‘Do you intend to keep committing the sin of sodomy with this individual?’ says the priest.
‘Uh … no,’ Harry says, clenching his jaw. ‘No. I do not.’
Black hair fanning across the pillow, pale eyes and a lean body, and that thick cock—
‘No!’ Harry says, the sharp word bouncing off the hard wooden surfaces of the confessional.
‘Very well,’ the priest says. ‘An indulgence is two shillings. You can come back for another in one month’s time if you commit the sin again.’
Harry opens his mouth to argue, to deny, when it hits him: he’d done the entire confession in French. The priest knew he was noble born.
Only the Church and the greatest of lords have the income for glass in their windows.
Harry bites his tongue. Idly, he wonders if the merchant who had confessed before him had been charged more or less for his forgiveness.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Harry says at last. ‘I don’t intend to commit those sins again. I would prefer a penance.’
‘Suit yourself,’ the priest sighs.
Harry says his act of contrition and is given his list of prayers to say and psalms to study. ‘Ego te absolvo.’ He feels absolved of nothing as he steps back out into the soft light of the cathedral.
His stomach grumbles as he makes his way through the great doors to the midday brightness beyond, and it gives him an idea: he will fast, and hold night vigil at the altar of whatever quiet, out-of-the-way chapel he can find in Windsor. If the priest will not give him a proper penance for his sins, he will find one himself.
By the time Harry makes his way to the main market square of the city, it’s creeping towards early afternoon and the livestock traders are packing up. Peter waves to him excitedly, his body vibrating with delight. Harry grins and strides over to him, following eagerly as Peter shows him three different horses. He ultimately decides on a grey mare named Libertine, a little taller than Star but with strong conformation. Libertine has the tip of one ear cut off and a few scars on her flank despite her youth (Peter reckons she’s about four), and for that reason she’s going cheaper than she’s worth.
They saddle up and resume the ride northeast. Libertine very quickly becomes ‘Libby’, and she turns out to be a good palfrey, with a long, easy trot and plenty of stamina. Plus, Nomad seems to have a crush on her, as he arches his neck and picks up his big fluffy feet a little more nimbly when she’s next to him.
Harry’s little group arrives at Windsor from the town side six days later. All three of them are struck to silence by the huge, low, sprawling castle on the hill: the squat, great Round Tower in the centre; the Lower Ward to the left, still damaged from the great fire thirty years previous; the Upper Ward to the right.
Harry gives his bona fides to the gatekeepers and they are ushered inside. Servants descend on them in a swarm, taking the horses and the cart, unloading, and showing them down to the Lower Ward where the lesser nobles will pitch their tents for the next week. The area within the five-foot-thick outer walls is immense, an entire city in and of itself. Harry has seen other castles, mostly from the outside during tournaments, but he is as speechless as Kit and Peter as they struggle to comprehend the sheer size and wealth of this, favourite among the King’s dozens of castles.
They set their small pavilion, unroll the pallet they will share, and then go to gawk shamelessly at the other guests. Households are still arriving – the ludi, the games that begin the courtly entertainment, are not set to begin until the Feast of Saint Martin on the following day. On the town side, a queue is forming of carts and horsemen. Beyond the castle on its other side, in a gentle slope stretching seemingly to the horizon, are gardens, parklands and hunting grounds. The Upper Ward, adjacent to the King’s hall, is filled with a half-dozen huge marquee pavilions, temporary palaces of canvas for the greatest lords.
Harry recognises the pennants of Montagu and Arundel. His stomach twists. Of course Montagu is here. Rabbie probably will be too, and others of the dozen knights who had massacred Iain’s family in Galloway. Harry doesn’t see Ufford’s pennant, a gold cross on black, which means if he hurries, he may be able to speak to Montagu before Rabbie twists his ear about Iain’s escape attempts.
Harry groans inwardly at the need to confront the Baron. There’s probably an hour until supper and the light is already fading, but enough sun fills the indifferent late-autumn sky that he can find his way to Montagu’s grand tent. After a week of riding, he is unused to walking, and his sword in its scabbard bangs against his left leg with every step, as if to remind him how this whole blasted adventure began.
Few take note of him as he cuts between the great pavilions of the Upper Ward; but for the knight’s belt at his waist, Harry would pass for a poor man-at-arms in his unfashionably loose-fitting tunic and cloak. The wealthier nobles are already resplendent in their best scarlets, damask and velvets, their tunics tight to their bodies with low waists and topped with a small, decorative cloak with jagged edges and a liripipe, an absurdly long-tailed hood that serves little purpose other than to display status. He sees portly old Lord Waldegrave, one of Montagu’s Galloway Dozen, in a gold-stamped tunic that probably cost more than Harry’s entire little estate makes in a month. And Harry has to catch himself, Hey Iain, look at him on his lips. What do
