When Harry reaches Montagu’s pavilion, the man himself is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t recognise any of the Baron’s servants but he gives them his name anyway, and asks them to tell Lord William that he’d stopped by. He is just turning to leave when the Baron himself comes striding through the tent’s opening, resplendent in a peacock-blue silk pourpoint jacket over a scarlet fitted tunic.
The Baron’s tanned face breaks into a grin. ‘Harry,’ he exclaims, leading the young knight to a table and beckoning for beer. ‘What news of the boy?’ he asks, sitting on the opposite bench and leaning forwards. ‘I heard there have been … difficulties.’ His face takes on a pitying mien at those words, at the same time appearing both sorry for Harry’s troubles and unimpressed that he got himself into them.
Harry coughs, but meets Montagu’s small blue eyes. ‘There was some trouble,’ he says, ‘but Rabbie helped me sort it out. The boy is … he’s fine, now. There won’t be any further problems.’
‘My man said you didn’t want him there any more?’ Montagu says, so mild that it immediately makes the hackles rise on Harry’s back.
‘No!’ Harry says, startling the young serving-boy pouring their beer. ‘No, I was just … I was tired, and spoke out of turn. He has been, uh.’ Harry takes a deep breath and schools himself to look collected. ‘He’s been brought to heel.’ The wet snap of bone; the quiet whimper of a boy too proud to let the English know how much he hurt.
Montagu grins. ‘Good man. I knew you were one of us. Perhaps we’ll ride down and visit the both of you for Christmas. It would be nice to see how our little prisoner is getting along.’ The Baron leans over to pat Harry on the shoulder. ‘And of course our newest investment. The money-lenders were quite glad to sell me Dartington’s debts. Even gave me a nice discount.’
The serving-boy puts a plate of fine bread, cheeses and sausage between them, but Harry finds his appetite has vanished completely.
‘Our hall is. Very small,’ he stutters. ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t provide hospitality of the standard to which you’re accustomed.’
‘You underestimate—’ Montagu begins, but the rest of his sentence is cut off by a commotion from the pavilion’s entrance and the Baron’s name being shouted out.
By Rabbie. Sir Robert.
Upholder of such knightly virtues as murder, torture and casual cruelty.
Montagu greets the brash, strong-boned young knight with a jovial shout and a hug. Harry realises the situation, unpleasant as it is, has handed him a tactical advantage. ‘Hello, Rabbie!’ Harry says, plastering a big smile on his face. ‘The Baron was just saying how he wanted to come down to Dartington for Christmas! Perhaps you’d be able to stop by as well.’
Rabbie’s face wrinkles in distaste. He turns to Montagu, exclaiming, ‘Have you seen their estate? Your dovecote in Wiltshire’s bigger than his whole hall. My lord, stay with us instead at Ordlington. You can go for an afternoon’s ride down to see Lyon and his threadbare patch of land, and at least you can stay in comfort while you do it.’ Montagu glances at Harry and tilts his head, assessing, but then Rabbie throws an arm around the slightly shorter Baron and says, ‘I insist.’
Montagu raises his hands in mock defeat and pouts at Harry.
Harry shoots Rabbie an angry look then sags, defeated, exactly as he had planned. ‘Well, we’d love to see you, if you do manage to come down our way,’ he mumbles, staring at his thumbs like a truculent child.
Rabbie leans over and stage-whispers into Montagu’s ear, ‘I can’t remember if he actually has a barn, or he just keeps his farm animals in the hall.’ Then, louder, so Harry can definitely hear, ‘Not that he can keep his animals under control.’
‘The boy?’ Montagu says.
‘That fuckin’ little savage,’ Rabbie groans, throwing a leg over the bench and settling across from Harry. He reaches for the bread and sausage and stuffs a chunk of each in his mouth. ‘’Nother reason you don’t want to stay in that shithole,’ Rabbie slurs around the food. His hand goes unconsciously to touch the ragged remains of his right ear. ‘Little bastard’s likely to try to kill you in your sleep.’
Montagu looks at Harry, sharp and curious.
Harry sighs, slouching. ‘He’s settled down with us, but I can’t guarantee his behaviour with any of the people he saw murder his mother. I’m working on it.’ Then he looks up, a smile tugging at one corner of his lips. ‘He’s actually a surprisingly good squire.’
Rabbie laughs so hard he spits breadcrumbs all over the table.
The King’s games, the ludi, start at dinner the next day. Over a hundred lords and ladies assemble in the Upper Ward’s great hall, the jewel colours of their tunics and dresses resplendent in the candlelight. There is a play: twelve men in costume, among them Montagu and Percy and (recognisable from his girth) Waldegrave, pantomiming the story of the Green Knight coming to offer a bargain to King Arthur’s knights: that one behead him, and in a year’s time the Green Knight can return to behead a knight of his choosing.
From his distant table, Harry watches as the bargain is accepted, and a painted wooden sword is raised by a knight dressed as Sir Gawain. The papier-mâché head of the Green Knight comes off to raucous laughter, and bounces down the central aisle, revealing a slim, middle-aged lord with merry eyes and a close-trimmed dark beard. Gawain is, of course, King Edward himself.
Harry stands with the other nobles to applaud the play, as the King unmasks himself and declares that, an adventure being had, the feast may begin.
When Harry sits back down, there is a woman sitting across from him.
She is his age, if not slightly younger, and her slim, dark red overdress in fine Bruges wool hints at a fashionably curvy figure. The equally fine embroidery on
