle reflexes,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘What lies behind the hedge?’
The aide scrunches his face in discomfort. ‘Those are the private royal gardens, Sir Harry. We do not look towards them nor do we reach into them, unless we have a very great desire to lose our hand.’
Harry’s face reddens in embarrassment as he is led away from the bench, probably never to be allowed near it again.
‘Are you worried the King overheard your prayer?’ the aide asks.
‘No. I prayed in English,’ Harry says.
‘Pfft,’ the aide snorts. ‘Then God did not hear it either, for He does not speak the vulgar tongue.’
‘So that was the King or Queen,’ Harry says, ‘on the other side of the roses.’
The aide shrugs, relaxing considerably as they leave the area without further incident. ‘The Comte de Marche also has use of the royal gardens, but you would have heard him,’ the aide says. ‘Where he goes, a party always follows.’
Harry forces a smile. ‘A party sounds wonderful. Any chance of wrangling an invitation?’ He says it half in jest, but still.
The aide purses his lips. ‘Undoubtedly one will be thrown to celebrate your departure,’ the man says.
Geoffrey Scrope comes through, however.
There is a royal banquet at Fontainebleau the next day, and the English are invited.
They stop on the way out of Paris to check on Ufford and Montagu. Both look much better. Clean clothes, water for washing and decent food have done wonders to bring them back to themselves. Geoffrey gives them hope, saying the negotiations are almost finished. He mentions the invitation to Fontainebleau as an example of how well they are doing.
Rabbie is overjoyed, and pesters them for more details. But Montagu remains reserved. Something about that nags at Harry.
Their little party arrives at Fontainebleau shortly before supper is to begin, and they rush to clean themselves and change. Harry is struck by the beauty of the ancient edifice as they ride into its oval courtyard. Fontainebleau is a pleasure palace, built without thought of fortification. No such thing exists in turbulent young England; indeed, the very concept unsettles Harry.
‘Philip the Fair’s favourite palace,’ Geoffrey says, a smile playing across his lips as he watches Harry take in the sprawling yet harmonious building. It’s a wonder to look at, its architecture a song of elegance and sophistication.
‘I can see why,’ Harry whispers.
The hall is crowded. Three hundred knights and nobles are in attendance, and there is a full schedule of games, music and amusements. Harry idly wonders if their fool will pretend to be the English king. He smirks. Probably not. That would just be rude.
They take their seats towards the middle of the hall, joining a small company of French knights who all stop what they’re doing when Harry sits down. It’s brief, but Harry sees the flicker of tension and recognition that passes across the men before they resume their conversations. The knight next to Harry shakes his head, a small private smile on his face, as he reaches for the wine jug at the middle of the table.
There are also a few clergymen at the table, old friends of the Bishop who embrace him enthusiastically, and an elegantly dressed countess who winks at Geoffrey Scrope and kisses him on both cheeks.
Harry’s mind is still turning over the actions of the French knights when the man next to him elbows him and offers him wine.
Harry nods. Then his brow furrows. ‘Do we know each other?’
The knight chuckles to himself. After pouring Harry’s wine and more for himself, he puts down the jug and places his hands in front of his face, cutting off all view except a small slit for his eyes. ‘Perhaps I am more familiar like this,’ the knight says.
Harry can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. ‘You had a lance. Near Péronne, when I was being a fool.’
‘Ah, you have a good memory,’ the man smiles. ‘Charles de Rochefort, at your service.’
‘Where’s your friend?’ Harry asks, motioning towards his chin with the international symbol for the one with the beard.
‘Having a baby,’ the Chevalier de Rochefort sighs. ‘Louis has five daughters. He thinks his wife is spiting him because he’s never home for the births. So this time, he returns to his estates.’
Harry raises his cup. ‘Good luck to him.’
‘Indeed,’ says the Chevalier. ‘Santé.’
A bell rings, a steward calls, and they stand for King Philip and Queen Joan. The King is small and slight, but good-looking in
