With the winnings and the sale of Sir Simon’s books, Harry is able to engage stonemasons to begin building a new hall at Dartington. Stone is expensive and slow, and he’ll need to find more money to complete the construction, but Harry never wants to see his hall burn again.
He has just enough time to return home and organise the builders, before heading back up north to the Nottingham tournament in July. It’ll be the last tournament before harvest, then the season closes with a pair of tournaments in September near London.
Harry tries not to think about the debts he still owes Montagu. There’s nothing he can do about them; rebuilding the manor has to take priority. The joy he sees in his people’s faces when they hear the plans for the new stone hall is worth the risk. He’s made them feel safe. That’s what matters. Future problems will be dealt with in the future.
The future comes in July.
Baron Montagu is waiting for him in the Nottingham pavilion field. He expresses his sadness over the troubles at Dartington, and questions whether it’s really big enough for a self-sustaining estate. He talks about how it would be better for Harry to become a vassal knight of Montagu directly, to move into his manor at Salisbury. How it would make more sense to foreclose on Harry’s estate and pass it to Rabbie to manage alongside Ordlington. How Montagu understands the heavy burden of duty Harry shoulders, and how Harry can look at this as a chance to enjoy himself, without being beholden to debts and responsibilities. How the Baron has never seen Harry party like the other young knights do, and what a shame it is to miss out on the carefree days of youth.
Montagu doesn’t mention Iain at all, and that little omission terrifies Harry.
It’s all so gentle, so calm, so rational. Harry wants to kill Montagu. But all he can do is nod. Nod and wonder if, after all, Rabbie had thought up the idea of torching Dartington on his own. Looking back, it seems too cunning a plan for a person as coarse as Ufford.
Montagu smiles, as if expecting to be thanked for this.
‘Give me until the end of the tournament,’ Harry says. ‘And let me go home and say goodbye, before this happens.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Montagu preens. ‘But we so look forward to having you at Salisbury. Why don’t you see the harvest in? And then you can move after the September tournaments.’
Or maybe never, Harry thinks.
And his last, most desperate plan begins to form.
That night, Iain can tell something is wrong, but thankfully the boy doesn’t say anything. He just holds Harry, letting him take solace in his body, and not commenting how Harry’s face is wet with tears as he comes.
All Harry can do is hope Iain will forgive him when everything is over.
At the mêlée the next morning, Harry is again on the King’s team, their aketons sky-blue with gold in honour of Isabella, the Queen Mother, who is attending. There has been some sort of rapprochement between Edward and Isabella over the summer, Harry hears, and she has made a few trips to court. Nottingham in general is a bigger tournament than Burstwick, with the double royal attendance meaning that more of the Southern nobles have made an effort to attend. The Marcher Lords, the powerful barons who rule supreme on the border territories between England and Wales, are also there in force, though Nottingham is no small journey from their estates.
Harry grits his teeth and prays for bravery as he rides out into the arena.
He bows to the Queen and Isabella as his name is called, the applause nothing but a hollow noise.
And then, rather than ride to the lines where the rest of his team are assembled, as he has done every tournament before, he rides up to the benches where the flowers of English nobility are arrayed. Arundel is obvious, gaudy in red and gold. Next to him sits Alys. Harry walks Nomad up as close as he can to where she is, takes off his helmet, looks her in the eye, and bows.
His heart is beating so fast he feels like he’s going to be sick. He can’t breathe. Everything rests on this moment. If she publicly refuses him—
—but she does not.
Alys blushes, and unthreads a red ribbon twisted into her elaborate hairstyle. She leans over, reaching across the balustrade. And offers the ribbon to him.
Harry extends his wrist, and Alys ties the favour around it. He bows again and rides back to the lines to the whistles and applause of the assembled lords and ladies.
He exhales, loosening his blunted sword in its scabbard. Now all he has to do is show he is worthy of Alys’s favour by coming first in the mêlée.
And then weather the tempest he’ll find in Iain’s eyes afterwards.
The mêlée goes well. Harry is waylaid afterwards by a few of the more pleasant knights, including Morley, who invites them all back to his large marquee pavilion for supper. Apparently, Harry is one of their group now, much as he doesn’t feel it. So he follows. Harry knows it’s cowardice, sliding off Nomad and handing the reins to Iain then disappearing with the other knights, but he needs to save his strength for the larger battle to come: the fight to save his home.
Iain is thankfully silent as he takes Nomad along with Harry’s helmet, shield and plate, and heads back to their tent.
Supper is a large affair. The King joins them, as does Isabella, and Arundel, and Montagu. It stretches on for hours: the meal, then music and dancing, and a fool. The fool is small and gnarled, with a
