Arundel raises an eyebrow at Harry’s blasé answer. ‘You should care. There’s going to be war.’
‘Now that we’ve solved Scotland?’ Harry says.
Arundel snorts. ‘Please. We’ll never solve Scotland, not as long as the Scots are in it. That moron Balliol can’t even hold a candle without spilling wax; he’s never going to hold the North.’ Then Arundel favours him with a cockeyed smirk. ‘But I hear you’re aware of the tenaciousness of the Scottish, firsthand?’
Harry glances over his shoulder at the position of the sun. Even it is choosing to be unhelpful, hidden behind a screen of featureless grey cloud. ‘I’m sorry, milord, I must go. I have an appointment.’
Arundel reaches out and seizes Harry’s sleeve, pulling him closer. Those dark eyes now are steely, and his voice drops to a near-whisper. His words turn Harry’s blood to ice: ‘There is a rumour, Harry. Of an inconvenient boy. Do you know how Edward is going to justify war with France? Get the barons to cross the Channel for him, when they wouldn’t for his grandfather?’
‘I …’ Harry stutters. He has no idea.
Arundel’s lip curls. ‘His mother, Isabella, is a daughter of Philip the Fair. Which makes our king a direct successor to the House of Capet, who have ruled France since time immemorial. In England you can succeed down the female line, Henry FitzEmpress proved that. In France, you can’t. Not yet. But thanks to Isabella’s scheming, there are no other Capet heirs. Our Edward is it. Or should I say, there are no other known Capet heirs.’ He lets go of Harry’s sleeve, and pats his hand instead. ‘Just rumours.’
They stare at each other for a moment, before Arundel smirks again and says with a shrug, ‘French politics, Harry. Fascinating stuff.’
‘And what’s your angle?’ Harry asks.
‘I’m your friend, Harry,’ Arundel says, his eyes wide in mock affront.
Harry smiles thinly. ‘There are no friends at court, only advantages,’ he replies.
Arundel looks at him with a curious respect, and a little smile plays on his face. ‘Those are awfully astute words for someone on his maiden visit to Windsor.’
Harry glances down at his feet. ‘I’m an astute man.’
Arundel makes a face. ‘No you’re not. You’re a hedgerow knight half a generation off tilling your fields yourself. Don’t lie to me, Harry. You’re not good enough at it. Who coached you? Not Montagu; he wouldn’t help his own mother unless there was profit in it.’
‘I’m not lying,’ says Harry, as evenly as he can.
‘Dammit, boy, you are,’ Arundel hisses, leaning forwards. ‘Those are the words of someone who’s lost at court and lost badly. That’s the only way you learn that lesson. I know because my father was executed by Roger Mortimer. We lost everything, Harry. Everything. That’s how I know there are no friends at court. But what burns me up with curiosity, farm boy, is how you learned this lesson. Or who learned it for you.’
‘Sir Simon told me,’ Harry replies, as mildly as possible.
‘Do not lie to me, Harry,’ Arundel growls.
‘Don’t try to play me, Richard,’ Harry counters, tensing for a fight.
But then Arundel slumps back, the exaggerated poses and tension slipping off him like water. ‘I’m actually not,’ he says simply. ‘My ward, Lady de Morton, likes you. And I hate to see a good man caught up in something he doesn’t understand.’
Arundel looks up at Harry, expectant.
Harry says nothing. He can’t incriminate himself, or Iain, if he stays silent.
Finally Arundel gets up and pats him on the shoulder as he goes. ‘When you want a primer on French politics, come and see me. Knowledge is power, Harry.’
The end of the fortnight comes both too soon and not soon enough, and thankfully without anyone else trying to pigeonhole Harry into uncomfortable conversations about politics he doesn’t understand. He spends more time with Alys, and they agree to write to each other. Her address is Arundel Castle. She tells him that Lord Mortimer killed her parents for their lands, and she has been under the protection of the Earl of Arundel since she was eight. When she marries or reaches her majority, whichever comes first, her family lands revert to her from the crown – so King Edward has promised.
They receive more gifts from the King. At the final breakfast, he hands out a bag of coins for each of the nobles in the Lower Ward. Harry stares at the heavy purse in his hands as he walks back to his tent. It takes an angry shout from a cart-driver for him to look up. When he does, he realises that the Lower Ward is in chaos. Pavilions are being taken down and packed onto carts. Merchants from the town and beyond squeeze into every available space, exhibiting their wares and helping the nobles spend the money they have just received. Harry waves them all away until an African perfume-seller comes past. The woman is dark-skinned and honey-eyed, slipping charmingly between English, French and several other languages as she explains each scent and where its ingredients come from. It’s fascinating, and Harry loses himself smelling Arabian sandalwood and oud, French jasmine and lavender, roses from the Bulgarian Empire, limes from Portugal, myrrh from Egypt.
He is buying a small vial of perfume for Annie (it’s the sort of luxury she’d never dream of buying herself) when his attention is caught by a bottle hidden slightly behind the others. ‘What’s that one?’ he asks, expecting to be told it’s a larger container of one of the scents he’s already smelled.
But the woman flashes a bright grin at him and leans forwards, lowering her voice. ‘Rose oil,’ she whispers. ‘For the bedroom.’
Harry says, ‘What—’ then blushes furiously as he remembers his last night with Iain. Get you good and wet.
The woman winks at him, and wraps the bottle up in waxed cloth. ‘Just one
