‘Milady,’ Harry says, inclining his head. ‘Harry Lyon, a poor knight of Devon. I am afraid you are several tables below where you belong.’
Full, bowed lips quirk in amusement. ‘Adelaide de Morton, of the Lancashire Mortons. Call me Alys. And, Sir Harry, I am exactly where I wish to be.’
Harry raises an eyebrow.
Alys leans forwards, conspiratorial. ‘They sat me next to this Ufford character and if he tries to put his hand on my backside one more time, I’m going to nail it to the bench with my eating knife,’ she hisses. ‘So rather than cause an incident, I thought I’d discover whether all you West Country knights are such rude lumps, or he’s an exception.’
‘He’s definitely an exception,’ Harry says.
‘Thank goodness,’ Alys smiles, leaning back. ‘You’re a little too handsome to stab. I’d have no qualms about maiming him, though, especially seeing as someone’s already started the job.’ Alys touches the tip of her ear, to mark the place where Rabbie’s own is missing.
‘Did he tell you how he got that?’ Harry asks. He can’t help but smirk. This is going to be good.
‘Strangely not,’ Alys says, crossing her arms and tilting her head. ‘Which is curious. Knights are usually so dull about their battle wounds, blathering on about them at the slightest opportunity.’
‘That’s because he got it when he was jumped by an unarmed boy, who knocked his helmet away and damn near bit his ear clean off. Rabbie was in full armour at the time.’
Alys guffaws into her sleeve. ‘I must remember to ask him about it the next time he gets grabby.’
‘Please do,’ Harry says.
‘And tell me he didn’t kill the boy,’ Alys says, her face growing serious.
‘No, despite his best efforts,’ Harry says. ‘The boy—’
And then he recalls what that very boy had said before he departed, about trusting too quickly at court. He also remembers glancing over earlier to see where Rabbie had been seated, out of a petty desire to quantify the social gulf between them. There had been no scarlet-clad lady next to him.
‘—I don’t actually know what happened to the boy,’ he finishes. ‘I think he ran away.’ He smiles mildly at this lovely, witty woman, several levels above his status, who has sat with him on the flimsiest of pretences.
Alys shifts and smiles back at him. ‘A shame. I’d like to find the boy and congratulate him.’
‘Alas,’ Harry says.
Alys presses her lips together, and appears about to say something else, when servants begin placing a variety of fancy meats along their table.
‘Have you ever had swan?’ Alys asks, as a pair of the roast birds, necks entwined in a decorative heart shape, is placed on the table in front of them.
Harry shakes his head. ‘I thought only the King could serve them? And,’ he blushes, ‘this is my first time at a royal feast.’
Alys rolls her eyes. ‘They’re beastly things. Unpleasant alive, virtually inedible dead. Thank heavens the royal kitchen hires Moorish cooks – if it weren’t for their skill with spices we’d all be in for a miserable meal.’
They eat in peace after that, Harry fending off casual questions from Alys that seek to turn the conversation towards the recent Scottish campaign, his relationship with Baron Montagu, and what his journey home from Berwick had been like. It’s by far the most charming and stealthy interrogation to which Harry has ever been subjected, and something in him regrets that this bright beauty will leave him for good as soon as she has exhausted her questioning.
But beautiful as Lady de Morton may be, he will not betray Iain’s existence to her. Iain has nobody left but him.
There’s dancing, after dinner. Fancy caroles and saltarellos that Harry doesn’t know. Alys tries to coax him to the floor a few times, but finally gives up and returns to the lord with the beard and the merry eyes who had played the Green Knight. They chat animatedly in a corner, clearly friends of old acquaintance. The man glances at Harry, his brown eyes narrowing. Harry wonders if he is the source of Alys’s clever questions, this interest in Iain. He wishes he could ask Montagu, but he fears getting more enmeshed in this spider’s web than he already is.
He slips away early through the still-bustling castle grounds, and eventually finds a quiet chapel dedicated to Saint George. The simple, rough stone of the little church is somehow reassuring after the overwhelming splendour of King Edward’s court. It’s also empty but for a friar who looks in on Harry’s kneeling form and, nodding, leaves him to be alone with his faith.
Harry spends the rest of the day and evening praying to the saint for help vanquishing his own dragons: the serpents in scarlet finery that prowl at court, keen for fresh meat, and the scaly dark thing that writhes within him, whispering of sins of the flesh.
The next day is a hunt. Peter saddles up Libby for Harry, who pulls on the same decent green-blue wool tunic he wore the day before. There are only about thirty lords assembled with the huntsmen at the park entrance to the castle. Thirty lords and three ladies. One is the Queen, Philippa, who rides pillion behind a man-at-arms dressed in an aketon in Edward’s colours: scarlet, with gold lions. Harry doesn’t recognise the second lady. The third is Alys, and she rides alone.
Harry hangs around awkwardly at the edges of Montagu’s set, who are boisterous, passing around flasks of cherry brandy to ward off the early-morning chill. He’s not sure who are louder, the Baron’s coterie of knights (each trying to perform having the most fun, being the most amused), or the pack of deerhounds, braying for the blood of
