‘Ah, there was a misunderstanding,’ Harry says mildly, offering the men small beer from the pitcher on the table. ‘A vassal of ours was off-estate, visiting his mother, when he was seized and accused of crimes. We prefer to mete out our own judgement on our people. We collected the vassal, and have taken care of him, swiftly and irrevocably.’
‘You’ve hidden the man here,’ says Father Francis.
‘Are you accusing me of being a liar?’ Harry asks. ‘You are welcome to search every corner of Dartington. The man and the stable-boy he corrupted have both been rendered unto the Holy Ghost. We are an orderly estate, and believe in squaring our accounts with both God and man.’
Katie leans over the table, then, putting down fresh, steaming loaves of bread and pots of butter made that morning. Harry’s stomach recoils at how the Bishop’s eyes follow her small breasts.
Katie is fourteen.
‘Sodomy is a mortal sin,’ the Bishop intones. ‘One which I intend to stamp out in my counties as quickly and effectively as possible.’
I’m sure the Church administration won’t hinder that at all, Harry thinks, uncharitably.
The Bishop continues, tearing off a hunk of bread and sopping his stew with it. ‘My cousin the Sheriff will take on all cases of accused sodomy from now on, and the guilty will be hung, drawn and quartered in Exeter Market.’
‘We’re all eager for our first example,’ Rabbie leers. ‘Nothing like a good hanging; the people go mad for it.’
There is nothing Harry can say. ‘A most noble initiative, Your Excellency, and we are thankful for your efforts to bring Devon closer to God.’
The Bishop beams.
‘Flattery and falsehoods,’ hisses Father Francis. ‘Where are the bodies of the men you judged?’
‘We fed ’em to the pigs,’ Kit calls out. ‘You’re welcome to look through the manure in the sty for their teeth, if you’d like further proof.’
Even Rabbie wrinkles his nose at that.
Harry closes his eyes. ‘And how would you like to spend your afternoon? Your harbinger said you’d be staying overnight. Would you like a tour of the estate?’
‘Heavens, no,’ the Bishop groans. ‘One field looks much like any other. I wish to be amused. Have you dancers? Musicians? A fool?’
Harry looks around his hall. There’s often singing, but it’s tavern songs, not the sort of thing a nobly born bishop would consider worthwhile. ‘Kit can play the lute, and a few of the men know work songs …’
‘Ronald,’ Rabbie whispers to his cousin. ‘Fuck this. Let’s go back to Ordlington.’
Before the Bishop can answer, Father Francis cuts across him. ‘No,’ the priest hisses, loud enough that Harry can hear it. He’s not sure whether the priest is careless or deliberate. ‘They’re hiding something. I want to stay.’
‘Please do,’ Harry smiles, his tactical brain working overtime. ‘It’s not often we get such distinguished guests. I’ll see what I can manage.’ If he handles the situation correctly, and remains calm, then with luck the Bishop will begin to tire of Father Francis’s accusations and a rift between the two men can be opened. The trick will be feeding Father Francis’s suspicions, while making him look increasingly foolish in front of the Bishop.
Alcohol always helps.
He gets up from his seat and strolls into the kitchen, outlining his plan to Annie, and warning her to keep Katie away from the Bishop. Annie nods, and heads to the root cellar to grab jugs of scrumpy and the cherry brandy. Then he cuts out the back of the kitchen and around to the stables, where Iain is lurking.
Harry outlines the plan to him. Iain grumbles, but promises to behave and do his part. Yet the problem remains: how to discredit the priest beyond simple (and forgivable) drunkenness.
As little Piers sticks his head out the door, signalling to Harry that his guests are restless, Iain looks at Harry, and a slow grin spreads across their faces.
Harry motions Piers over.
A few moments later, Harry walks back in the hall with Iain and Piers behind him. He slaps his hand on the nearest table for everyone’s attention. ‘Some songs, for His Excellency!’
Kit immediately begins to howl a tavern favourite called ‘Four and Twenty Virgins’, and both Jed and Piers smack him.
‘Some civilised songs,’ Harry clarifies with a sigh, and raises a brow at Iain.
Iain shuffles nervously, and takes a deep breath. His rich baritone fills the hall, hesitantly at first, and then more confidently. He sings a French ballad of Fair Roland, of simple melody but complex rhyme and wordplay. After a verse or two, Kit’s lute can be heard, joining in, harmonising.
Harry returns to his seat, noticing with happiness that his guests are deep into the cider. Rabbie looks confused, unable to reconcile the beautiful French coming out of Iain’s mouth with what he knows of the Scottish boy. The Bishop’s mouth hangs open, but his gold-ringed fingers are tapping along with the rhythm.
When Iain finishes, to much stamping and applause from the hall, the Bishop says, ‘I thought you said he was Scottish?’
Harry grins and calls over to Iain, ‘Sing something in Scottish!’
Iain grins back, and begins beating a rhythm on the table. The song is faster now, the kind of song to stir men’s blood, and Iain sings it with an almost feral look on his face. Soon the whole hall is clapping along, and attempting to shout the refrain, though not one of them other than Iain can speak the language.
‘What’s the song about?’ the Bishop whispers across the table.
‘Beats me,’ Harry shrugs. ‘Knowing him, it’s probably about murdering your enemies and burning their castles to the ground. More cider, Your Excellency?’
‘Mm,’ says the Bishop, going a little pale.
‘Don’t worry,’ Harry smiles. ‘We keep him locked up in the stables at night, with the dogs and the war-horses.’
When Iain is done, Annie and Katie shove him aside and sing a simple roundelay about the flowers of springtime, their voices mingling prettily with each other’s and with Mariah, the gardener’s wife.
Harry refills everyone’s glasses again, and winks at Piers,
