He smirks, and imagines what Iain would say. Iain would pull Numbles over close to him and murmur about how Waldegrave is already as red as his coat, that garment straining at its seams like an overstuffed sausage casing. How Thomas Howland’s horse looks like it was cobbled together from the spare parts of other, unrelated horses. Whether Colin Crocker, swaying in his saddle, would pass out from his hangover before or after the hunting horn sounded.
And then Iain’s lips would brush Harry’s ear and he’d say we can out-ride them all, c’mon, Harry, first one to the stag gets a forfeit. And then he’d ride like the Devil himself, because Iain mac Maíl Coluim never understood the concept of retreat.
‘… Harry?’
He looks up. Montagu is watching him, a furrow of dismay on his once-handsome brow.
‘I’m sorry. Miles away,’ Harry says. ‘Thinking about home.’
The Master of the Hunt sounds the off then, the blast of the horn cutting down further conversation, and the dogs are loosed into the woods. Harry canters into the perfect, fairy-tale forest, marvelling at the complete absence of undergrowth and low-hanging branches. He wonders if there is an entire gardening staff devoted to keeping it that way. His mind can’t comprehend the scale of wealth necessary to accomplish this; it passes into the realm of the fantastic. Perhaps that’s the sort of thing Iain might know, Harry thinks. He’d been eerily well informed about court life for a boy slowly starving to death in a remote Scottish keep.
He pushes these thoughts of Iain out of his head. It’s a beautiful morning, a low mist still hugging the mossy earth, and the physical exercise feels good: the rhythm of Libby’s hooves; the shifts of posture Harry makes to communicate with her and to retain correct balance. Harry pushes Libby faster; she’s a tall horse and fleet of foot, and soon he finds himself passing the main body of the hunt. Alys gives him a wink as he speeds past, and he salutes her in turn. Then, before he knows it, he’s in the vanguard, and reining back lest he overtake the King. (He must remember to praise Peter, loudly and publicly, for his choice of horse.)
The King looks over his shoulder and grins when he sees Harry gaining on him. ‘Sir Harry,’ he calls out. ‘Well ridden!’ He motions for Harry to ride next to him. They’re at an easy canter; the dogs have slowed, crossing back and forth around them, trying to pick up the scent again.
Edward seems so young to him then. The King is only two years older than Harry himself, yet he bears the weight of a fractious kingdom on his shoulders with ease. It’s this that makes Harry’s breath catch in the King’s presence. This effortless grace of true royalty, managing all of England while Harry struggles with a few hundred muddy acres in Devon.
He swallows his thoughts as he remembers his manners. ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ he stutters. ‘This is my first time at Windsor, or at court at all. It’s an honour.’
‘It won’t be your last,’ says the King. ‘We’ve a celebratory tournament coming up in the New Year in Dunstable. We expect you to be there, and show all the promise in the main competition you showed as a squire.’
Harry is momentarily speechless. That the King would take notice of him, of his progress in tournaments – it was his boyhood dream come true. And yet, a sarcastic part of him whispers, who’s left to die for this one?
Then the King’s eyes narrow. ‘Are you simply exceptionally fond of that colour, or do you only have one set of clothes?’
‘Er,’ Harry says, glancing down in embarrassment. ‘It’s a very comfortable tunic.’
The King throws his head back and laughs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Rabbie riding up on the King’s other side, and he realises his time with Edward is about to end. ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry whispers.
The King waves off his apology. ‘No, all is well. We’d far rather our knights out-ride us than out-dress us.’
Harry’s eyes widen, and before he can stop himself he says, ‘Is that a dare, Your Majesty?’
That warm grin splits the King’s face again. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Get to the stag first and we’ll give you all the clothes you can carry.’ The King spurs his horse into a gallop.
Harry leans forwards and urges Libby on, and they both tear away from Rabbie, who is cantering up behind them, calling out and asking if His Majesty has heard the new joke going round.
When they corner the stag, Harry’s horse is half a head in front of the King’s. Harry reins back at the last moment, allowing Edward to make the kill.
He doesn’t think more of it but at None, shortly after dinner, a tailor and three apprentices arrive at his little pavilion. The apprentices bear bolts of fabric: costly sky-blue linen and fine Bruges wool in several colours; a heavier winter-weight wool for cloaks; soft leather, and furs for trimming. Shiny ribbons and threads for embroidery. The tailor brings two mostly completed suits of clothes, tunics and pourpoints, an aketon for under his armour, tight woollen hose to replace his looser breeches, and fine, slim linen undershirts. He makes Harry put on each piece of clothing inside-out, then cuts the seams and re-marks them for better fit. Then he disappears again with the clothes. The bolts of fabric stay, apparently a gift. There’s enough for each person at Dartington Manor to get a new tunic or cloak and thus, with one offhand action, the King has bought their little Devon estate the best Christmas it has had in Harry’s memory.
Kit pulls out a deep purple heavy wool and is stroking it, staring at the colour. It’s a shade that neither he nor Harry has ever seen in a fabric before.
The tailor arrives the next morning with the completed clothes. He’s accompanied by a palace servant who explains that Harry