Then of course the fool does something incompetent, like dropping a knife which gets stuck in his thigh, or pouring wine down his face. Harry knows it’s a prank to show honour to Isabella, and promote Edward’s Capet lineage, but the fool’s clumsy japes sour Harry’s mood.
The ‘real king’ is in Harry’s pavilion, probably cleaning tack at this very moment.
Harry makes eye contact with Alys, who is not sitting next to him, and glances towards the tent’s entrance. Alys stands and whispers to Lord Arundel, who nods, and then she and her inevitable handmaiden approach Harry. He rises and excuses himself, saying he needs some air.
Before he can make it three steps, the fool is dancing in front of him, demanding, ‘A knee! A knee! Bend a knee to the King of France and you may pass!’
Harry knows what he must do. He loudly declares, ‘Of course,’ before turning to Edward, kneeling, and saying, ‘Your Majesty, may I pass?’
The fool howls in dismay and the lords and ladies cheer, none more loudly than Isabella. And if Harry in his mind had been kneeling before his dark, brooding prince of a squire, there is no one to know but him.
He rises stiffly, bows, and flees out the door with Alys.
‘Court. So much fun,’ Alys says, through gritted teeth.
‘Indeed,’ says Harry. Then, as they leave the noisy tent behind, he relaxes. ‘Thank you for today,’ he says, ‘and for walking with me.’ He glances over Alys’s shoulder. The chaper-one has drifted about ten feet back. And they have walked far enough towards the edge of the field that there is nobody else around.
Harry takes a deep breath. ‘Alys,’ he begins, looking into her bright face. ‘I think by now you know I hold you above all women—’
Her lips quirk. ‘Yes, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Above all women. But … it is not a woman you think about, in your most private moments, is it?’
Harry’s cheeks flame red. ‘I …’ he chokes, his voice high.
Alys places a hand on his bicep, and tilts her head. She’s not condemning him. And that’s somehow worse. ‘Oh, Harry. Your Scotsman, isn’t it? When you took my favour, he glared at me like he wanted to kill me.’
‘To be fair he, uh, looks at most people like that,’ Harry mumbles.
‘Mm. Except you,’ Alys says. ‘And you are inseparable from him.’
Harry wilts. It was a stupid plan, anyway. ‘I love him,’ he breathes.
‘He is your squire,’ Alys says. ‘Your servant. Are you not concerned that he couldn’t say no?’
Harry snorts in amusement. ‘Oh, he bloody can. He says no every day. He’s the worst, most insubordinate servant you’ve ever met. One time? He stabbed my horse. When I first met him? He bit me. Bit me! I still have the scar.’ He looks at Alys again, deadly serious. ‘Besides, you and I both know he is no squire. Not really.’
‘But a manor cannot be maintained without heirs,’ Alys sighs.
‘Or money,’ Harry replies. ‘Montagu is taking Dartington. It’s why …’ He gestures at Alys. Then he brings the back of his hand to his face, brushing away the tears that track hot and silent down his cheeks. He strides over to an old oak tree at the edge of the field and collapses against it. ‘He is my entire world, Alys. I loved him as a Scottish orphan; I love him as a prince of France, I love him. I love him.’
Harry squeezes his eyes shut. ‘What do we do? I fear for his life. I fear Montagu’s plan for him. I can’t lose him. But I also can’t abandon Dartington. I can’t let Rabbie loose on my people.’ He smiles up at Alys, weakly. ‘And I feel terrible for leading you on. You made a good escape, though. All I could have given you is a poor Devon manor, and a lord who loves you never more than in a courtly way.’ Harry bows his head. ‘You are worth so much more than what I have to offer. I’m sorry, Alys.’
Alys leans her shoulder against the oak tree, and puts a small, cool hand on Harry’s cheek. ‘What if I do not want more than courtly love?’
Harry blinks at her.
‘Don’t go assuming you know what is best for other people, Harry,’ Alys admonishes. ‘You have few faults, but that’s first among them.’
As their shadows creep long across the field, she continues. ‘I have a proposal for you. You wish a wife, while you love another who you cannot be with publicly. I wish a husband I can trust, and … not to be touched.’
Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Alys holds up a finger. ‘I’m not frigid. I don’t need to be warmed up. I am fine the way that I am. And if I enter an arrangement with you – because it’s you or the convent, to be honest – you must understand what I want, which is that our love remain chaste and courtly. And you never make me feel lesser for what I do not desire.’
‘Children will be … expected,’ Harry says.
‘I know. There are ways.’ Alys pauses, and looks back at the bright glow of the pavilions scattered behind them. ‘What’s it like, to love like that? The way you love him?’
Harry stutters. How do you put into words something so all-encompassing? ‘It’s a fire, always burning, threatening to consume me whole. It’s terrifying, flying over an abyss, knowing your wings will fail. It’s the best feeling in the world.’
‘Sounds like a tremendous amount of bother,’ Alys sighs.
‘It
