Harry is placed far from Arundel, which he had expected, and next to Alys, for which he had prayed. On Alys’s other side is Rabbie, and Harry half-hopes she’ll make good on her earlier promise to impale his wandering hand on her eating knife. Harry looks around. It’s all the great, fashionable barons, and him, and a year ago Harry would have given all he had for this seat, at this gathering. Now he sighs in relief when he sees Sir Hugh take the empty place across from him. The older knight smiles ruefully, as unenthusiastic about the company as Harry, and mentions that Sirs Malachi and Morien haven’t made the long journey.
The men around them talk of everything and nothing, trying to score social points against one another. Harry finds it tedious, and a glance up the table suggests the Earl isn’t having much fun either. Arundel is famous for lavish parties where a cup isn’t emptied before it is refilled again. And yet the Earl’s smile is fixed as he urges his friends to greater heights of drunkenness, while sipping at a cup that never seems to go down and is never refilled.
Harry gives up even pretending to sip from his. A hangover is the last thing he needs in the mêlée tomorrow. He’s pleased to see Rabbie drinking heavily, and less pleased at the way he nestles in closer and closer to Alys.
Alys shifts uncomfortably next to Rabbie, trying to move away from the man’s increasingly drunken attentions. But, Harry notices, she doesn’t seem to wish to shift closer to Harry either. He coughs, and shuffles further over to his left, giving her more room to manoeuvre.
Alys shoots him a grateful glance and moves away from Rabbie’s grasping hand.
Harry catches Montagu’s eye and nods towards Rabbie, raising an eyebrow at the man’s inebriated state. Montagu just shrugs, opening his hands as if powerless. Harry wants to pick Rabbie up by the scruff of his neck and throw him in the nearest horse trough, but this is no time to antagonise the man further. Montagu is surely aware of the fire at Dartington, but Harry would prefer it if Alys and the Earl don’t find out just yet.
Unfortunately, Rabbie has other ideas. He grabs at Alys, trying to haul her into his lap. She flinches violently at his touch, and Harry loses the will to hold back. He bangs his cup on the table. ‘Rabbie! Stop it,’ he says, loud enough to cause heads to turn. ‘Lady de Morton clearly isn’t interested in what you have to offer.’
Rabbie stands up then, a thick accusatory finger jabbing towards Harry. ‘Least I offer it to women, Lyon,’ he snarls, before looming down over Alys. ‘Pretty thing like you all alone in the world,’ he slurs, licking his lips. ‘There’s so much I can give you. An’ all you have to do is give me a little—’
Alys’s fist crashes squarely into Rabbie’s face.
The man stumbles backwards, trips over the bench leg, and lands on his rear. He looks utterly confused. ‘Bai dose,’ he whines, touching his fingers to the torrent of blood starting to flow from his nostrils.
‘I think this might be a good time for us to go for a walk,’ Harry says, offering his arm to Alys. ‘Perhaps get some fresh air?’
‘I agree,’ says Alys. She’s a pale English rose at the best of times, but right now she is white, and Harry can’t tell if it’s with terror or rage. She puts her small, strong hand on his sleeve as he bows to the Earl.
‘With your permission, my lord,’ Harry says.
Arundel waves his hand. ‘Her handmaiden, Rohesia, will go with you,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ Harry agrees. An unmarried noblewoman is never taken out by an unmarried man without a chaperone. A slim, strawberry-blonde girl, quiet but with an intelligent look to her eye, rises from one of the side benches and walks after them, head bowed.
Harry and Alys pace three circuits of the pavilion field before either of them can speak. Alys quickly withdraws her hand from his arm as soon as they are out of the tent. His mind spirals with dire interpretations of her reluctance to touch him.
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she doesn’t like him at all.
‘Alys,’ he begins, searching for a way to put his tangle of thoughts into words.
‘Don’t ask me to marry you,’ Alys says softly. ‘I don’t need saving.’
‘I, I saw that,’ says Harry. ‘In fact, my admiration for you has only increased. Anyone who punches Rabbie Ufford in the face becomes one of my favourite people instantly.’ Harry trips over a slight divot in the turf, but catches himself. ‘Uh, not that you weren’t my favourite woman anyway.’ He stops, and smacks his palm to his forehead. He’s screwing this up so badly. ‘What I’m saying is, you’re not the one who needs saving. I am.’
Alys is looking at him, hands clasped modestly over her stomach, the slightest of smirks tugging at the corners of her lips. ‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe that. You do have the most almighty attraction for trouble, but a knight like you? What could possibly vanquish you?’
A dark-haired Scottish boy, Harry thinks.
But what he finally says is, ‘A single torch.’
Alys’s brows arch in confusion.
‘My manor burned down in March,’ Harry whispers. ‘We have no proof, but we think Rabbie did it.’
‘Couldn’t you go to the King’s Sheriff?’ Alys asks.
‘Rabbie is the Sheriff of Devonshire,’ Harry sighs. ‘And our neighbour. If I don’t find money to rebuild, he will get my lands, and our people.’
‘Oh,’ Alys says. She begins to walk again, and Harry hurries to catch up. ‘Ask the Earl, he’ll give you the money,’ she tells him.
‘I don’t want to go from being beholden to Montagu, to being beholden to Arundel,’ Harry confesses.
‘So you’d rather make me beholden to you?’ Alys
