‘Isabella can’t even look at him. It’s wonderful,’ Arundel enthuses. ‘She refuses to leave her estate near Newmarket. Added guards, even. That woman’s lover executed my father and stole my lands. I feel like a terrible person for saying this, but your Iain putting the fear of God into that scheming harpy?’ He salutes Harry with his wine cup. ‘Repayment in full for every penny I gave you.’
Harry doesn’t have it in him to salute back. All he can think is he’s not my Iain. Not any more. He stares down at his cup, tilting it back and forth, then asks the question that haunts him at night – that, and the memory of a smile in the Compline shadows. ‘And Montagu?’
‘Ah, you mean Iain’s great saviour?’ Arundel snorts. He places his hands on his chest and begins to speak in a fair approximation of the Baron’s nasal Home Counties twang. ‘My brave knights and I rode far into the enemy’s territory to rescue the boy before he starved to death or was killed by Balliol. Your Majesty knows of course that the prince’s father was a dangerous Scottish nationalist. Despite our fears over his loyalty, we did all we could to keep the young prince safe in England—’ Arundel breaks off and shivers in disgust, then squints at Harry. ‘How true is any of that?’
‘All of it,’ Harry says, remembering the muffled sound of oars and the sharp iron stench of blood. ‘And none.’
‘Montagu’s usual, then,’ Arundel says, taking a long slug of his drink.
‘Did the King believe him?’ Harry asks.
‘Montagu has committed no crime,’ Arundel sighs. ‘And Iain is in fact here because of him. We can’t get around that. The King won’t remove a baron that powerful just because some people at court don’t like him, or disapprove of his methods. If he would, I’d have managed to get Montagu turfed out long ago.’
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, willing down the almost visceral fury he feels. It’s wrong, what Montagu did. What Rabbie helped him do.
A small, cool hand comes to rest on his forearm. ‘Iain is going after Montagu,’ Alys says. ‘And winning.’
‘I thought you said—’ Harry begins, looking at Arundel in confusion.
‘I said neither the King nor anyone else would go against Montagu directly right now,’ Arundel replies. ‘Not even me. Too dangerous – lost my lands once, won’t go through that again. But Montagu’s supporters? Another story. Iain’s making life quietly difficult for quite a few of them and, well, that costs Montagu money.’ Arundel sighs and rolls his wine cup between his fingers. ‘I fear for him, though, goading the Baron like that. Montagu is extremely dangerous when he’s cornered. I want to help Iain, but … he avoids us. He won’t talk to me.’
Harry gulps down the contents of his own wine cup, long ignored in his hands. The alcohol burns in his throat, cutting sharply through the misery that has clouded him since July. ‘Is he here?’ Harry says, his voice thick.
‘Yes,’ the Earl says, squinting out of the tent at the milling crowds of knights and squires. ‘I believe he is.’
Harry doesn’t sleep. His body, under the striped canvas of the pavilion, aches with the space Iain has left. Not that there is any space on the pallet, not really. Piers is all elbows as he sleeps, and Kit lies on his back like a starfish, snoring.
They all rise shortly after dawn. Piers holds up Harry’s court clothes, raising an eyebrow. Harry shakes his head. Not today. Maybe never again. He knows he’s going to watch the first mêlée, and he should dress in finery and make an appearance with Alys, but his heart isn’t in it. Later. After the fights, for dinner, he’ll make himself fancy.
Instead he pulls on his favourite travelling shirt and a pair of old breeches, throwing his knight’s belt on over it. The three of them trudge outside to buy breakfast from the vendors at the edge of the field. And Harry would find it hilarious, if it weren’t so sad, the way all of them are distracted by any glimpse of dark, shaggy hair or broad shoulders.
It’s not him, though. It’s never him.
His hair wouldn’t be shaggy any more, Harry thinks, as they wander over to the mêlée grounds. It will be sleek and styled, and he’ll be wearing fine silks and velvets. Too fine for Dartington, but no less than he deserves.
Harry leads Kit and Piers over to the second stand, the one for common knights and squires not in the circle of the King. It’s crowded, but they manage to squeeze in about three benches up, on the end. A few of the knights recognise Harry and comment with surprise he’s not in the starting group. He shrugs and replies, ‘I guess they’ve decided to spread the talent out a bit more. Besides, I’m looking forward to fighting against different people from the usual lot.’
There’s a quick and lively comparing of schedules, and Harry meets a few of the knights he’ll be fighting with and against in his mêlée. They’re all good knights, highly competent men who are no longer rising stars nor fashionable at court. Sir Brian Cradoc, the knight who’d unhorsed him at Burstwick, is on his team here in Guildford. Harry takes to the wry older Durham knight immediately.
Harry smiles to himself. This is the group Sir Simon would be in, if he were still alive. Harry had wanted to be part of the King’s group for so long – and he was, for a brief, turbulent winter. Now he’s out, back down where he belongs, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all. The fighting will be as good, or better, if not nearly as popular.
Iain is neither in the opening mêlée nor in the stands watching it. And Harry checks many, many times. (He can picture Iain in court clothes, lounging with Queen Philippa in the royal enclosure, pointing
