Hearts'-ease by ‘theficklepickle’

What infinite hearts'-ease must kings neglect

That private men enjoy?

Henry V Act IV Scene I

I. Call-me-to-you

He was nothing, and knew he was nothing; a herald of the French king, known by the professional name of 'Montjoy', he stood in the hallway of a bleak fortress overlooking a grey river and waited patiently for the opportunity, in his master's name, to insult a man.

It was his job to do so, although frequently it ran counter to his personal inclinations. He was given neither to arrogance nor scorn, yet these were the attributes he was called upon most often to display, and never had it sat comfortably upon him to do so. He had, however, over a period of time, succeeded in developing a confident and steely persona, correct on the surface yet reflecting with accuracy the disdain affected by the author of any message he might have been sent abroad to deliver.

The present case was in no wise different. King Henry the Fifth of England, over-rated idle son of a murderous usurper, having been impudent enough to lay claim to certain territories in France, Montjoy's orders were that this foolhardy ambition must now be ruthlessly suppressed. Bruit at the French court held that Henry had been advised by avaricious men intending to use him for their own enrichment. It should be the work of moments, therefore, to disabuse him, to make him understand exactly how France would deal with any rash attempt to sunder its possessions. The French cavalry was renowned throughout Europe; even Henry, here in his draughty city under sullen pewter skies, could hardly have failed to hear of its puissance. No war between their two countries could possibly last longer than the time it took him to get his boots on, and if he persisted on his present course his life and reputation would be subject to the most extreme abridgement.

"His Majesty will see you now," the armsman said, and the herald straightened his spine. A tall man, thin, something over forty years of age, he was respected not for himself but as the representative of his king; offence, if it was to be given, would be deliberate rather than resulting from some accidental fault of conduct. He would, with royal hauteur, stare down this upstart youth in temporary command of an inferior monarchy. He would terrify him in the name of France, with such courtesy that no exception could be taken to his words. On the battlefield of intellect there were few men the equal of Guillaume d'Albret, Montjoy King of Arms; it was therefore comforting to reflect that, in every new encounter of this kind, the advantage invariably lay with him.

The doors opening, he marched into the royal presence and made his formal bow. The room was dark, cold, full of smoke from a fire which had resolutely refused to draw, and Montjoy's gaze fixed upon the seated figure of the king. Henry of England, a young man of middling height, neither slim nor fat, was dressed in a simple cote of grey-blue fustian. His short hair was inclined to be fair, his eyes were blue and his jaw firm. He seemed quite ordinary and in some sense almost disappointing. Nothing about him was unusual in any way, until he spoke.

"We will hear," he said calmly, "the Dauphin's message."

It was a voice with obvious qualities of great warmth, but the tone employed was as cold and brittle as sunlight reflected off a sheet of ice.

"Your grace," began Montjoy, "laying claim to certain land and revenues in France by right of descent from your noble ancestor King Edward the Third, my lord the Dauphin instructs me instead to present you with this treasure, which he conceives to be more suited for your age and experience. He bids you trouble him no more with frivolous petitions; nothing will you have of France unless you take it for yourself. These are the words of my master the Dauphin."

In the heavy silence that followed it was possible to notice at the edges of his vision the other nobles present. Montjoy knew most of them; Exeter and Westmoreland, trusted uncles; Clarence, Bedford and Gloucester, younger brothers; York and Cambridge, cousins; Scroop and Grey, childhood friends. The young men were all of the same stamp, vigorous, lean, muscular, and looked as if they had not had enough education between them to be capable of signing their own names. One, supposedly, was the favourite, the pathic toy of the king, although it was difficult to imagine this small, intense figure, with eyes that appeared suddenly to have become a brighter blue, involved in bedroom dalliance with a man. It seemed undignified, somehow, a weakness in a king. Were he truly given to womanish associations Henry could never be the equal in military matters of the Dauphin, who had the best tutors money could buy, yet there was something about him, some air of contained and dissembled aggression, suggesting the falsity of such reports. That, or the King of England had somehow succeeded in turning a weakness into a strength.

"What kind of treasure?" asked Henry, his eyes never leaving the herald's.

The Duke of Exeter, chief among his nephew's councillors, had opened the box and was examining the contents. "Tennis balls," he snorted, not troubling to conceal his contempt either for gift or for sender.

"Of course." Henry stood and moved closer. As he rose to his feet, all those who had been seated in the chamber did likewise, and briefly there was an air of menace to the proceedings as a dozen armed men, among the finest England had to offer, tensed to respond to their monarch's commands. Yet Henry himself seemed to harbour no hostility and sought to impress upon Montjoy the sincerity of his response.

"Your master's jest reflects no credit on him. Remind him these are men's lives he toys with here. If he is so careless of his subjects, we are not. We shall match him, strike for strike, if he cares to try us, but the deaths of thousands will be on his head alone. Tell him that, herald, and faithfully."

"I will, your majesty." Hearing his own voice, Montjoy wondered how he could possibly have remained so calm - and yet the king, too, was controlling his temper, suppressing his obvious fury. The Dauphin, rebuked, would have ranted, thrown some inoffensive object or screamed defiance in the face of the messenger, but Henry's eyes sought a tranquil inner horizon and he did not give way to emotion. Montjoy would never forget that steady gaze fastening on him, the rest of the world vanishing and breath and peace of mind along with it. He was accustomed to posturing French youths, creatures who thought accoutrements and armour made a man. They were the people he had learned to accept as leaders, because he had never met with anything better. Now, in England's presence, he realised for the first time that leadership could sometimes be a flame that flourished inwardly.

"You will have safe-conduct," Henry told him. "Go in peace."

Montjoy's mouth moved. It was almost on the tip of his tongue to apologise, to explain that this message was not his doing, that it was the Dauphin who had insulted Henry, but it was abundantly clear that Henry knew it already. Whatever their surface interactions may have been, there was more being exchanged between the two of them in looks that were otherwise formal and above reproach. Montjoy knew he had let his distaste for the mission show too clearly, and Henry had understood and responded with a sympathy of his own. They both had jobs to do which they did not relish; allied in misery, therefore, if nothing else, they shared a brief acknowledgement of fellowship in regret.

In the end, all he managed to do was hold Henry's gaze as he bowed in gratitude and farewell, then turned and marched with dignity out of the chamber. Nor did he allow himself to think about him, even for a moment; to have found any quality in the enemy that lacked among his own commanders was disconcerting to say the least, and it certainly would not do to dwell on it. Admiring Henry would be dangerous for his continued wellbeing; liking him would almost amount to outright treachery.

It was many weeks before the herald of France encountered the King of England for a second time. In the interim there was a tedious sea-crossing, followed by a meeting with his distant cousin Charles d'Albret, Constable of France, who questioned him about English readiness for battle. These were questions Montjoy was unable to answer, for the most part having been kept away from whatever warlike preparations they were making during his visit.

"Harry himself," the Constable said, referring to him with habitual absence of respect. "Is he still in dalliance with that northern lord, Scroop of Masham?"

"I saw no evidence of it," was the careful reply, "although there was talk in the Palace."

"Talk." D'Albret was dismissive. "There is always talk. Before he was king they lived openly together and Masham boasted of being a husband to him." His tone ascribed no presumption of masculinity to either party in such an arrangement.

"It's difficult to imagine," Montjoy remarked. "Scroop, I can well believe, might be the type - but Henry didn't seem effeminate at all in my opinion."

"Your opinion," repeated d'Albret, with a sneer. "A bachelor, and never been in love. How much do you think your opinion's worth when it comes to judging people's preferences in bed? Can you walk into a room and know who sleeps with men and who with women?"

"No," he conceded, with a blush. "It's something I never think about at all."

"I know you don't," the Constable grunted. "Neither for yourself nor anybody else. You walk around with your eyes shut, Montjoy, and never see a scandal when it's underneath your nose. I tell you, whether you recognise it or not, King Henry beds that friend of his - or is bedded by him, as the case may be. A man like that, believe me, is no threat to France, were he twenty times the king. There is nothing in England we need fear."

In the days that followed Montjoy gave considerable thought to this conversation. Supposing the allegations to be true, how then to account for the choice of Scroop? He was handsome and athletic, but a weak mouth and an expression of doglike devotion marked him as one Montjoy would be reluctant to trust in any circumstances. Had Henry seen qualities in him not apparent to the naked eye, or had he somehow been mistaken in his choice? That was not a thought which gave Montjoy any pleasure. He was inclined to reject out of hand any story portraying Henry as other than a manly man, but having said that he did not know what to make either of Scroop or of their supposed connection.

It was a matter he was still pondering weeks later when word reached Paris that Scroop and two others had been arrested for plotting against their master; plotting with France, no less, for a million in gold, although he could find no-one at court prepared to admit to having offered such a sum. Could Scroop have been so naïf as to believe France would give him a million in any currency? Could he have been greedy and vainglorious enough to sell for traitor's gold the man he had once professed to love?

The emotion which seized Montjoy most strongly at this news was pity - but not for France, whose plans had gone awry, nor Scroop, who had gambled on a scheme which never had a hope. No, he felt pity for Henry, who had apparently trusted someone who proved unworthy. Despite the brevity of their acquaintance he had been left in no doubt that Henry's loyalty, once earned, would never be surrendered without a fight. What little he had heard of the arrest and dispatch of the traitors - Scroop, Grey, the royal cousin Cambridge - served only to illustrate the depth of hurt their actions had inflicted on the king. It was not Henry's pride which had been injured by their betrayal, it was his heart. The sane conclusion to be reached from this was that he had cared for Scroop, and probably been in love with him. The foolish, vain, affected Scroop had betrayed more than just his country, therefore; he had also betrayed his love.

That a king should be subject to such reversals of fortune was a sad discovery; Montjoy had hoped royalty might somehow be above the sorry business of loving and losing, might exist where such cares could never touch them. That it could happen to Henry taught him there were men in existence baser than he had ever begun to imagine, and the knowledge made him grieve for a world that had such creatures in it. He himself, had Fate allowed him to enter the service of King Henry, would have taken care to treat him with respect, and merited better at his hands than those who once professed themselves his friends.

A mere two weeks after this Montjoy was sent again to parlay with the leaders of the English who had taken Harfleur and moved inland, and were even now being driven towards the plain below the castle of Azincourt. There, the Dauphin Louis and the Constable of France had assembled the elite of the French army, with the firm intention of destroying them utterly and without any countenance of mercy.

The rain had been hammering down all morning, and the hooves of the war-horses were churning the field into mud. It was vicious stuff, too, a sticky yellow clay which liquefied as soon as water touched it. Here and there might be a path along a ridge of slightly elevated ground, and in the woods the roots of the trees served to bind the soil together, but on the open plain, on what had once been agricultural land beneath the walls of the castle, there was no protection from the worst excesses of the weather.

Fortunately his reliable old horse seemed to have a more than adequate sense of self-preservation and side-stepped much of the chaos, bringing Montjoy over the bridge and round onto the flank of the English where - when it was seen that he wore no armour and carried no weapon - he was suffered to pass through their ranks. He had not, however, even in his wildest imaginings, anticipated finding the King of England, soaked and grubby, on foot in a clearing in the forest, standing almost alone at the feet of a hanged man. And yet, magnetic as Henry's presence was, it was impossible not to stare at the gruesome relic suspended from the branch above him; only at the king's express order could this have been done so soon before the battle, and a commander who would hang his own man at this delicate juncture could only be described as ruthless. Yet, somehow, that word sat ill with the shocked and saddened face turned carefully towards him, and what was stranger still was the silent welcome accorded him and the wordless, informal injunction to speak.

Montjoy forced down his astonishment, delivering King Charles's message in a voice that was level and almost dispassionate.

"My master bids you think upon your ransom and reminds you he could have halted you at Harfleur, albeit he chose not to do so. Now, for every further step you take, there are lives to be lost; the men who follow you will leave their bones in France." He could not help looking up again into the red and swollen face of the hanged man, and it seemed to him that the eyelids twitched. "There is not enough money in all England to ransom you, King Harry; your service on your knees will scarcely satisfy your noble adversary. So says the king, my master."

Henry's mouth flattened into a single line. It seemed he had heard this all before; this blustering tirade obviously was not new to him, these threats of little interest or importance. "Tell me your name," he said, in a tone of mild civility.

It was not something the herald was accustomed to being asked, and he made no attempt to conceal his astonishment.

"Montjoy."

Henry absorbed the information. "You speak honestly," he approved. "Tell your master, I will not fight him here. My men are tired and weak from sickness; we will march to Calais and winter there, and seek him again in fairer weather. If he chooses to fall upon us now he will have no service of me and no ransom either, save what can be exacted from my corpse. My cause being just, I will pursue it to the end. Say that," he added, "to your master."

"I shall," acknowledged Montjoy. Yet there seemed to be more, and for a moment it haunted him there in the clearing; something of unusual clarity reaching towards him out of the king's eyes, something that almost drew him near. "Thanks to your highness."

Formal words, choked out half against his will. He turned his horse away, and with anguish in his heart he fled. The King of England watched him until he was out of sight - and Montjoy knew he watched him even after that, even when the rain had once again begun to fall.

He could make no sense of it. In these last hours men should be busy commending their souls to Heaven and there should be no sympathy between opposing camps. There should be no welcome from Henry, no answer from himself. In the morning men would die and Henry would doubtless be among them; feeling drawn to the enemy, no matter in how tentative a manner, was treacherous and disloyal and everything Montjoy had schooled himself never to be.

He had no alternative now but to harden his heart against the English; he must wish, and indeed he did, for nothing worse than swift death to befall their king. It would be in everybody's interest to achieve a resolution as rapidly as possible, and then he need never more be troubled by compassion for the foe.

Henry must die, would die, quickly enough for it to be merciful.

After that, Montjoy the herald would once again be free.

That night they sat up late in the Constable of France's tent. The Dauphin, the Ducs of Orleans and Grandpree, the Constable himself, and Montjoy, summoned to make up the party in case they were of a mind to hear an epic poem recited, and because of all the heralds he was the one with the nearest pretensions to gentility. Nevertheless he sat uncomfortably among them, listening to the Dauphin boast about his horse - a creature, one would think from his description of it, capable of dancing upon clouds and breathing rainbows. Such fanciful musings were not at all to the mood of the Constable, who took a sip of Rhenish wine and said sourly; "Certain it is an excellent horse," in such a repressive tone that even the Dauphin's ebullient spirit seemed to have been temporarily crushed.

The silence that followed was awful. Montjoy, turning the goblet in his hands, found that he was thinking more of Henry than of anybody else. Would he suffer? Would it be a clean and simple strike that took his life - or would he linger, abandoned by his men, humiliated and in pain?

The notion made him shudder. Henry deserved better, not least because he far outshone the Dauphin in gallantry. He was not a boy, to prate of horse and armour; young though he was, Henry was fully a man - and, more than that, a general. There was nothing he said or did which had not been thought through from start to finish. His men were well-led, and proud to follow him. Had the French army Henry's equal, his campaign would not have succeeded even so far as it had.

He roused himself from his reverie to see that tempers had begun to flare. There had been some little jousting for position between the Dauphin and the Constable, the Prince in nominal command of the expedition but lacking the maturity to direct it. He was hot-blooded, keen for glory, expectant of the kill; the Constable, languid and experienced, dismissed his discourse as the barking of a pup. Not even Montjoy himself, attempting to pour oil on troubled water, could prevail; his feeble conversational sally was batted back to him by the Constable as one swats a fly, contemptuously and without mercy. Thus, it was a profound relief when the Dauphin tired of his game and took himself off, irritably, to arm.

Montjoy remained behind, staring into his cup, not listening to the others' talk. He was wondering how he would live with himself in future if he knew there was something he could have done to save the English king and had not even attempted it.

But was there anything? He was no warrior, he could not interpose himself between Henry and death, and if he tried he knew he would be laughed away. The man had better than him a hundred times over, grizzled veterans who knew how to wield a sword. His efforts in that regard would be little more than comical; all he could do for Henry in the field was die before him, and that would scarcely help his cause. Thus he retired to his tent, not in any frame of mind to sleep, delivering as he passed some parting thoughts intended as a warning.

"That island of England breeds very valiant creatures," he said, sadly, although he knew the Constable would never take it as he meant. They would not find the English easy prey, and the corpses would pile high on either side before the day was done.

He knew they watched him as he walked away, and heard them call him 'traitor' for his words.

In the morning he felt sick and desperate. There had been no sleep that night, sharing a tent with the pursuivants of Orleans, Berry and Bretagne; the other three were wide awake and eager to talk, and being less than a dozen paces from the Constable's tent there were constant comings and goings throughout the night. By the time the sun rose, a tentative creeping thing showing above a line of wet trees, Montjoy was up, washed, shaved and dressed, had seen his horse cared for and tried to make himself swallow a morsel of bread. He had also attended, briefly, at prayers in the Constable's tent. The Lord of Albret was not a religious man, but being closely associated with the House of Valois took pride in the formalities. Thus he called Montjoy and a notary, making provision to have his will engrossed and witnessed by other members of his household.

"Cousin," he said, without enthusiasm. The manner in which he spoke indicated distaste for having to acknowledge the connection, but the Constable was in most respects a pragmatist and would swallow an uncomfortable truth if there was really no alternative.

Montjoy bowed. "Cousin." It was a greeting they rarely exchanged.

"Hmmm. Well, as usual, you'll be in charge should anything happen. Everything to my lady, of course, my armour and swords to my sons. It's your responsibility to see me buried and my belongings transported home. Take some token for yourself - a sword, perhaps, or something you can use. My eldest son will probably employ you, but I make no promise on his behalf - he's only a boy and he'll have no use for a herald for some years yet. Perhaps the Dauphin will take you on for the time being."

"Yes, my lord."

D'Albret glared at him. The balance between servility and kinship had never been an easy one to strike. Montjoy the herald annoyed him, and he was not above allowing his irritation to show.

"Well, you know the procedure, but it's not going to be necessary. I fully intend to take Henry's head off his shoulders myself, unless d'Orleans gets to him first. It's a pity we couldn’t have kept him for a year or two," d'Albret pondered. "That might have been entertaining; I understand he's something of a musician. But if there's no ransom to be had, he'd hardly be worth his keep. Best we dispose of him quickly, then."

The thought of Henry in captivity, brought out like a lapdog for the amusement of the Constable's guests, was nauseating. Death would be preferable. Montjoy could therefore wish his cousin Godspeed with a clear conscience.

"May you flourish," he said, shortly.

"May we all," was the crisp response. "I'll see you back here afterwards, Montjoy; there'll be dispatches, and I'll need you to tally the arms of the dead. For now, you know your job; stay out of the way until I send for you again."

Montjoy bowed his head, exchanged a glance with the notary, and took his departure without further speech.

The build-up to the fighting seemed interminable in the French camp. He had never seen such polishing of armour or such plaiting of horses' manes - as if it mattered what they looked like when they were going into battle! There were men with new cloaks and plumes as if they intended to be wed, and men who drowned in perfume and tweaked their hair before they put their helmets on. When at last they lined up along the ridge, looking into the squalor of the English camp, the tension was almost unbearable. Anguished, Montjoy threaded his way through the lines to find out what was causing the delay; it was daylight, everything was ready, and still they did not advance. He could scarcely stand the waiting; if it must be done, if Henry must die, for God's sake let it be over quickly. Yet still they stood and gloated on the victory to come.

"Oh, this is fine," the Constable remarked, in satisfaction. "The might of France, poised to strike, and there they are, a ragged band, and little know what destiny awaits."

"Death," said the Dauphin, "to all and singular. We'll stab our horses' hides and their blood will spurt and blind the English; they'll never see us when we cut their throats. I'll kill a hundred men today, my lords."

"And I two hundred," said d'Orleans, at his side. "I'll wager with you, cousin, which of us shall slay the most."

"There will be little killing done," the Constable predicted sagely. "For all our words. The peasants will take one look at us and run." He gripped his horse's reins firmly, turned its head away, and raised his voice. "Let the trumpets sound! Mount up, sirs, and make ready. There is work to do."

And from the bloodthirsty look upon his face, and from the echoes of his sanguinary words, Montjoy the herald could not but turn away.

They were deaf, all of them. Oblivious. They were so sure of glory that no-one wanted to hear about waste, about death. But there was one man, perhaps, who would listen. Deflecting Henry of England from his purpose would be like asking a tide to turn, but there was nothing else left to try.

Ruthlessness was not in Montjoy's nature; he had done his best to cultivate it, and failed. It had been easy enough to make the sounds and gestures expected of him, to talk as if he was a heartless war-monger like d'Orleans or the Dauphin, who had spurred one another to wilder and wilder fantasies of bloodshed and barbarism, but in these last stomach-churning moments of preparation he understood once and for all that he simply could not bear the thought of Henry's death. In a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, therefore, he again went crashing across the lines and lied through his teeth in claiming that the Constable had sent him.

D'Albret knew nothing at all about it, of course. D'Albret would not have sent him at this stage under any circumstances; he was already dressed and armoured for battle and this was no time to be showing compassion for the enemy. No, Montjoy had stepped so far beyond the bounds of duty as to bring this message on his own account; it was he, not his master, who begged Henry to compound; he, not his master, who was appalled at the waste of such a life and would have given anything - even his own - to prevent it.

He arrived just in time to hear the king, with valiant rhetoric, stirring his peasant army to defiance. It was a performance of outstanding fire, the kind of speech that would have raised the dead. It rang in Montjoy's chest, too, but sadly, for it seemed to him the last time Henry would strut before his troops; filling his vision was an image of that body crushed, that spirit fled, himself a mourner at a lonely grave.

"Good God why must you trouble me?" growled Henry, unwilling to be distracted. "I will nothing with ransom, herald. Who is it sends you to torment me?"

"The Constable of France, my lord," he said, and from the shaking in his voice he knew that Henry recognised it for a lie.

"I am prepared for death," he answered, "if it be God's will. Spare yourself the pain and come for ransom no more - gentle herald." The last words dropped into the space between them like a tender caress, into the midst of a clearing inhabited by a hundred sweating, dirty men who stood and listened to the things they did not say. "Leave me in peace," concluded Henry, wearily. "I will die, or I will not; the decision is not mine."

Montjoy, who had not descended from his horse, sat and watched in wonder. The king's blue eyes were wholly turned towards him. In them he saw - what? A wish that things might have been otherwise, and a hope that somehow still they could? But there was nothing, nothing he could do to change the man's mind once it was made up, and submitting to his will was now the only choice.

"Fare you well, Harry England," he almost whispered, doffing his hat, watching the way a shadow of a smile touched the set mouth. "You will never hear this herald's voice again." For if Henry died there would be the music of angels to fill his ears, and if he lived he would find Montjoy King of Arms no longer in the service of the French. Yet it was impossible to tear his eyes away, and only the nervous stumbling of his horse brought him back to face reality.

"Go," said Henry, and the unspoken addendum was 'while you can'.

Montjoy tugged on the reins and the horse made its own decision, never minding that its rider looked over his shoulder and into eyes he was sure he was seeing for the last time, but he felt as if an invisible rope stretched out between himself and Henry through the forest, and knew that he would feel it if it snapped.

Over to one side of him, as he retraced his route, the sounds of battle were already beginning, the first skirmishes of steel on steel, the harsh orders barked in two languages. He steered carefully amidst jostling cavalry and through into the rabble of squires, armourers, provisioners and camp-women clustered at the fringes of the conflict. The might of France, it seemed, could not move without a fully-equipped kitchen, an extensive wardrobe, tents of glorious brocade and a small army of whores. The Dauphin had brought along a carved wooden bed piled with silks and furs and never used it; Henry, if he slept at all, had no doubt done so on the cold, damp ground.

The Dauphin's banner was not far to seek, with those of d'Albret and d'Orleans alongside. It made sense for these three to be together in the thick of the fighting, wherever that was. D'Albret's iron courage and d'Orleans' foolhardy valour were well-matched, and the impressionable but much less able Dauphin was happy to be drawn along in their glamorous wake; he would be enthusiastic but random where they were scientific and bloody. Hugo, the d'Orleans pursuivant, had drawn the short straw and taken the Dauphin's banner onto the field, and was striving to maintain it aloft amid the press of bodies. This was a task requiring strength even at the best of times, and young and inexperienced as he was the pursuivant was also struggling with his fears. Well, he would scarcely be alone in that.

At the edge of the fray d'Albret's notary hovered like an anxious mother amongst a crowd of wagon drivers, cooks and servants. It was impossible to tell precisely what was happening in the mêlée, with figures colliding and steel gleaming wetly at intervals, a cacophony of human and equine screams pierced by the clash of metal and the vicious snake-like hiss of arrows by the hundred, by the hundred thousand, sizzling fatally out of the sky.

Montjoy bent his head to the notary. "How goes it?"

The man shrugged, but the expression on his face was not encouraging. "Men are dying," he said, bleakly.

"English? Or French?"

"French. The English are all peasants. They have no honour."

"Where is their king?"

The notary glared at him as if he was mad. "The English king? Who cares? Chopped into pieces like the worthless rat he is, I hope."

"No," said Montjoy. "Not yet." He was certain that if Henry fell this conflict would be over. None of the royal brothers could have carried on without him, although the English would rally to the Duke of Exeter in the absence of another commander. No, the fact that combat was continuing meant Henry still lived; his men would fight for him alone. Without their leader, his would be no proper sort of army any more.

"The Dauphin will make short work of him," came the cynical response. "They'll meet each other on the field, and that will be the end." The notary looked up sharply. "Hadn't you better get in there yourself while there's still time? You don’t want to miss all the glory."

"Glory," Montjoy repeated. In the mud and rain, with men falling and being trampled under the hooves of their own horses, warfare did not seem especially glorious. It was the lives of men that were of value, and everything else was empty posturing. He wished he had been able to make the leaders of both armies realise that whilst there was time. Henry had understood, but was unable to act while honour bound him to his course. Yet Montjoy would rather know him dishonoured but alive than mourn even the most illustrious of deaths.

He turned and spurred his horse into the centre of the throng, taking the banner from Hugo and dismissing him from the field. He could at least save one life, if not the one he was most anxious to have saved. But where the Dauphin was, there Henry would be - sooner or later - and there Montjoy would be, too, to bear witness if nothing else.

It was not simply his duty to do so. It was also his profound desire.

The sky opened again as battle was rejoined, as chaos swirled and gathered about him. D'Albret, d'Orleans and the Prince of France wore bright plate armour, blazoned with their armorial bearings, and for a while it was easy to keep track of where they were and to hold the banner of lilies steady to give them a rallying-point in the murk. Then something flashed across Montjoy's vision that might have been the shining hair of the English king and for a moment his attention was distracted; at the limits of his vision there was someone of the same rugged physique on a white horse, a determined figure with his face obscured by mud and blood, his sword arm swinging savagely, his shoulders hunched and knees clenched to control a plunging mount. Montjoy followed the man until he was lost from sight, and when he turned back he found his charges retreating towards him, unhorsed, d'Orleans assisting the Constable in the nearest he had ever come in his life to a compassionate act.

"Cousin Charles?"

Nobody took the slightest notice of him.

"All our ranks are broke," groaned d'Albret, sinking against d'Orleans' shoulder. They had been mentor and pupil so long that they had, in the process, become like father and son, and d'Albret's own sons were young and far away and could offer him no succour in his hour of need. Instinctively he turned to d'Orleans; instinctively, too, d'Orleans embraced him until, with a cry of shame, the Constable of France dropped his head to the Dauphin's shoulder and there, flanked by the young men who had been his especial protégés, he nobly surrendered his spirit.

"Damn!" The Dauphin pushed the heavy dark head off his shoulder. "We'll have to finish this ourselves, d'Orleans. Herald, make yourself useful, loosen this armour for me; I'll kill Harry England on foot if I must!"

Montjoy slipped from his horse to obey, leaving the banner jammed into the earth. The horse stumbled and turned its head towards him in search of reassurance. The sound of battle was in his ears as he wrestled with the closures of the Dauphin's armour. In reality it had always been more of a costume than a functional garment; it looked fine and caught the light, but when it came to practical considerations it was an encumbrance and getting rid of it was the first sensible decision the prince had made all day.

"Does England fight in plate?" he asked, irritated that it was taking so long. Had he seen the palsied condition of Montjoy's hands he might have been tempted to use his sword to cut through bindings and fingers all at one stroke.

"In surcoat and mail," was the quiet reply.

"And his helm?"

Montjoy took a deep breath. "Gold," he said. That was what he believed he had seen.

"Of course. Presumptuous brat." The fact that he himself was younger did not preclude the insult. "With me, d'Orleans?"

"Prince Dauphin." D'Orleans extracted himself from beneath the fallen Constable and took his sword again, and side by side the two of them surged back into the mêlée, leaving Montjoy, unarmed, alone above the body of his fallen relative, feeling … absolutely nothing.

He saw neither of them again until, an hour later, the Dauphin struggled back, knelt beside the Constable's body, looked up with an expression of loathing and said, between gritted teeth; "Go to Henry and tell him that we yield."

Startled, Montjoy was slow to obey; although the trend of battle had been apparent from the beginning, it had somehow not occurred to him that a man as stubborn as the Dauphin Louis would have common-sense enough to concede defeat while there was breath left in his body.

He glanced around. He could not leave the prince during a battle, no matter how earnestly he might require it, but d'Orleans was stumbling across the field with his pursuivant at his side, both obviously exhausted. The press of bodies was much thinned out by now, and as the group re-formed Montjoy pushed the banner into Hugo's hands again. He noted that the boy was trembling no more; indeed there was a hardness about his eyes, as though he had experienced more in the past few hours than anyone his age should ever be expected to endure.

D'Orleans dropped to his knees, covering his weariness with reverence to the Constable's remains, and took the body into his arms, something which, in the interim, Montjoy had been unable to do. He had never felt affection towards his relative, only duty, and now that his duty to d'Albret was at an end there was nothing keeping him in this place when inclination had directed him elsewhere.

"Go!" screamed the Dauphin. "Get out! You would rather be in his company than ours anyway!"

Montjoy stared at him, stunned, unable to keep hurt and defiance from showing in his eyes - not that the Dauphin would either notice or care, however. The prince had more important matters to consider. It would soon be necessary to face his father's sorrow, to confirm to him that he had seen the flower of French chivalry trampled by the feet of peasants. Losing the battle was galling enough, but losing to the likes of Harry England was shame which could never be expunged. Indeed the Dauphin's lot, just at the moment, was one of the least enviable upon the field.

Swinging back into his saddle, urging his horse to movement once again, Montjoy set off to search for the leaders of the conquering army.

It was not long before he was able to locate them. Rumours of a massacre of undefended boys had reached him across the battlefield and, coming on top of every other horror, seemed almost too much to comprehend. Little wonder, then, that as Montjoy approached Henry tore away from his advisors and flung himself in frenzy at this solitary representative of the French host; he ripped Montjoy from his horse and threw him to the ground, grappling with him, fists bunched into his clothing, roaring anguish into his face.

"Have you come to glory in our suffering, bastard Frenchman? These were innocent boys, tending the luggage! Children, no threat to you, and here they lie … dead, every one! What kind of Christian army murders boys?"

"My lord … " It was an effort to keep his voice calm with Henry looming over him, a soiled and bloody mess yet strong and full of fighting, fuelled by righteous anger. "Our losses are beyond measure; we are scattered to the wind. We beg your gracious leave to search the field, to tally up our dead and tend our wounded. The Dauphin vouchsafes no further war upon your majesty today."

Henry sat back on his heels, regarding Montjoy from beneath fair lashes caked with mud. There was blood on his face, too, from a gash across his right ear that looked as if it had caught a glancing blow from a sword. This was no sham warrior, no tournament prince; he had fought, on foot and horseback, as fiercely as his men, and like most of them he had been wounded and dirtied in the fray.

"The day," he asked, " … is ours?"

"Lord king, it is."

"Oh." Henry sagged against him, looking him deeply in the eyes, and there were sentiments embodied in that look which somehow could not find expression in his words. "Merciful God be thanked; this is not our victory, but His."

Shaking, Henry almost collapsed into the mud. Exhaustion rolled over him in a wave, his body weak, his limbs folding, his face scant inches from the trodden ground. And perhaps, in another existence, he might not have found the courage to do so, but Montjoy the herald was human; he was a man of flesh and blood, of gentle nature and compassionate heart, and when he met suffering it was his instinct to want to offer comfort. What he saw before him was not a king, not an enemy, but a man in pain, and his soul was in such turmoil over this particular man that he could not bring himself to hold back even for a moment.

Not considering what he did he reached out and pulled Henry close, holding him, soothing without words while hot anguished tears fell against his neck. Henry's arms wound around him and held, and there was a whisper that might have been his name before Montjoy's hands were abruptly wrenched away and forced behind his back and there was a knife at his throat. A moment later he lay on the ground with someone's foot upon his chest, his eyes full of bleak white sky, wondering if his life was coming to an end. However for one moment, suspended under Heaven, there had been warmth and reciprocation and he had known how it felt to hold Henry of England in embrace. If that was to be the last act of his life, he was more than willing to die for it.

"It is death to touch the person of the king." The Duke of Exeter, his bearded face further masked in anger. "Your life is forfeit, Frenchman."

The man with the knife tensed and in an instant it would all have been over, except that from among the breathless gasps there came a sound, a hoarse affected whisper, which held him frozen where he stood, Montjoy's existence balanced on the edge of an English blade.

"No," Henry said, and probably only Montjoy and Exeter heard him.

"My lord?"

"He is not to be harmed."

Disciplined and obedient as he was, Exeter could still not help registering incredulity. "My lord … ?"

"Enough, uncle; this man's safety I lay to your charge." On his knees, Henry slopped through mud until his face hung low over Montjoy's. "If I ask King Charles to give you to me, will you quit his service now and enter mine?"

"Your majesty," he answered, without hesitation, "I will."

Henry's bloody glove cupped his face, patting his cheek as gently as a father would a child's. Then, in a swirl of red and blue, he was gone, striding off to rendezvous with his commanders, and it was Exeter who reached down a mailed arm and helped Montjoy to his feet. The look in his eyes signified distaste and wonderment in equal measure.

"You had better remove that tabard," he growled, "if you intend to join his majesty." Then he beckoned a serving-man and had him pour a cup of wine, which he pushed unceremoniously into Montjoy's hands.

Montjoy, determined to master himself, nodded his thanks. "I will not abandon my duty to France half-completed," he said, drinking gratefully. "Your king would not expect it. I must see my kinsman d'Albret buried first."

"Fairly said," conceded Exeter. "No-one would have you neglect your duty to the Constable. But, my lord, if you neglect your duty to the king, remember that you will make enemies at court. No foreign traitor will increase his hurts while I or any of my company can withstand it."

"My lord of Exeter," Montjoy told him, with composure, "King Henry will never have cause to complain of my loyalty to him, or through him to his country. My promise, once made, will never be unmade."

Exeter was watching him acutely, brown eyes alive to the nuances of the situation. "By God," he said. "Is it so? And a Frenchman, too." He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, then, tread carefully. Worse men than you have fared better than they deserved, but he was not king then."

Montjoy looked away, making no attempt to reply. He did not trust himself to speak without saying more than he had already said. If Henry had not asked for his service he had been on the point of volunteering it, but Exeter's words had left him in such confusion that he was not sure whether he could even answer for the topic of their discourse. What was certain, however, was that Exeter seemed prepared to take his nephew's assessment of Montjoy at face value; there may not be trust, just yet, but there was more courtesy in the house of the enemy than he had ever received among his countrymen. With satisfaction, therefore, he acknowledged the Duke's overtures of friendship; to walk away from this man in battle array with his head still attached to his shoulders must by any standards be accounted an achievement.

The business of numbering and listing the dead took most of the afternoon. He did some of it himself, sallying forth to check the identity of nobles whose faces were disfigured or whose armour had been stolen, but for the most part Montjoy confined himself to the Constable's tent to supervise preparations for the funeral and receive the condolences of his cousin's friends. It was not difficult to wear a mask of melancholy when every fresh report brought the names of yet more nobles killed, and as the day drew on the total grew to astonishing proportions. It was only, however, when the last heralds and pursuivants staggered back with their dreadful tallies that he made a final reckoning and submitted it to the Dauphin who ordered him to take the same to Henry on the instant. It was he, as conqueror, who would direct disposal of the bodies.

There was no sign from Henry, when they met again, that he remembered his offer or even recognised the herald. Exeter greeted him like a brother officer, but they had all been through so much that there was little energy left over for anything not strictly business. Henry, in particular, looked drawn and exhausted, his vague eyes the same colour as the winter sky. It was obvious all he cared about was to be away from the smell of blood, vomit and dung, from the horrendous evidence of his own appalling victory.

"This note," he said, hoarsely, "reports ten thousand Frenchmen killed, chief among them Charles d'Albret, Constable of France, and many more of valiant name and honour. Their country will be poorer for their loss." His hand shook as he reached to take the equivalent paper detailing English casualties. "Our noble cousin Edward of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Kettley, Davey Gamm. No others of nobility or gentles, but twenty-five among the common men - and Walter Jackman, boy, late page to Sir John Falstaff."

Montjoy's head bowed. The quiet recitation had almost unmanned him, the courtesy extended to his cousin's name and equal sorrow for peasants in King Henry's force. He wondered who Sir John Falstaff's page might be to deserve mention, but no-one seemed surprised. That a king would value men on the basis of their actions rather than their rank or birth was almost inconceivable to one raised in France, but if there was any monarch in the world who knew his servants' merits it would certainly be Henry of England.

The thing Henry did next, however, served to increase the herald's confusion. With neither look nor word in Montjoy's direction, walking away as if he did not know him, Henry stooped in the mud and, not without difficulty, lifted one of the murdered boys up onto his shoulder. The death-cart was an unimaginable distance away, the field between strewn with obstacles, yet he set off to carry the body towards it like any ordinary man.

Montjoy watched him go, and blinked his filling eyes furiously at the sight.

"He will have his way," the Duke of Exeter said, at his shoulder. "Even as a child he was stubborn and wilful and had to have the world exactly as he wanted it."

Montjoy did not turn. "Is that Sir John Falstaff's page?"

"Aye. A sad end to a sad life." There was a pause, then the older man continued briskly. "You're to come to London, to teach the king French and open negotiations for a marriage with the Princess Katharine. He'll need a Principal King of Arms, too; old Norroy's getting doddery and he'll have to be replaced." Exeter looked across thoughtfully. "Not changed your mind, have you?"

"No."

"Good, because he's already paid your price; the Dolphin's freedom in exchange for you. He must value you highly, Montjoy the herald."

Montjoy stared. "The prince?" he asked, incredulously.

"He surrendered himself, along with the Duke of Orleans." Exeter's pronunciation was resolutely English, eschewing any attempt to speak like an effete Frenchman. "They made themselves the king's prisoners. The duke goes with us until his price is paid, but the prince is returned to his father - ransomed already. That's your worth to King Henry, it seems; the same as the heir to a kingdom."

Mystified, Montjoy could not respond. "I have never … " he said, and had no idea how the sentence might be expected to finish. "I have no value," he amended.

"No," agreed Exeter. "I see that. But my king says different, and we are all his subjects. Including," he completed, "you."

"Yes."

"Good. Well, take this safe-conduct." Exeter handed him a scrap of paper rolled into a tight spindle. "Collect your belongings, say your goodbyes, report to one of my captains before sunset - Fluellen and Gower, you know the men."

"Yes, my lord, I do."

"Tonight for rest and prayer, and burying the dead," Exeter told him. "Tomorrow, England - and you among us."

"My duty to his majesty," Montjoy said, numbly, but the Duke was shaking his head.

"Ah, man," he said, in a tone of tired exasperation, "don’t tell me. Tell him." And slapped him on the shoulder dismissively as he stepped away to attend to business of his own.

There would be no telling Henry anything at the moment, however, for even if he had not been exhausted he would have been in no state of mind to hear it. Perhaps, however, it would still be possible for Montjoy to indicate submission to the royal will. He might cut across the battlefield while Henry continued around the edge; that way he would reach him before he divested himself of his burden. It would be good to do so, to show he understood why the king had done this and what it meant. The English seemed to have no response to their king being among them and behaving like one of them, as if they were used to it, but for a Frenchman it was impossible to conceive. King Charles would not have soiled his hands with peasant blood, nor would the Dauphin or d'Orleans or the Constable. For all their practical attributes they took their social superiority very much to heart. Henry, it seemed, did not. Henry valued those who served him - and Montjoy, now, was one of those who served him.

Thus he was at the edge of the battlefield in time to lower his head as Henry reached him, an expression on his face that was neither grief nor triumph yet something with the elements of both. Henry's eyes met his, their look unfathomable as if he was half-translated to another place. As if his final duty to the boy had lifted him above the world.

Unholy screeching shattered the solemnity of the moment. A rabble of whores and laundresses was bearing down upon them, women whose protectors had been killed, scavengers disturbed from picking the pockets of the dead. Henry glanced at them, and his eyes returned to Montjoy's. He had no energy left; someone else must deal with the matter; he left it to his herald.

Montjoy put himself between Henry and the women, spreading his arms, and they thundered into him; he stumbled, but regained his feet and forced them away. He would not let them interrupt this dialogue between Henry and his God; he would not them touch his king. He looked again at Henry, and Henry looked beyond.

The king waited his turn to mount the steps of the death-cart. Montjoy saw him slip and stumble as he reached his destination. He watched him unload the body, set the boy among the other victims, kiss him on the brow and then, slowly, unwind from beneath a weight that was more than merely physical and look to the sky to face the infinite on equal terms. Henry had done everything demanded of him and more; he would, at last, be able to rest - and so would those who concerned themselves with his welfare.

With a monumental sense of relief Montjoy turned from the spectacle of royal exhaustion and, new purpose invigorating him, picked his way carefully back towards the French lines.

It did not take long to pack his personal possessions; a travelling-bag with a change of clothing, a hairbrush and hand mirror, a lock of his sister's hair wrapped in silk - there was little he owned. His black capuchon was somewhere on the battlefield, trampled into the mud. His cream-coloured wool cloak was past praying for. It would make someone a fine blanket, if they could be bothered to clean it. He took the liberty of replacing it with a black one from the Constable's belongings in lieu of the sword he had been promised, a point he made when he issued final instructions to his cousin's notary.

"My lord being lately dead," said Montjoy, "and his sons still boys, for this while I am head of his family. I appoint you to deliver his effects to his widow. Everything I had from him is accounted for; my horse and saddle are returned to the horsemaster and the d'Orleans pursuivant has the banner. Other than this cloak, I have taken nothing included in the Constable's estate."

"You're going to the English, then?" the man asked. "It's all over camp that you embraced their king." Contempt for a supposed enemy was apparent in his tone.

"I caught him when he fell," amended Montjoy.

The man sniffed. "Women and heralds, fickle as butterflies."

The insult did not touch him. "My service is my own, to give or withhold exactly as I choose. King Henry asked it of me, and I no longer have an obligation to my cousin." Indeed, the debt of honour had been paid a generation since; there had been nothing keeping him in d'Albret's service lately but inertia.

The notary's thin face became ferret-like as he fulminated on a reply. "He'd kill to have you, would he? The English king? Was it Henry killed my master?"

"I don’t know, I didn’t see it happen. But my cousin would have killed the king; he said as much."

The notary spat. "Well, you are the one who will have to live with your conscience. What did he offer you, Montjoy? Gold? Or himself?"

Montjoy felt colour draining from his face. "Neither," he said, quietly. "The Dauphin's freedom was my price. I'm sure," he added, with devastating courtesy, "any loyal Frenchman would have done the same."

He swung his bag up onto his shoulder and took one last look around. His muddy tabard was draped across the cot he had never quite succeeded in occupying. He wore his cream velvet cote, hard-wearing leggings and riding boots, none of them clean, beneath the cloak he had taken from his relative, and in his free hand was the safe-conduct given him by the Duke of Exeter. It would be a talisman in more ways than one. On it, in the immaculate hand of a secretary, was the enjoinder to allow to pass one Guillaume d'Albret de Montjoy, once in the service of his majesty of France and now the trusty and well-beloved servant of King Henry of England.

Trusty and well-beloved servant.

Below that, in a different hand, another message; 'I owe you a cloke'.

This last was not signed, but although he had never seen the writing before he knew with absolute certainty from whom it came.

He paused in the doorway, ran a fingertip over the addendum, scrolled the paper and tucked it in his sleeve.

He did not speak again, nor turn around, but with purpose and assurance walked determinedly away from the gaudy pavilions of the princes of France.

* * *

*

II. Love-lies-bleeding

A year later they were travelling back across the sea in a little nutshell of a boat called the Thomas. Negotiations at Paris had been successful, on the whole, and so had the celebrations for Henry's birthday. If he had only chosen to end his expedition there and return to England for the winter all might have been well, but unfortunately he had insisted on an ill-conceived diversion to the Abbey of St Nazaire, and, if the overland trip to get to it had not been bad enough, the voyage home - intended to take no more than five or six days - turned into a nightmare. Henry was tired and bad-tempered and seethed with frustration to be away, and after three days waiting for the wind to change - during which he ordered horse-races, club-ball and tournament skirmishes on the beach - he took advantage of a momentary improvement in conditions to order the Thomas out to sea in the hopes of reaching Tilbury within the week. The Albion and the Swan, with the bulk of the men and all the horses, would await more propitious sailing weather. Directing his uncle Westmoreland to remain in charge of the shore party, therefore, Henry embarked his household and his personal staff and set off for England while he had the opportunity.

At first the weather came from the north and they made good progress, sheltered as they were by the shoulder of the coast, but by the time they reached Ushant the wind was backing to the west and forcing them towards the shore. There was concern at this among the sailors, who felt they should be running for cover to a friendly port - Cherbourg would be the obvious choice. The captain, however, thought the wind would continue to back and would soon be at their stern and forcing them north at a spanking pace; then it would only be a question of steering a safe path through the Norman Isles and keeping Aurigny well to the south. Henry, reassured by the man's air of confidence, left the final decision to him, and so they pushed on boldly.

As they continued, however, even the king must have regretted it. His tiny cabin, with its velvet-hung walls and its bed swaying on ropes from the overhead, was scarcely the epitome of luxury, and for him as well as for everybody else the fact that the galley fire had been doused meant a succession of cold meals largely comprising the bread and fruit they had taken aboard in France. As the storm grew and the steep green seas began to rise on all sides there was a steady increase in the traffic of men lurching to the rail to void the contents of their guts, and by the end of the fifth day out of St Nazaire, with no land visible on any quarter, tempers were becoming frayed and spirits correspondingly low.

Montjoy had managed to secure a hammock below deck and for the most part simply lay there listening to the ocean. He had worked harder since entering King Henry's service than he had ever worked before in his life; there always seemed to be something for him to do, some mission to be completed, some duty to be fulfilled. Henry was considered by some to be a capricious master, and he certainly demanded a lot from those who served him, but there had, too, been a variety of unexpected benefits. The promised cloak, for example, had arrived on the morning of the second day; of mouse-coloured wool, with a generous lining of blond wolf pelts, it was a little too short for Montjoy. He did not ask for whom it had been made, although the quality of the workmanship suggested a possibility. He wore it with pride, therefore, and to the apparent approval of his master.

Then, too, the tabard he was given when the time came to swear fealty to the king seemed to have been adapted from the surcoat of a man whose height did not match his own and who was broader in the chest. Again, he did not mention it. The arrangements had been quickly made, and all households practised these little economies. There was no inference to be drawn, other than that Henry was reluctant to waste money.

There had been no repetition of, nor even reference to, that moment of intimacy on the battlefield. If Henry treated him with greater cordiality and admitted him to closer companionship that another herald might have enjoyed, Montjoy responded with a watchful and attentive courtesy. He was aware at all times of the Duke of Exeter's eyes on him, certain that the king's uncle was alert for any evidence of presumption on his part. Such caution was clearly understood by them both; Henry might well extend the hand of friendship but Montjoy might not accept it yet. Therefore he would wait, and serve, although from time to time there was a troubled and impatient look in Henry's eyes which he longed to be able to banish.

And Henry continued to communicate with him in ways that did not require speech. The first time Montjoy needed a horse from the royal stables he was overwhelmed when the groom led out Burnet, his old companion from the Constable's retinue; then, to his embarrassment, the herald wrapped both arms affectionately around the creature's neck and dropped a tear into its mane. The groom pretended not to notice, but no doubt the story got back to Henry sooner rather than later. The next time they met they were both mounted, and Henry's mischievous smile in greeting told its own tale. Still nothing was said, however, and the subject was added to many more about which they did not talk. Talking would make the insubstantial real, and for the time being at least they were content for it not to be so.

Then Henry sent him scurrying about all over France, meeting with nobles and prelates and generals who treated him with contempt, setting forth in detail the terms of ransom for prisoners taken at Azincourt. Only the presence of a detachment of Exeter's men under Captain Gower kept him alive long enough to complete that particular assignment, and Montjoy often wondered why they themselves had not taken the chance, when it was offered, to rid the world of an unwanted French turncoat. There would be many people, both in England and in France, willing to applaud them for such an action, of that he had no doubt.

In short, by the time he stepped aboard the Thomas a full year after the battle, Montjoy was tired enough to be glad of a few days' respite from his labours. He had been so concerned to make sure Henry would never regret his generosity that he had worked himself half to a shadow, and it mattered little to him now that the sea raged and roared about them. Secure in his hammock he slept the voyage away, waking occasionally to take a cup of wine or a bowl of apples mashed in honey, to run a hand in fastidious regret across the whiskers starting on his chin, to wish for a bath and clean linen and, from time to time, to enquire about the welfare of his king. Other than that there was nothing he could do. Therefore, being blessed with a streak of solid practicality, he resolved to make the most of idleness and spent the majority of his time asleep. Thus he was unaware of the approach of danger until it was almost too late; until, on the night of the fifth day at sea, there was a crash and a jolt and he was thrown from his hammock on to the deck below, all of a piece with a score of other men who fumbled and cursed and groaned around him in a darkness blacker than the deepest pit of hell.

He fought his way through the mêlée to the base of the ladder and crawled up it, emerging onto the deck in the midst of a scene of chaos worse than anything on a battlefield. Men were screaming, praying, some bustling around looking purposeful, most in states of undress and almost all unrecognisable except where the bulk of a shoulder or the shape of a profile suddenly met the light, and over it all the moon hung between the ragged edges of the clouds as sharp and curved as the blade of an Arab knife.

"What happened?" Montjoy grabbed the arm of someone who was intent on passing him by. He had to make a conscious effort to speak English. "What happened?" Of course it was a stupid question, it was obvious what had happened, but nevertheless he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses; they could surely not have foundered in a well-known channel, so close to their destination, under the command of a captain experienced in these waters? It just did not seem possible.

"Rocks." The man wrestled free of Montjoy's grip.

"No, wait. Where is the king?"

He received in response a look of bovine stupidity.

"Ou est le roi? The king?"

The man shrugged. It was apparent he had no interest in Montjoy, the king, or anything else except saving his own skin.

Wood cracked and split around them. Ropes swung and tangled, spars fell, and from below came the sounds of bodies hitting water. Hard pellets of rain cut and stung like ice.

Despair was tangible. It was as thick as smoke. It was a taste on his lips.

Montjoy let the man go. "God be with you," he said, quietly.

"And with you, sir," replied the sailor - and was gone before the words were out of his mouth, over the side into the darkness.

There was no longer a choice to be made; unless he left the ship soon, the ship would leave him. It was breaking apart, the deck planks splitting like firewood, the wooden walls opening at the seams; in a few moments what had been a modest but serviceable warship would be scattered to fragments on the troubled sea, leaving behind it nothing but the cries of drowning men.

Montjoy shivered. The water would be cold, and he had time to wish that he had scrambled into his boots or something warmer than the drawers and shirt he slept in. If he was to come face to face with the Lord of Heaven, he might have preferred to do so slightly better dressed.

Then he was hurtling towards the waves, a cry startled from him like that of an angry gull; impact, scything pain, cold, anguish and confusion, and above all one thought which was the only thing that mattered to him in the slightest.

Where is the king?

Throughout the howling night the crash of the waves did not leave him. From his first screaming entry into the water, falling onto bodies and wreckage, torn and pulled in all directions by currents and forces he could not comprehend, slamming against objects he could not have identified even in the broad of day, his reason became so overwrought that nothing made any kind of sense at all. There were times when he thought he was at Westminster listening to the Duke of Exeter tell campaign stories and watching the old warrior's face grow rosy with drink. There were times when he believed he stood beside the grave of his cousin the Constable, unable to mourn and thinking about the leader of the enemy force. There were times, too, when he felt that Henry, or someone who resembled him, had hold of him and was keeping his head out of the water. However, as all these things were equally impossible he declined to take any of them seriously. No more did he credit the stink of wet goat-hair robes which reminded him of the cloistered life whose clutches he had been lucky enough to escape three decades earlier. No more did he credit the words in awkward French spoken against his ear, nor the forcing past his lips of a spoon containing something that tasted of fruit and wine and made him want to sleep with his head resting on some strong, accommodating shoulder.

"Le roi?" he heard himself saying, from time to time. "Ou est le roi?"

"Tais-toi." A quiet but firm response.

"The king. My king. Henry."

"There is no king here."

"The ship. The king."

"Pas maintenant. Demain."

"Henry."

It was his last coherent thought for some considerable time.

Fragments of awareness came and went. Someone bathed him, pressing cool damp cloths to his overheated flesh, and he could barely shudder out his thanks. The room was lit by flickering candles throughout a storm that seemed to last a year, and in the blackness figures came and went, dark and hunched, indistinct against the gloom. There was nothing to recognise, not even the sounds of voices. What words he understood were sometimes in French, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in English. There were prayers among them, and he tried to pray too, but the words got lost and jumbled up between languages until he could not remember which was which, and fingers brushing gently across his mouth quietened him anyway.

When he asked for the king the response was always the same. Every time he slept, every time he woke, he asked again, in case this time there might be a different answer, but nothing ever changed.

"No. Not yet. Not today. Not here."

And slowly, as he began to recover his senses, it came to him that he might have to face the possibility, once again, of living in a world where the light that was Henry of England simply did not shine.

The wind was still blustering when he woke again, but the shutters had been opened onto a grey sky and the outraged caw of seabirds reached his ears. The room he was in held four beds, each a narrow shelf resting along a wall, and one small table with a man beside it seated on a stool. A candle had burned down almost to its socket, running away into misshapen rivulets of grey wax. Someone had sat up here all night, and when he looked around himself he realised why. The occupants of the other three beds were dead.

"Where is the king?" he asked. Slowly the man unwound from the stool and came towards him, one hand outstretched in greeting.

"I know nothing about a king," he said, quietly, in English. "Which king?"

"Henry. Of England."

"You serve him?"

"Yes. My name is Montjoy."

"So said the man who brought you here," acknowledged the old man. He was heavily built and moved as though desperately tired, his face showing the burdens of too much care. "Well, Montjoy, you are on the island of Redmouth, my name is Francis, and I am the prior here."

"You're Benedictines?" The habit, the rosary, the simple surroundings did not leave much room for doubt.

"Of a sort. We were sent to build a lighthouse, to warn ships off the very rocks where your vessel foundered. Unfortunately there are only six of us left and progress is very slow. We expect to be recalled in the spring."

Montjoy was barely listening. "The man who brought me - was he of the middle stature, with light hair and blue eyes?"

"With a strong back and a good heart?" added Francis, smiling. "Yes. He said he was a soldier. I put him to digging graves."

"Oh, no, he … !" It had been instinctive at first to protest, but somehow Montjoy regained the use of his senses just in time. If the man was Henry, there would no doubt be plenty of good reasons not to reveal his identity. He had learned in the past year that the mantle of kingship sometimes chafed, and that Henry was happy to cast it aside for an hour or a day if opportunity should ever arise.

"He's a willing worker," Francis observed. "So few of us have any strength left in our limbs now, another pair of hands is always welcome."

"Where is he? I need to thank him for my life." Intending to rise, Montjoy pushed back the edge of the blanket and looked down at himself. He was wearing drawers and nothing else, and what had once been his right leg was a solid mass of dressings and bloody bandages from knee to groin. More astonishingly still, he felt absolutely no pain. "My God!"

His fingers quested across close-wrapped linen bands. He remembered entering the water vertically and falling onto something like rock or iron, and it had occurred to him that he might have been injured, but he had never known quite where or how it came to pass.

"You shouldn’t try to move," Francis told him, sympathetically. "You've been very close to death. Your friend nursed you himself as long as he could."

Confused, the herald pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. "How long?"

"A week and a half, the same time as the storm. As soon as the weather cleared, though, I set him to work outside. Now, stay where you are and I'll bring you some clothes and something to eat. Only pease porridge, I'm afraid, until we can get the bake oven going again." Montjoy was astonished to realise that the old man was apologising for the defects of his hospitality. "I'll find your companion. You'll probably both have to stay with us for the rest of the winter, I'm afraid. No large vessel can put in here safely between September and March, although sometimes fishing-boats take refuge under our cliff and it's possible you could leave with one of them. Your captain must have been mad to come so close to the shore," he added, thoughtfully. "Or perhaps desperate."

"Or both." For a moment Montjoy knew how that must have felt. "Or lost," he added, charitably - and that, too, was a feeling he believed he understood.

Francis nodded. "In any case, I'm sure he's out of his suffering by now - and many more besides. When the bodies stop coming ashore, we'll bury them all and say Masses for their souls."

"Thank you."

"They were Christian men," the prior said, as though he had known them all their lives. "They did their duty, and we will do ours in return."

Some time later, after he had eaten his porridge - thick, unappetising and cold - Montjoy managed to turn around and lower his feet cautiously to the floor. Francis had brought him an undershirt of coarse linen, threadbare in places, and assisted him into it. Over that went a sackcloth habit and a knotted girdle, and when he had finally struggled into the garments and pulled them decently around himself he sat on the hard pallet of the bed in a state of near exhaustion and understood the wisdom of the prohibition against movement.

"Your friend's outside. Are you ready to see him?"

"Please," said Montjoy, and Francis smiled.

"Very well. But only for a short while; he has work to do." His look, although friendly, was stern; Montjoy was certain he would have been perfectly capable of issuing orders to Henry even had he known who he was.

Francis opened the door and went out, but the leaf did not have time to fall closed again before it re-opened and another figure entered, identically dressed in a dull brown monkish habit cinched at the waist.

"Oh, don’t try to bow, for goodness' sake!" Henry said, exasperatedly, crossing the room to sit beside Montjoy and firmly grabbing at his shoulders.

"Majesty … "

"Don’t even think it!" And the herald was pulled tightly into the most heartfelt embrace of his entire life. Nor did it take him completely by surprise; his arms had already been reaching out to Henry. "My God, I thought I was going to lose you. You don’t know how hard I prayed!"

Montjoy's hands clutched the coarse fabric of Henry's robe exactly as a year earlier they had gripped his bloody surcoat. "You nursed me," he managed, confused.

"Under instruction, which is why you're still alive. If it had been left to me … "

Despite a clear recollection of someone who had held him tenderly and fed him medicine from a spoon Montjoy allowed this remark to pass. Indeed it was not easy to concentrate with Henry looking so unlike himself; his scalp had been shaved, rather unevenly, and a downy regrowth was already beginning upon it. A few days' worth of beard-stubble along the line of his jaw conspired to make the king unrecognisable to anyone who did not know him as well as his herald.

"Don't laugh." Henry seemed suddenly at a disadvantage. "They'll do it to you, too, only I wouldn’t let them while you were asleep. I was afraid you might die and God wouldn’t recognise you."

"Oh." Montjoy's eyes widened. The thought of Henry contemplating his death took him back to the hours before the battle, when he had been desperate to save one single precious life. It was beginning to seem as if the threat of separation had been just as fearful for them both. "Thank you."

A silence fell, but it was not an awkward silence. It was contemplative and reassuring. Eventually Montjoy found the courage to speak again, to say what was uppermost in his mind.

"You saved me from the shipwreck, didn’t you?"

Uncomfortably Henry shrugged. "By the time I found you, you were already clinging to something. The mast fell close to me and when I finally got untangled from the rigging there you were. But good heralds are few and far between; I'd be a fool not to try to hold on to the one I have."

"You can swim?"

"Unlike most of those other poor devils," was the confirmation. "They think it makes it an easier death if they don’t struggle. But I saw a shallop launched, so someone got away at least. You and I were washed up on shore," Henry concluded, thoughtfully. "I had no idea this island even existed."

"I assume you haven’t told them who you are?"

"It seemed wisest not to. We're on French soil, in the Norman Isles, and the Duc Grandpree is Governor here. I'm alone, unarmed; you know the Dauphin would capture me in a heartbeat if he could."

"You're not alone." Montjoy was becoming aware that they had never entirely loosed their grip on one another.

"I know. I know you'd fight to the last breath if I let you. But you're injured, and I won't sacrifice you in a cause that's already lost. No, I'd rather stay hidden if we can; it will do me good to turn my hand to something practical for a change. I've already started learning to cut stone and build walls. I don’t think," he added, energetically, "I've ever felt quite so useful in my life."

Montjoy's instinct was not to protest. Indeed, the prospect of a winter in the king's company was an appealing one, and if Henry could be content without acknowledging his identity who was he to argue? A moment's reflection, however, told him it might not be quite as simple as Henry hoped.

"They'll search for you," he warned. "From both sides."

"True. But England will think I turned back, and France will think I got through. It will be some time before anyone suspects our ship was lost and sends an expedition, so we may as well settle in to wait. You don’t object to working with your hands, I hope?"

"Not at all! I spent most of my early life in religious establishments; I'm quite familiar with their ways."

"Really? Did your parents intend you for the church, then?"

"At one time. But … " Even after so long, the words were not easily come by. "My sister discovered a vocation that I … didn’t share. She went into a convent instead, and I returned to the world."

Henry was shaking his head. "I thought I knew everything about you by now, herald, but I had no idea you had a sister. Is she still alive?"

Montjoy looked at him. "I don’t know. One day, I hope to find out."

"Well, when we get home, we'll see what we can do about that."

"Thank you."

Henry shrugged. "No use being king of half Europe if I can't be of service to my friends," he remarked, gruffly. Then, folding Montjoy's long-fingered hands between his own; "Now God be thanked, I shall have one less grave to dig today."

The herald, convinced that God had rather less to do with it than Henry's own relentless determination, wisely did not give the idea voice. Indeed, he was still trying to comprehend the odd familiarity which had begun to exist between them; as far as he could tell it was something Henry permitted to nobody else, even members of his own family, and he had always been afraid to question it in case it vanished and did not return.

"What shall I call you," he asked, nervously, "if not king?"

Henry looked away. "I've taken my brother's name for the time being. 'John'."

"Very well. But if the Dauphin comes after you, will you let me fight?"

Henry seemed surprised. "Have you ever killed a man?"

"Never - although if I have to I can and will."

"I wouldn't doubt it for a moment, you bloodthirsty rogue." But the king's expression became serious then, and so did his tone. "You're asking me to let you die beside me?"

"Yes."

"Dear Montjoy," sighed Henry, "so entirely faithful. If that's what you really want, of course I'll allow it - but let's have no rash chivalry from either of us, shall we? Whichever side of the grave we're on, I'd prefer it if we stayed together."

Montjoy was watching him wide-eyed. When he spoke, he was unable to keep wonderment from colouring his tone. "So would I," he whispered, his anxieties for the time being very much relieved. "So would I."

After Henry had returned to his duties, Montjoy found himself once again in the company of the prior.

"How can I be of service?" he asked him, respectfully.

"Come to the chapel and tell me if you recognise any of the bodies," Francis said. "Their graves are ready, we'll bury them tonight. Lean on me," he added, helping Montjoy rise from the bed beside the wall and taking his weight across broad stooping shoulders. Slowly Montjoy allowed himself to be assisted into a large white-walled room scant of decoration except for a handsome carved cross whose gilding caught the light from narrow windows. On trestles beneath the altar were the remains of seven men, naked but for their winding-sheets, their grey faces open to the air.

"Were any alive when they reached you?" Montjoy asked, balancing his weight on Francis and studying the first of the faces.

"Breathing, yes, but not awake. None of them ever opened their eyes. Do you know this one?"

It was the corpse of a plump, fair-haired boy, some fifteen or sixteen years of age. "No. He looks like a servant to me, but I don’t think he's from the king's household. Have you asked … John?"

"Yes. He knows the one at the end - an armourer - and says the man with the broken jaw was one of the sailors. This one and the next he thought might be from the Duke of Exeter's establishment, or perhaps the Earl of Westmoreland's. He knew their faces, but he couldn’t recall their names."

Montjoy was glancing along the line. "There's no-one here I recognise," he said, sadly.

"Were you in the king's household?" asked the prior.

"Yes. I'm … one of his heralds. I entered his service after Azincourt."

"Ah yes. According to John, his majesty thinks very highly of you. You certainly seem attached to him; all you could talk about in your delirium was the king."

Montjoy looked away. "Everyone who serves King Henry loves him," he said, uncomfortably.

"Really? Then he's a fortunate man to inspire such devotion even in his enemies."

"It isn’t like that," said Montjoy. "I was never his enemy."

"No, I see that. But there's something I wanted to ask you about John."

"Yes?" He could not keep suspicion out of his voice.

"Yes. He and Ambrosius, the youngest of my flock, swear they've seen a light on that island there." He drew Montjoy to the window and pointed out across the sea, flat as a millpond now under an icy sky. "Vraiqhou, 'Weed Island'. It's used by fishermen in the summer, and sometimes we graze goats on it, but nobody lives there at this time of year. There should be no light. "

Montjoy leaned heavily against the wall, screwing his eyes up to examine low-lying land at the extremity of his vision.

"John and Ambrosius have convinced themselves there are survivors from your ship on Vraiqhou, and they've asked permission to take the boat and investigate. We have only one boat," continued Francis, "and they are the youngest and fittest of us. Would you risk losing what you could ill afford to spare, for the sake of a light that might not really exist?"

"Have you seen the light?" asked Montjoy.

"No. My eyes are poor. But John says he has seen it, and he tells me he can manage the boat. What do you say, Montjoy? Would you trust him, if you were me?"

"Yes," he replied, not thinking about it until after he had spoken. "If John says he can do a thing, he will."

"He'll bring my boat back safely, and my young brother with it?"

"Yes."

Francis nodded. "Very well, then. Tonight we'll bury the dead; tomorrow, at first light, they can go, and all our prayers with them. If there are men alive on that island, their travails will soon be over."

That night Montjoy slept alone in the infirmary. He did not know where Henry slept, or indeed whether he slept at all. They saw one another at Vespers, and then with the exchange of a cordial but distant nod retired to their separate quarters to rest.

It was just as well, perhaps, Montjoy reflected. This was not the first time he had steeled himself to accept Henry's loss on the following day; at Azincourt he had been so certain he was going to see the man torn apart in front of his eyes that he had done his best to armour his heart to all feeling, only to have the whole edifice crack and crumble at the last possible moment. This time, however, he felt better equipped to cope. There was no opposing army to be defeated, no conflict of loyalties to be resolved; this was merely Henry, in company with Brother Ambrosius, coming face to face with elemental powers.

Montjoy had long ago acknowledged to himself that he was utterly besotted with the man, but he still could not imagine mere sky and sea and wind and rocks ever getting the better of his king. It would take more than that to defeat Henry of England. Far more. And he hoped he himself would never live to see that day.

In the morning he watched the little skiff crawling across the water for almost an hour, braced in the embrasure of the chapel window. Henry's leave-taking had been almost formal, but for a sudden clasp of his arms at the last moment.

"I can't take you with me, you're not strong enough yet."

Montjoy clasped him back and spoke into his ear. "I understand. Go safely."

"I'll be back later," was the quiet response, and they did not look at one another as they parted.

When they were well on their way Francis again sought out Montjoy, bringing with him an account of the shipwreck in Henry's large, round characters and a list of descriptions of the men they had buried the evening before. After they had run through the details the prior, glancing up at the now empty window, said; "He has another name in the world, doesn’t he, your friend John?"

"Does he?"

Francis sighed. "I remember someone I saw … some years ago now. A young man, seen from a distance. His name was not 'John'."

Montjoy stared at him. "Where?"

The old prior's face crinkled into a smile. "Ah," he said, "I thought that would catch your interest. I happened to be passing through London at the time, and foul weather delayed my journey. As a result, quite by chance, I found myself attending the coronation of the new king. Were you also there, perhaps?"

"Yes." Then, as a little more explanation seemed called for, he continued. "I was in the service of the Constable of France. I stood at the back of the church, a long way from what was happening. I could hardly see a thing."

"Did you see his majesty that day?"

"Not well." He looked sharply into Francis's eyes. "Did you?"

"I did. It is not a face one would soon be likely to forget."

"No," admitted Montjoy, softly. "I never have."

"Quite." Francis was watching him carefully, and although there was no hostility between them there was certainly wariness, as if either expected the other to be capable of proving dangerous. "You should know, I think," Francis began, with elaborate caution, "about the lengths to which … your friend … was prepared to go on your behalf. When he brought you to us - and how he got you up that path on his own I can't explain - your wound was already bandaged. He had done it himself, down on the shore, using strips of his shirt. You understand? In that storm, in the darkness, he removed his own clothing to bind your wound. He was very nearly naked when he carried you in through our door."

Montjoy looked down at his folded hands. Indeed it would have been impossible to speak, just at this moment. It was not simply the knowledge of Henry's superhuman efforts on his behalf that had affected his equilibrium, but the thought of him exposed, unprotected, rain lashing at his bare skin. He had never seen Henry less than fully dressed, had never allowed his mind to consider that there was a human form concealed beneath the clothing. For so long this was how he had managed to think of Henry solely as a king; now, with Francis's words ringing in his ears, he knew at last that he was thinking about him also as a man.

"One of my brothers found these among the rocks," Francis went on, apparently aware of Montjoy's internal conflict. "Would you like to have them?"

Into Montjoy's open palm he tipped a scattering of tiny disks. They were elegant little mother-of-pearl buttons on silver mounts, eight of them, one still bearing with it a tuft of ivory silk.

"His shirt," Montjoy said, numbed by the notion.

"Yes." Francis cleared his throat. "I don’t know you, Herald Montjoy. Who are you, and what are you to our king?"

"A Frenchman. Exchanged for the Dauphin. The king's friend, I think." He had never attempted to put it into words before; he had been so busy trying to accept it that he had never begun to describe it even to himself. "I'm called a traitor because I … After the battle, when he was weary … But I wanted to, too."

"What was it you did?"

"Held him," said Montjoy simply. "Against my heart." He was still not sure whether to be ashamed of that or proud.

"And have done so ever since," asked Francis, "in thought, if not in deed?"

"Yes." He was silent for a moment, his brain reeling. "It's ridiculous, isn’t it? Although sometimes I feel … But I have no idea how to care for anyone, and I'm so far beneath his notice … "

The prior reached out and patted the hand which had closed over the silver disks. "I hardly think so, do you? In my experience kings prize loyalty above all other virtues; yours to him is equalled by his to you, and whether you were both kings or commoners it would still be so. What we need to consider now is how to keep him safe from the Dauphin's men; if word reaches St Helier before it gets to England … "

Montjoy lifted his head and stared at the prior with alarm growing steadily behind his eyes.

"Is there anywhere on the island he can hide?"

Francis was grinning at him. "I'm glad you asked," he said, with the air of one who has been keeping a delightful secret for just the right occasion. "As a matter of fact, I have something in preparation that you may be willing to consider."

The day dragged on interminably, and evening brought a dismal layer of mist which settled on the surface of the water. Until dusk Montjoy stared out into the distance whenever time allowed, but saw nothing below the horizon that even faintly resembled the skiff. Eventually, his eyes stinging, he turned back towards the chapel and joined Francis and the others in prayer. Surely Henry would not set off when it was already dark? Bold as he was, he knew how to choose his battles; a night on a hostile island might not be the most welcoming of prospects, but it would be better than tackling an unfamiliar ocean, in darkness, with only his own resolute physical strength to call upon.

Assuming, that was, Henry was still alive. He could think nothing else, sure that he would know if it was otherwise, but from time to time the suspicion crept in that perhaps he had allowed his king to go off on a fool's errand, to search for men who had been dead a week or more, and that he would never have the good fortune to see him again.

After Vespers, when it was fully dark, he took a lantern and limped down to the shore. The ache in his leg was dull and throbbing, the wound clean but barely holding closed. He had never found the words to thank Henry properly for his life, and since he had been given a better idea of the lengths his lord and master had gone to on his behalf he was torn between gratitude and a sense of incredulity at having been thought to merit such extravagant care.

In alerting him to the details of Henry's solicitude, Francis had multiplied Montjoy's bewilderment a thousandfold. To have been hauled from the sea and manhandled up a steep path by his king was miracle enough, but there had been more to Henry's ministrations even than that. The wound was a deep one, jagged, long, extending into the fold of his groin, and Montjoy had been brought bandaged into the monks' hall. Therefore it was obvious he had been stripped to the skin, and that Henry must have touched him intimately. He did not doubt the care with which he had been handled, despite the conditions, and his mind could not let go of the imaginary scene. Indeed, if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he could still feel the imprint of fingers on his skin, smoothing down strands of figured ivory silk, stroking away pain and leaving reassurance in their wake.

At almost every other stage of his life Montjoy would have considered it incongruous and wrong to entertain such thoughts about any man, let alone a king. Indeed, he would have rejected it now had there not clearly been something unquantifiable present the first time they looked into one another's eyes. He had never known such an immediate liking before, and if it had been the same for Henry then the desire to fall into a shared embrace became wholly explicable. And Henry, he knew, had at one time had a male lover. Could that be what this was all about?

If he had ever known a lover of his own, of either gender, Montjoy might have found a way of answering that question - but, as matters stood, he had not. It would be as Henry dictated, then; whatever the king wanted, that would also be Montjoy's choice.

But he knew now, at least, what it was he was hoping for.

The sound of a far-off creak and splash was followed by what might have been a curse, had it not been impossible to distinguish anything but the tone - and then Montjoy was not even sure that he had heard it. Yet faith was too strong in him, and before he had even really considered what he was about to do he had opened his mouth as wide as he could and called out; "Hello?"

He cursed the timbre of the polite whisper that seemed lost in the mist as soon as he had uttered it. Why had he not been blessed with a sonorous basso like Exeter's, or even a voice as deep as Henry's own?

"Hello?"

"Yes! Here!" Even from far away, the timbre was unmistakable. This was the heart-note which had roused an English rabble to astonishing feats of arms in the mud at Azincourt; these were the tones that had drawn chivalry from peasants.

"Where are you?" Forgetting age, dignity, wounds, Montjoy was almost bouncing on the soles of his feet. He had never quite given up hope, but a part of him had scarcely expected to see his beloved king again.

"Keep … calling."

"John? Ambrosius? Where are you?"

On the shore he raged one way and another, six steps in each direction, chained to the rocks of the cove and unable to tell where the floating voice lay.

"Montjoy!"

"John!" And if it crossed his mind that he was calling home the King of England as he would a dog, there seemed nothing amiss with it. He was hoarse already, heart and soul in the cry, repeating it with everything he had, weaker and weaker and still continuing.

"Where are you?" came the roar, from closer at hand now.

"Here! Here!"

"Easy now," Henry's voice said, still at a distance, although not to him. "Montjoy?"

"Yes! Over here!"

And a stumbling sound and the screech of wood against rock, and "Thank God, thank God!" and a moment later shapes were looming up through the mist and one of them was embracing him enthusiastically.

"My dear lord," he breathed, pulling the bedraggled figure into the closest hold he could manage, aware of the extreme tightness of the arms that enfolded him and of a whisper in his ear.

"Hush, I'm safe."

When he could open his eyes he became aware of other figures in the gloom, their gazes puzzled but sympathetic. One was Ambrosius, exhausted, grappling the skiff out of the water with the aid of a short, stocky man who cursed loudly. The other he recognised, both from the English Army at Azincourt and from his own subsequent excursions into France.

"Captain Gower?"

"My lord Montjoy." A distant nod of recognition, but then it would have been difficult - if not impossible - for a mere Captain in the Duke of Exeter's militia to interrupt the joyous homecoming of his king.

"Gower." Henry, recollected to duty, extracted himself from Montjoy's hold. "The other man is Williams. He challenged me to a duel once, but I think he's forgiven me since."

"Your majesty well knows that was simply a misunderstanding," Williams reminded him, coming closer, an awkward smile on his wide face.

Henry took a deep breath. "And you well know," he said, firmly, "that there can be no king here. Say what you must now, but inside - in the community - my name is 'John' and nothing else. If you value my life, or your own, remember it."

Montjoy was watching Ambrosius's expression. The young man looked thunderstruck but determined to take it in his stride. After all, he had been alone with Henry for some hours as they rowed out across the water; perhaps the king had taken the opportunity to reveal his identity then, or perhaps it had simply not been possible to prevent the castaways exclaiming in delight when they recognised their rescuer. It was a tale he would have to extract from one or other of them at a later time. For now, it was simply a question of securing Ambrosius's silence.

"You are not the only one who knows," Montjoy told him, quietly.

"Father Prior knows," said Ambrosius, in the same confidential register. Henry, preoccupied as he was with Williams, did not hear. "He warned me there was something, but he didn’t say what it was."

"Will you keep the secret?"

"Of course. On Earth, he's my king - and in Heaven, my brother. You can rely on me."

"Thank you," said Montjoy. He believed, now, that he knew who had discovered the tell-tale buttons among the rocks. So, if Ambrosius and Francis were both prepared to keep silent about what they knew, and if the others were unaware of the imposture, there was a chance that Henry could return to the unassuming existence of a lay brother of the Benedictines for as long as concealment should prove to be necessary.

"Well," the king was saying, hospitably, to Gower and Williams, "there's food and a roof, which by Christ must be better than a lump of rock and a diet of seabirds no matter how well you managed over there. Come and introduce yourselves to the prior, lads; there'll be fresh clothes and a bed to sleep in tonight. Your trials are ended, at least for a while."

"Aye," said Williams, "God and your majesty be thanked." Then, noticing the amused annoyance with which Henry was regarding him, he hastily amended the sentiment. "Well, then, God alone be thanked," he added, sheepishly.

"Amen to that," cheered Henry, slapping him warmly across the shoulder, and with a tired but affectionate grin in Montjoy's direction briskly escorted the little group back into the shelter of the buildings.

That night, after the uproar attending the new arrivals had died away, all four of them slept in the infirmary. In the morning Williams went with Henry to the stone quarry whilst Gower and Ambrosius attended to the domestic animals. Montjoy, cornered by Francis, found himself becoming entangled in the bureaucracy attending even the smallest Benedictine establishment; he laboured most of the day to complete, in his small, meticulous handwriting, the lists and chronicles that had managed to escape the Father Prior's much-divided attention for rather too long of late.

So, too, went the next few days. Gower, with his sunken cheeks and his large luminous eyes, looked every inch the ascetic monk; Williams, more practical in nature and disinclined to complain about anything as long as he had food and shelter, wore the habit as though born to it. The remains of their worldly clothes were burned at the earliest opportunity, their scalps shaved, and the four men who had known one another in such different circumstances before the shipwreck now began to reconcile themselves, for a time at least, to life on their bleak Atlantic rock.

Less than a week after the rescue of the castaways, however, the appearance of a sail on the horizon threw their newly-settled world into a flurry of consternation. It had become customary in daylight for a lookout to be kept, on the crest of the island, even while men were working in the quarry there. It meant that one man would effectively be idle for hours at a stretch, but at least it was a way in which the less physically able brothers could contribute to the general purpose. These included Montjoy who, although still weak, took his turn with very mixed emotions. The lookout platform was close enough to the site of the lighthouse for him to cast the occasional glance in Henry's direction while he worked, and from time to time when the wind was favourable it was possible to hear the king's uncertain light baritone raised in what was recognisable as a psalm.

It was Williams who was on duty when the sail was first sighted. His call down to the quarry brought Gower to his side, and they debated the matter anxiously back and forth for a few moments before Gower, with his longer legs, set off to run the length of the island's spine to the small cluster of buildings at the far end. As he rounded the corner of the chapel, however, he ran headlong into Ambrosius and Henry bringing a basket of vegetables up from the root store, and unthinkingly bundled the pair of them in through the nearest doorway.

"There's a ship," he gasped.

Henry immediately dropped the basket.

"English or French?"

"Too far away to tell." By an enormous effort of will Gower had managed to purge honorifics from his speech when talking to Henry and now stared at him as frankly as if he was no more than a comrade soldier. "But I don’t think she can be English."

"Neither do I. It's too soon."

Alerted by the commotion, Montjoy and Francis emerged from the infirmary where the prior had been replacing the bandages on the herald's injured thigh.

"Could they be pirates?" Montjoy asked, diffidently.

"It's possible, but it's more likely they're Grandpree's men. Someone may have found the shallop, or perhaps it got safely to one of the other islands. In any case the scavengers have started gathering - looking for my corpse, I dare say."

It was draughty where they stood, and the violent shudder that passed through Montjoy at these words was therefore no doubt the result of a sudden cold breeze gusting along the open hallway.

"They won’t come ashore with less than a couple of dozen men," said Henry. "We can't fight that many, not without proper weapons. Besides, this is God's house - and he wouldn't fight in mine."

"What, then? Let ourselves be taken?" Gower was glaring open rebellion.

"No. The French won't treat any of us kindly, but Montjoy … " Henry stopped, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"They won’t waste time taking me prisoner," said Montjoy, calmly. "I'll be the first one killed."

"Without mercy, if I know my Dauphin. But there should be time to row back to Weed Island - we can hide out there. Surely that has to be better than waiting here?"

Gower groaned miserably. "Is that really the best we can do?" he asked, the thought of spending any more time on that inhospitable lump of rock obviously not an attractive one.

"It's all I've been able to think of. You'll give us provisions, won’t you, Father Prior?"

Slowly Francis shook his head. "Provisions," he said, "you're welcome to, but I'm afraid I can't allow you to take my boat. No," he continued, firmly suppressing any incipient protest. "You know as well as I do, Brother John, we couldn’t manage without our skiff. A wise man would not dream of insisting."

For a moment it seemed Henry might over-rule the prior's objection and perhaps consider taking the boat by force, but then a voice at his shoulder said; "My lord, I promise you, there is a better way."

Henry turned to Montjoy. "There is?"

"Yes," rejoined Francis. "As long as you don't object to laying aside your royal dignity, that is."

The look Henry directed towards him was chagrined, annoyed, frustrated and exhausted all at once. "My … royal … dignity?" Francis's gaze remained level, uncritical. "You were never fooled, were you? Not even for a moment."

The prior smiled. "Never, I'm afraid. But here you can be whoever you choose to be, and call yourself by any name you like, and nobody will argue otherwise. Unfortunately," he went on, "the world has come looking for you. If you want to keep your companions safe there's only one thing I can suggest, although I'm afraid it will require you to humble yourself still further."

Henry was undaunted. "The lives of my men are more important than my pride," he said, firmly. "Tell me what it is, and I'll do it gladly."

"Good. Go with Brother Ambrosius, hide where he tells you to hide, and stay silent until either he or I come to get you. You'll be warm, dry and safe. That's the best I can do for you."

"Thank you." Henry turned to Gower. "Fetch Williams. Quickly."

A brisk inclination of the head, and Gower was off and running before another breath could be drawn.

"Go now," said Francis, "and God protect your majesty."

Henry's chin lifted, the regal stiffness returning momentarily to his spine. "God protect my friends," he countered. "Every single one of them."

"A pig-sty?" he was saying, in confusion, a few moments later. Ambrosius had pushed the pig across to one side of the outer pen and was indicating the low doorway to her sleeping quarters. "A pig-sty?"

"It's perfect," said Montjoy. "If they bring dogs, all they'll smell is pig - and if she's fed just before they come ashore it will confuse the scent still further. Even if they look inside, they won’t see anything; Brother Ambrosius has built a false wall to hide behind. Of course he intended this for two men, not four, but I think we'll be able to manage."

"You knew about it?"

"The prior told me. He expected you to be pursued."

"And you admitted who I was."

"I didn’t need to. Prior Francis has seen you before."

Henry groaned. "In this, of all out of the way corners of the world," he said, shaking his head. "Well, it will teach me to know my rightful place," he added, wryly. "And what about you, herald? Will you be content to lodge with me even in this, the humblest of my dwellings?"

"Your majesty," Montjoy told him, without hesitation, "I will."

With Ambrosius's assistance they somehow squeezed through the small aperture into the rear chamber of the pig house, past the half-removed inner partition and into a space occupied by a couple of blankets and a pile of cleanish straw. Henry manoeuvred Montjoy into one corner, his damaged leg braced against the longest wall, then crushed in beside him in an ungainly tangle. Williams, arriving at a run, scrambled breathless and sweating into the third space, with Gower wedged into the narrow sliver that remained. A basket of food was handed in, with four sharp kitchen knives for last-ditch defensive purposes wrapped in a length of cloth and stuffed down beside the wine jar, the bread, the goat cheese and the little wizened apples. Then Gower, working from inside, and Ambrosius, from outside, pushed the last concealing board into place, and the young monk scuffed up straw to disguise the join.

"Quiet now," he hissed. And then, "I mean … noble sir, if you please."

Despite himself Henry exhaled a gasp of amusement. He wriggled around close to Montjoy's shoulder, listening as the breathing of all four of them calmed and the pig snuffed and rootled in the outer part of the pen.

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable like this?" he whispered to his herald. "I'm worried that you've been putting too much strain on that leg before it's properly healed."

"Yes, my lord, thank you, I'm sure I will."

It was dark where they lay - worse, even, than the mines beneath Harfleur into which Henry had ventured briefly before deciding to leave the whole sordid business to Gloucester, who had an aptitude for that sort of thing. He preferred his battles to be fought in the fresh air wherever possible.

"A pig-sty," he laughed against Montjoy's neck. He had twisted himself so that he was half-beside his companion and half-across him, one knee between Montjoy's thighs and Williams' right foot resting against the king's shin. It was awkward and undignified and there was nowhere for Henry's left hand to go until it settled tentatively on Montjoy's hip and was anchored there by fingers that came to rest on top of it. "All right?" he asked, softly.

"Yes, of course."

"I thought so." The whisper gentle across Montjoy's cheek, and then a slight further shifting of position as Montjoy's arm slid affectionately around Henry's waist. "A pig-sty. There are so many better places."

"There is no better place," sighed Montjoy, "than where you are."

"Hmmm," Henry mused, his head dropping to Montjoy's shoulder. "How did I give myself away, dear herald?"

"To the prior? It was the shirt."

"Damn." The hand was now stroking across Montjoy's thigh. "And to you?"

Montjoy's head tilted. He could taste the king's breath, so close beneath his mouth that he wanted to fall forward into it, to swallow it, to absorb Henry wholly into himself. He settled for tightening his grip possessively both on the strong body and on the square hand sliding inevitably higher on his leg.

"I've always known," he said.

"Always?"

"Since the first time I saw you."

"I know," said Henry. "Me too."

"I know," said Montjoy, and drew a breath, and kissed him.

* * *

*

III. Pensée

They were not released until late the following morning. During the day and part of the night they had been much aware of heavy footsteps, of the to-ing and fro-ing of a number of men, of their curses and complaints, and of the fact that one or two had obligingly pissed up against the wall of the pig-sty to the further confusion of the dogs. All in all Henry had no very great opinion of the intelligence of his pursuers, a remark he made more than once with his lips brushing softly against Montjoy's ear.

In the dark it had seemed simple enough; Henry responding gleefully to the kiss, as if he had just been let out of prison, his mouth lifting and opening and welcoming all at once, suppressed laughter in the voice that whispered; "I've waited so long," as they drew apart. And it was more than one kiss, it was several, hands that rejoiced in him and half-gasped endearments uttered in delirium until an uncomfortable shifting from the other end of their refuge brought them back to reality. Then someone patted Montjoy's ankle and Henry subsided against him and seemed happy to remain there, his head on Montjoy's shoulder, until eventually - enviably - he fell asleep.

Whether Montjoy also slept he could not have said; darkness was heavy on him whether his eyes were open or closed, and holding Henry belonged more to the sleeping than the waking world. As night drew on, however, he was glad of the warmth of their pressed bodies, of the embrace that sometimes shifted but did not relent. He shivered into it, pain from his leg flaring again, and when his head slumped to Henry's chest and he felt fingers carding gently through his hair he began to understand that all was not well, and that what had started as an idyll had metamorphosed into an ordeal. He clutched at Henry's robe, at the body beneath, as though at his last anchor in the world; the thud of Henry's heart became the settled rhythm of his life.

He was still in Henry's arms when the partition was removed and blackness faded into sullen gloom. Too weary to stir, he stayed where he was even when he felt first Gower and then Williams scrambling out of their refuge. Then Ambrosius reached in and detached his frozen grip so that Henry could shuffle out and, with considerable delicacy, Montjoy was extracted almost against his will. He would have settled back and gone to sleep, with or without Henry's company, because the sky was spinning around his head and he was slowly falling out of consciousness. From a distance he heard Francis issuing instructions and someone who might have been Henry scurrying to obey, and Gower saying "Bear up, sir, bear up, you can't leave us now." But he needed his rest, and he slid into the world of miracles, and awoke again to pain and fever.

This was not the kindly oblivion of his first crisis. Montjoy shuddered through days and nights of hellish visions, nightmares and agony. He was awake as much as he was asleep, but wakefulness did not contribute understanding. Henry was there, Gower, Williams, the prior and Ambrosius at different times; they flitted at the edges of his vision like ghosts, bringing potions for him to drink and stripping, cleaning and binding the open place on his leg. In moments of vague consciousness he knew that Williams wept over him, his eyes full of sympathetic tears, and that Gower offered the robust reassurance of a comrade. Henry, however, touched his lips to the nearest patch of whole skin and prayed, quietly and fervently, for rapid deliverance from his suffering.

"You shouldn’t." A stray hand lightly stroked Henry's shoulder.

"Nonsense. It's healing nicely." And then Henry lifted up and, without preamble, kissed his herald gently on the mouth.

"I thought I'd dreamed that," Montjoy told him, hoarsely, as they parted.

"No. You kissed me. In God's house, too. Well, His Pig's house, anyway," Henry laughed. "I hope you meant it. I've often wondered what was in your heart."

"What was in my … ?" It struck Montjoy as a faintly ridiculous question. "You are. You always have been."

"Good. I want to be. There'll be plenty of time to talk about it when you're well, but you need to know - I won’t share you. It's everything or nothing."

"Everything, then," said Montjoy, as if there had ever been a choice.

Some time later - it could have been days - Henry was beside him, caressing his fingers thoughtfully.

"The first time we met, I wished I had someone half as impressive as you that I could send out to terrify people. Then, when I saw you again, I knew we liked each other more than we ever should."

"In the clearing?" It was becoming easier, now, to accept that they understood one another.

"Yes. And after that, when you wanted me to save myself. That was when I realised it wasn't just 'liking'. I started hoping we'd both survive, and that I could persuade you to join me. My uncle of Exeter thought I'd gone mad, but I'd have given a dozen Dauphins for you if I'd had them."

"And this … " - their joined hands - " … was what you wanted?"

"Yes. Wasn't it the same for you?"

Uncomfortably Montjoy shook his head. "I don’t know," he admitted. "Would you be shocked if I told you … I haven't ever … ?"

"Never?" Henry's eyes widened. "That confirms my suspicions about the men of France," he said. "They're all insane. And the women, too. I presume … ?"

"Neither."

"Oh. Then, with me … ?"

Montjoy was watching him steadily, a slight flush along his sharp cheekbones the only hint of embarrassment. "If you're sure that's what you want," he said. "You'll be making a very poor bargain; I'm twelve years older than you, and totally inexperienced. You could do much better. You should do much better."

"Don’t be noble. You love me, don’t you?"

"You know I do. If I've ever loved anyone in my life, it has been you. But it would be wrong to waste yourself on me when the Princess of France expects to be married to you."

"Katharine," Henry mused. "Well, she's sweet, but I only half-promised her, you know, because I'd made such a fool of myself over Scroop. She'd be just as happy with Bedford. When we get home, I'll tell him he can have her if he likes."

Montjoy was horrified. "You can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"You can't reject the Princess of France for a … " He paused. "I'm little more than a servant, from a disgraced family. You'd make yourself a laughing stock - and your people uncomfortable."

"I assure you, forcing me to marry against my inclinations would hardly be a recipe for a contented kingdom. No, the people of England will like me better if I'm allowed to make my own decision. If John and Katharine are willing to give me an heir - or, better still, half a dozen - I'll tell the Council who it is I really want."

Montjoy was watching him, a fondly uncritical expression on his face. "Remember what happened to your ancestor?" he asked. "The second Edward?"

"Edward was a fool. He gave his wife's jewels to his lover and of course that upset her. Well, I have no wife; whatever I give you will be my own. No," he went on, "you're my choice, and my Council like you already. They may take some persuading, but I don’t expect them to refuse. If one of us was a woman we could marry and nobody would have a word to say. You'd marry me, wouldn’t you, if we could?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, we both want the same thing. We just have to find a way to make it work, that's all."

"Did you love him?"

Henry looked up from rebandaging the wound, startled by the boldness of the question. He had more or less taken over the nursing duties single-handedly now that Montjoy was so much better; Gower and Williams were fully occupied on building the lighthouse.

"Scroop? Yes. At least, I loved the man I thought he was. Unfortunately, I was deceived. I suppose you've heard all about it?"

"I know you lived together. Nothing more."

Henry wiped his hands and sat on the stool beside the bed. "Well, then, you've missed the worst. We lived in London - at my house at Coldharbour, just outside the Tower ward. You understand, my father had all but disinherited me; he was going to make Thomas his heir, so it didn’t matter what I did."

Montjoy said nothing, but his pale eyes did not leave Henry's face.

"We were happy, at first," the king went on. "Nobody cared if we slept in the same bed or flirted in public, they thought it was just boyish high-spirits. So did I, I think. It felt like being outside the rules. I wasn't always followed, I had the chance to do things for myself - to mix with unsuitable companions, as my father would have said. And, yes, I was in love. I thought we both were. I could have stayed like that for the rest of my life." He stopped, then continued more cautiously. "In my own mind, I was married. We'd made promises and I intended to keep them. I was expecting to be removed from the succession, but that didn’t matter. I had him. It would have been enough."

"For you?" asked Montjoy. "Not for him?"

"No. No matter how open we allowed ourselves to be, he always wanted more. He bragged in taverns, told half London we lived as husband and wife. Even that would have been bearable, though," was the painful conclusion, "compared to what he did afterwards."

Montjoy shifted, moving closer, concerned to offer comfort if he could.

"One cold day," Henry went on, "coming from Mass, we found a boy asleep in a doorway. He was ragged and starving and we were drunk on love and full of Christian charity so we took him home and gave him a place in our household. That was Walter, the boy who died at Azincourt."

"Ah. Your uncle of Exeter said he'd lived a sad life."

"He did, poor child. Within weeks my lord of Masham had taken him to bed. Of course I knew nothing about it until later; the boy was afraid to tell me. In the end Walter ran away - but only as far as the Boar's Head, where mercifully he fell into Sir John's care. He wanted to stay with me, but I blamed myself for failing to protect him. You see, fool that I was, I'd started thinking of the three of us almost as a family. I felt that … in another life … he could have been my son."

"It was hardly your fault," Montjoy told him.

"Oh, it was. And it taught me a lesson. How could I ever hope to keep order in a kingdom if I couldn’t do so in my own household?"

"And how could you protect anyone else from Scroop if you couldn’t protect yourself?" countered Montjoy. "It's the people we think of as our friends who are capable of hurting us the most. You trusted him because you had no reason not to."

Henry laughed. "Dear herald, always rushing to defend me. But I should have realised I'd got involved with a dangerously immodest man. He used to say that boys were like barrels. Do you know what that means?"

"No, I don't. What?"

"That they should be kept bung-upwards and waiting to be filled." Henry grimaced. "He may have been pleasant on the surface, but at heart he was a villain. I never would have been enough for him, even as king. He would have wanted more and more. He was greedy and vain and loved himself above everything else. He was," he added, ruefully, "whatever you are not."

"Thank you."

"I can't imagine you treating anyone like that," Henry went on. "In fact, I think the world's wronged you badly but you refuse to let it crush you. I never could get at what it was that made you seem so sad; all my uncle Westmoreland's spies could discover was that your father died in prison. Was it that? Or something to do with your sister?"

For a moment Montjoy was reluctant to drag the old story out into the light again; he had never been fond of raking over old grievances, particularly when they were so utterly irremediable. Nevertheless, he relented; this, after all, was not only his king but the man he had come to love more than any other. If ever two people owed one another the truth, it was they.

"Both. It was a long time ago. The Duc d'Orleans, the father of the present Duc … "

"King Charles's brother? The one they called 'the libertine'?"

"Him. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted - and he wanted my sister, Marguerite. He was a married man, but that didn’t deter him. He liked girls her age. She was sixteen, and he was … "

"Older."

"Yes. She had no idea what he was after, of course. I don’t think she knew anything about … bedroom matters … at all. Anyway, when persuasion didn’t succeed he took her by force. Fortunately there was no child, but her innocence was gone - and any hope of a decent marriage, if she'd wanted one after that. She preferred to go into a convent. I was away at school at the time, and I haven’t seen her since. My mother felt it badly; she would never tell me where Marguerite had gone. And when the Duc took revenge on our whole family, I was glad my sister was well-hidden from him."

"Revenge? Hadn't he done enough?"

"Apparently not. His pride had been hurt, you see. His toy had been taken from him. You know how damaging lust can be."

Henry nodded. "Go on. What did he do?"

"Conspired to ruin us. There were rumours, scandals, stories … Gradually our fortune whittled away, I never understood how. My father was imprisoned, and my brother and I had to do what we could for our mother. In despair we turned to the Lord of Albret - my father's cousin Charles."

"The late Constable," Henry reflected. "He was a good man, wasn't he?"

"Very. Severe, and I don’t think he liked me much, but he helped us. He made my brother his military aide, but I was absolutely no use on a battlefield and he said I had better be a herald. That suited me; I've always been a scholar. My mother became companion to the first Lady d'Albret, and stayed to manage the household for the second wife. She died ten years ago."

"And your brother?"

Montjoy shook his head. "Philippe was impetuous. He galloped his horse at a ditch one day, fell off and broke his neck. My father was already dead. So my sister and I, if she's still alive, are all that's left of a once-great family. She in a convent and me … " He smiled. "Unlikely to father children. Our line ends here."

"Your father was Gaston d'Albret, the king's friend? He was a great falconer; my father often had birds from him, when times were better."

"Yes. He kept the last two in his cell. My brother and I carried them at his funeral. We gave them to our cousin; he wasn't a hunting man, but it was all we could offer in exchange for his patronage and protection. Which I continued to enjoy until the day he died, although the debt had long been paid off. But the Constable and I were useful to each other, and I was grateful. I didn’t realise, you see, that there could be anything more in my life. I could never imagine … loving anyone … or anyone loving me."

"And now you can?" asked Henry, and somehow managed not to sound unbearably smug about it.

"Yes," came the reply, exactly as he had been hoping. "Now I can."

The next time a sail was sighted from the crest of the island, there was no repeat of the frantic recourse to hiding in the pig-sty. Not only were the likely consequences to Montjoy's continued recovery greater than Henry was prepared to risk, but also the vessel which bore the modest brown canvas was self-evidently no warship. Ambrosius, inspecting it from the lookout platform, pronounced it part of the local fishing fleet, a familiar sight in these parts and crewed either by Bretons or Jerriaise. As it drew near, indeed, he was able to remark from the shape and colour of the hull that the captain was known to him, and to guess that his intention was to anchor in the shelter of the island. The skies were white with unfallen snow, the air damp and wretched, and no fisherman who valued his life would stay at sea in weather such as promised if there was somewhere else for him to go. He reported as much to Henry in the infirmary.

"She's carrying a flag," he added. "Red, with a white saltire."

Montjoy's eyes met Henry's. "The arms of the Nevilles?"

"My uncle of Westmoreland's colours."

"Are we rescued, then?" the herald asked, misgiving in his tone.

"Alas for us," the king replied, "it seems perhaps we are."

An hour later, it was the Earl himself who stepped ashore and was conducted into the presence of his master.

"My lord," said Henry, giving Westmoreland the signal to rise before he had even fully dropped to his knees. Then he forestalled the obvious question by saying; "We are in health. At least," less formally, "I am. Poor Montjoy has suffered greatly. How fares the kingdom, uncle?"

Westmoreland glanced at Montjoy, who had remained seated but made an attempt to bow to the Earl. His questioning gaze returned immediately to Henry.

"Your majesty … ?"

Henry's fingers brushed the apex of Montjoy's shoulder. "Our dearest friend," he said. "Fully in our confidence."

"Ah," responded Westmoreland, his brow uncreasing in comprehension. He had, perhaps, expected something of the sort. "Then the news is good; the Duke of Clarence holds steady under the guidance of my lord of Exeter. No alarums, no unrest, never a doubt about your safe return."

Quickly he summarised what had taken place in Henry's absence - little enough, given a realm at peace within itself and only threatened by the discontent in France. He recounted, also, details of the search for the missing monarch, in which he had proved himself more resourceful than the Duc Grandpree. Leaving the Albion and two escort ships in harbour at Cherbourg he had embarked his men in fishing-boats crewed by experienced coastal sailors, which had passed beneath the noses of Grandpree's men simply by being small, untidy vessels crewed by peasants, moving slowly, and stinking of fish from such a distance that the French had no desire to board them. He was able to give them news of other members of their party.

"Nine men reached Aurigny," he said, as they sat hunched in the Infirmary waiting out the blizzard. "Several more were taken aboard the shallop, which seems to have been ready to launch well before the sinking; the Captain was suspiciously forearmed against it. From what I've been told, the Thomas broke apart quickly?"

"Very," confirmed Henry.

"I suspect she was holed beneath the water-line," supplied Westmoreland. "Some of the crew were seen carrying augers."

"The damage was deliberate?"

"It seems the Captain was bribed to drown your majesty mid-Channel, with a further sum for my lord Montjoy here. My people in St Helier believe the order came from the Dauphin; there is a story that your ship was destroyed by an angel with a sword of flame, as punishment for your wickedness in claiming French territory. And you, sir," he added, in Montjoy's direction, "for treachery."

Henry grunted. "The Dauphin owes Montjoy his freedom. You'd think he'd be more grateful."

"He owes me nothing," was the rejoinder. "I didn’t do it for him."

"No more you did," acknowledged Henry. "Well, what's your opinion? Has the Dauphin broken from his father? Is he challenging for the crown?"

Montjoy shook his head. "Not openly - he isn’t strong enough. The Ducs of Berry and Bretagne would side with his majesty against the Dauphin. Besides, there's little point in Louis dividing the country now. It's simpler for him just to wait. King Charles is declining rapidly; it can only be a matter of time."

Westmoreland re-entered the conversation. "That's my opinion too. But the Dauphin would have no hesitation in acting on his own account and passing it off as his father's order, and he's quite capable of persuading the king the idea came from him in the first place."

"And my treaty is with Charles," Henry murmured, "not his son. Well, I think we need a further earnest of his majesty's goodwill. What say you, uncle? Shall we send to Charles, to bid him rein his tempestuous offspring in?"

"Only if we have someone we can send whose words he will believe," returned Westmoreland. "Otherwise Louis will claim English lies and do nothing."

"You'll go, Montjoy, won't you? Speak to him in Council, the way you spoke to me? He can't ignore you, can he?"

"He might," said Montjoy. "You did."

"I did," conceded Henry. "And men died. And men will die if he does. How many does he have to spare, do you suppose?"

"Not enough, my lord." It was spoken wearily. "Not nearly enough."

"Well, then. I'll send Gower with you again; he knows your value to me. Between the pair of you, there's not a king in Europe you couldn’t bring to heel."

"Oh," said Montjoy, accepting his fate with the best grace he could muster, "on the contrary, I think perhaps there's one."

When the snow ceased to fall, there were farewells to be made. Montjoy left the island as he had arrived, wholly dependant on Henry's support, although more mobile than he had been then. After one look at his king's determined expression, Westmoreland knew better than to suggest that anyone else might be permitted to assist; Henry's grip around his herald's slender waist was matched only by the easy comfort of the arm Montjoy slung around the king's shoulders, and thus they left their refuge.

Their journey began with a short crossing to Cherbourg, where the Albion awaited them, then north through fading light and colder winds, two further nights at sea. It was Saturday, falling dark, before they reached Tilbury, where they halted to give thanks and rest. Thence Henry sent messengers ahead by road to London, and gave orders for their onward conveyance after the Sabbath, and thus on a chill golden dawn they left the Albion and embarked in a shallow-keeled barge from the stern of which flew Henry's standard. In splendour, with a flotilla of attendant craft, the survivors of the Thomas were rowed between the fields of Steppenheath and the grounds of Bermondsey Abbey to the Tower of London, to the private stair beneath the Cradle Tower. Bells rang as they passed, flags flew, people on wharves and quaysides cheered the safe deliverance of their king.

Henry sat unmoving beneath a canopy of silk, his head high, and seldom spoke. In clothes Westmoreland had provided for him, with his chin shaved and an expression of serious purpose on his face, he looked quite unlike the carefree brother of the island. As the Tower hove into sight he pushed aside the coverings which had been piled upon his legs and feet, reached to take Montjoy's hand and squeezed it tightly. No words were exchanged; the look was all, and it was not disguised.

Montjoy squeezed back, his eyes lowering in submission but lifting again, his mouth managing a twist that was not quite a smile.

"Yes," said Henry, as though it had all been spoken aloud, "we'll manage somehow." He gripped again, and then took back his hand, and without looking at anyone else stood, straightened his clothing, and squared his shoulders.

At last, after his many adventures, he had reconciled himself to being king again.

After the settled calm of the island and the days at sea, entering the hectic atmosphere of a royal household in the throes of Advent and rejoicing for the return of its sovereign was like being plunged into a cauldron of boiling water. Although now much recovered from his injury and illness Montjoy was still depleted in strength, and thus was permitted to absent himself from the homecoming celebrations. He spent the first day back in his narrow cot high up in the Bowyer Tower, watching large lazy snowflakes falling like feathers out of the sky, clutching around himself the mouse-coloured cloak Henry had given him after Azincourt. Like most of his possessions it had remained locked in his room while he was out of the country; he had lost nothing in the shipwreck that mattered to him except the Constable's black cloak.

In mid-afternoon he became aware that he was not to enjoy the luxury of peace and quiet for very much longer; exclamations and footsteps on the stairs indicated someone moving rapidly in his direction, and when the door flew open without ceremony and Henry erupted into the room the only real surprise was that he had managed to stay away so long.

"So this is where you're hiding! What a bare little place! Don’t you even have a fire?"

"It's not necessary." Montjoy had scrambled out of bed and now bowed as well as he could, only to be taken into an enthusiastic embrace and kissed vigorously.

"Necessary? Dear herald, you've been ill! Are these really the best quarters we could find you?"

Montjoy's arms slid comfortably around his king, and he dropped a kiss into the bright hair. "I don't think your comptroller approves of Frenchmen," he said. "Especially the kind who change sides half-way through a battle."

"It wasn't like that!" Henry protested.

"I know. But that's how people see it. And if they could see this … "

"Well, they will," Henry told him, determinedly. "Get back into bed, for goodness' sake, your poor hands and feet are like ice."

Thus chivvied, Montjoy obeyed. Henry let him get comfortable, leaning against the wall beneath the window. He was formally dressed and wore a large ruby on his left hand, as though he had just come from some State business or other, but his hair was tousled and he was obviously in one of his briskly efficient moods.

"I've been talking to my uncles," he said, as if they had simply been exchanging pleasantries over a cup of wine. "I've told them the plan." When Montjoy looked blankly at him he added, "John and Katharine. That plan."

"Ah. And their reaction … ?"

"Cautiously in favour. John's not averse, either, as you can imagine. Katharine would be a great catch for him. He had no idea of marrying just yet, but he'd be a fool not to take the opportunity and he knows it. They're less comfortable about you, although they think you've proved yourself a dozen times over. They're afraid I'll change my mind in a year or two and cause a scandal." Montjoy remained silent. "That's what you're afraid of, isn’t it? Not the scandal, the changing my mind?"

"I can't deny … "

"Of course you can't. You never expect anything good to happen to you, do you?"

"Well," said Montjoy, thoughtfully, "I'm getting more used to it. But you … Even if you weren't king, you'd still be more than I ever hoped for in my life. Why you'd waste your time with me … "

"I thought we'd cleared that up. I love you."

"And I … can't help feeling that you may regret it one day."

"Well, so I may, although I don’t expect to," Henry told him. "'Care not then for the morrow but let the morrow care for itself: for the day present hath ever enough of his own trouble,*" he quoted. "I'm going to find you somewhere better to sleep; this is scarcely a step up from the pig-sty. And you'll have a fire, too."

In the face of which businesslike determination Montjoy could do little but accede to the royal will, and settle back to the task of recovering. Within the hour a boy had brought logs and kindling and the chill was off his monkish cell, and shortly after that he looked across the Inner Ward to see Henry's clothier trudging through snow towards the Bowyer Tower with two assistants carrying baskets. As he struggled into leggings, boots and cote in a feeble attempt to make himself presentable to receive visitors he realised that he was henceforth to be dressed entirely at his monarch's command. As, indeed, he had been since the arrival of Henry's cloak. If he had ever wanted to escape - and he was not sure that he had - then it was already too late; Henry's arms had closed around him tightly and he was owned, wholly and completely, by the victor of Azincourt.

All that remained now was to strive to be worthy of it.

Montjoy's return to court life was accomplished later that same week. He went to prayers in the chapel as usual that morning, then attended to the duties of a herald as he had since entering Henry's service. If he noticed odd looks aimed in his direction he made no attempt to respond to them. He had always excited comment at court; the royal establishment had never quite become used to having a Frenchman in its midst, and he supposed that rumours of his attachment to the king were now more widely current. He would be an object of interest for a few days, but with luck and discretion that would soon die down and he could continue with his work exactly as he had before. Or so he hoped.

It was not to be, however. Before mid-day the clothier had tracked him down and presented him with a houppelande of russet furred with marten, and no sooner had he clambered into it than a messenger arrived asking him to present himself to the Duke of Exeter at his cabinet in the Great Tower. With a sigh of annoyance Montjoy laid aside his writing materials, hitched the belt of his robe tighter around his waist, and prepared to face what he suspected would be a close interrogation from one of the senior members of the royal family.

"My lord Montjoy." Exeter's tone was at least encouraging, and the herald was relieved to discover the man alone and apparently in communicative mood.

"My lord Duke."

Exeter watched him, dark eyes amused rather than critical. They had grown to like one another in the year that Montjoy had been attached to the household and had gradually discovered common ground - not least in their mutual concern for Henry's welfare.

"Well, sit," growled Exeter. "You look as if you thought I'd bite you."

"Not at all, my lord. But I'm afraid I may have done something to earn your displeasure." Nevertheless, Montjoy sat.

"Displeasure? No. Discomfort? Well, it's not as if I didn’t know my nephew," Exeter told him, as they sat on opposite sides of the fireplace like old friends. "But now … it seems the household is turned upside-down to accommodate you. The rooms above the royal apartments are to be furnished and the privy stair opened up again. I take it this is none of your doing?"

"I knew nothing about it."

"Nor this, I suspect?" Exeter indicated the new clothing. "There are sewing-men and girls all over the palace working on attire for you. The jewellers are busy, too."

"Oh." Montjoy looked down into his lap. "I didn't ask for any of it," he said. "I would rather just continue with my work."

"I'm sure you would. But you're a king's favourite now."

Montjoy lifted his eyes, scanning Exeter's face. "It's not … all pleasure, is it?" he asked, anxiously. He didn’t think he could stand it if it was.

"No, don’t worry, you won't be idle - you'll be an envoy. I'm to arrange for sending you to Paris - to King Charles, to tell him to control his son."

Montjoy's eyebrows rose. "When?"

"After Candlemas, in the early part of February. The king won’t let you go before then, and I think you know why."

"I … "

"Good God, man, blushing? At your age?"

"I can't … " For a moment Montjoy wished the ground would open up and swallow him. Then he said, with a determined effort to regain his composure; "His majesty has not made his wishes clear, but whatever they are I will do my best to meet them."

"No doubt you will," conceded Exeter. "Oh, I don’t believe the Council will refuse him. He's asked for our opinion of affrèrement in the old French manner - what some people call 'brother-making'. It's done in the Eastern rite, and Germany, but not much in England any more. Fortunately not even the bishops have offered any objections, for once."

"The bishops … ?"

"It's my belief," Exeter said, "the king plans to have you wedded and bedded before he'll let you out of his sight again."

There was nothing Montjoy could do about the thrill of anticipation that rushed through his body at these words. He had got as far as admitting to himself that Henry's interest would require physical consummation, if those hands on him in the pig-sty had been any guide, and certainly he desired it himself, but the thought that others might discuss it was almost more intimidating than the knowledge of his own unreadiness. When Exeter spoke so matter-of-factly, however, it seemed less like a clandestine liaison and more like a union of state. Perhaps Henry had been right; they were suitable for one another in every respect but gender. If the Council could see that, too …

He shook his head, bewildered. "He's mentioned nothing of the sort to me."

"No," said Exeter. "He wouldn’t. That's not the way in royal houses, d'you see? A king won’t ask unless he already knows the answer. They choose a proxy, someone both sides trust, and the proxy does the asking. So, my lord Montjoy, I stand here as my nephew's proxy, to tell you he intends to be formally brothered to you if you're willing to accept him. What answer would you have me give?"

"I … " Montjoy had started to respond, then looked up in concern. "You don’t object?"

Exeter shrugged. "I might have preferred him to choose Katharine, but if she's content with Bedford I see no reason the two of you shouldn’t pledge to one another if you wish." He paused. "A word of advice?"

Montjoy inclined his head.

"Accept," said Exeter, crisply. "Remember - 'worse men than you have fared better than they deserved'?"

"Yes."

"Well, Scroop was never offered brotherment. If he had been, it would have been opposed in Council. But Scroop was scarce a tenth of the man you are. This is not a matter to be smirched with lies so I tell you plainly; if it must be a man, I'd rather it was you."

"Thank you. And you're sure the king's name won't be tarnished by it?"

"A little," Exeter conceded. "Not for long. But is it really possible to deny the man anything he's set his mind on having?"

"No." Then, heartfelt and wistful; "Although I wish that he was not the king."

"Aye." The tone was surprisingly gentle for such a big, straightforward man. "He wishes that himself. He finds it trying, and you're the companion he chooses to help him bear it. What shall I tell him, sir, from you?"

Montjoy sighed. He had known his fate, he supposed, from the first appraising glance of Henry's steady blue eyes more than a year and a half ago, and had never sought to escape it even for a moment.

"Tell the king," he replied, and wondered how he could be so calm, "that in deference to his wishes - and of course my own - it will be my honour to accept."

"I knew you would, of course," Henry said, later that same evening, "but we had to do it properly. The Council have to think they're granting me something I wouldn’t have without their permission. They don’t need to know that I'd rather live with you in a pig-sty than without you in a palace, although they probably guess. Of course, we'll have very little privacy - only really here." They were inspecting a cold, empty suite of rooms on the stair above Henry's quarters. Stonemasons had begun removing blocks from an alcove in one wall, and the two tracked footsteps through a thick layer of powdery dust which clung to the hems of their houppelandes. "There's a set of tapestries of French pastoral scenes," Henry added, "which I took in exchange for something, I can't remember what. You can have those. And I've ordered a handsome new bed; I'll be sleeping up here sometimes and I want to be comfortable." He glanced around. "Well, we can always find furniture," he said. "When it's clean and there's a fire going and something on the floor it should do."

Montjoy was watching him. "Your brothers … ?" he began, cautiously.

Henry perched on the wide stone windowsill. There were lights out in the Inner Ward, but here in the room only the two candles they had brought with them; the last indigo of dusk had long since flickered from the sky.

"Bedford's happy enough," Henry told him cheerfully. "Who wouldn’t be, with the French marriage to look forward to?" Montjoy forbore from the obvious reminder. "Gloucester … well, he doesn't care. Clarence? If he hadn't been foolish enough to marry a widow with six children Katharine might have been his, and he knows it. He doesn’t understand my choice, and bitterly regrets his own."

"Will he make trouble?"

"He might try. I don’t see what he can do, though, since we're making every effort to do the thing according to the rules. I haven't even seduced you yet." A silence fell, and then he went on, quietly; "I thought of waiting a little while longer, if that doesn't displease you too much. Since everything we do is remarked upon and there's no chance of it escaping notice, I thought we'd choose a time when people are too busy with their own affairs to care about us."

"Christmas?" Deeply-spoken and more passionate than any other single word he had uttered in his life.

"Yes." Henry cleared his throat. "Your quarters should be ready by then; we can visit one another when we like - and no-one the wiser but ourselves and our varlets."

"I have no varlet."

"You'll have one. Gloucester has more than he needs. Choose one that suits your temper - a nice, quiet one." He might have been describing the selection of a horse. "He'll keep more than just your clothes; he'll keep your keys, too. And your secrets. And he can run messages between us when we have to be apart. Although," he concluded, quietly, "I hope that won’t be often."

"So do I." Montjoy's long fingers closed on a velvet-covered shoulder, slid across a deep collar of ermines, stroked softly up Henry's throat and took his chin into a firm but gentle hold, tilting it towards him as he bent to touch his love's mouth with his own. "I have already been apart from you far too much; I never want to be any great distance from you again."

The substance of Henry's application to his Council could hardly have stayed secret for long even if that was what he wanted, and growing awareness of it became apparent almost at once. Some of the familiar nods that Montjoy had been used to receiving on his travels through the palace now seemed deeper and more studied, as if people could not quite decide whether or not it was appropriate to bow to him. He was appalled, at first, and distinctly uncomfortable, and almost couldn't set foot outside his room for fear of encountering some unaccustomed mark of respect. However he still had work to do, and it was necessary to spend at least part of every day in the Beauchamp Tower. Soon it became difficult to walk between one and the other without encountering some petitioner desirous of securing his intervention with the king, and although he turned them away courteously their pleas affected him more than he had ever expected. After two days, however, Captain Gower began to walk beside him on these journeys; as a result the supplications were reduced in number, and Montjoy knew to whom he could be grateful for this reprieve.

Now there were whole areas of the palace open to him that he had never been permitted to enter before. One such was the tennis court, in an undercroft beneath the Salt Tower, to which he was conducted by Gower one afternoon to discover a noisy encounter in progress between the captive Duc of Orleans and the king. Henry, who did not have as much time for leisurely pursuits as he might have wished and therefore relished every moment, was wearing soled-hose and a shirt open at the throat, its sleeves bundled up anyhow. He was flushed and damp-browed, his eyes bright, his breathing ragged. The Duc, by contrast, seemed languid and composed, scarcely touching racket to ball when it flew in his direction but striking with an accuracy his soldiers at Azincourt could only have envied. He was less affected by the exercise than his host; indeed, he seemed to find the whole procedure somewhat beneath his dignity.

In one of the galleries sat Hugo de Claro, the d'Orleans pursuivant, who had accompanied the Duc into captivity. The year since the battle had changed him into a pale, haughty individual, much in the confidence of his master. He was dressed from head to foot in finest fabrics, his hands glittering with jewels, the whole composition one of the most costly Montjoy had witnessed since his departure from France, and he had a servant crouched beside him like a dog.

Montjoy looked enquiry into Gower's face. The man was smiling back at him.

"That's what his majesty wished you to see," he said. "De Claro tricked out like a rich man's mistress. Now," he added, "nobody seems to know whether or not they … " He shrugged.

"Surely not?" He had known Charles d'Orleans a long time, and there had never been any suggestion that Charles had a wandering eye - least of all, the kind that would wander in the direction of a male.

"The king believes," whispered Gower, "it's meant as an insult."

Montjoy's eyes grew round. He stared across the court to where Henry was retrieving the ball. "To him?"

"To you. The Duc's made Hugo all manner of presents - gowns, horses, a sapphire the size of a thumbnail. He's saying it's the fashion now, to dress a herald up as if he was a wife."

"Oh." Henry glanced in his direction and their eyes met. The slightest inclination of fair eyebrows in the direction of the pursuivant was enough to confirm he was aware of their conversation. Montjoy's mouth pursed into a smile. "Well," he said, "it hardly matters what he wears. None of this is to do with gifts and trinkets, Gower, you know that."

"Aye, sir," came the satisfied reply, "I do know - and it may be that his grace the Duc knows, too. But he will never - ever - understand."

"It isn't necessary for him to." Montjoy's head did not turn in the man's direction and his eyes remained focussed on Henry, physical, sweating, disarranged and, despite the myriad others present, exclusively his own. "Only for the king."

As the fish days before Christmas drew on and the stonemasons continued chipping and crashing in the rooms above Henry's, a new sensibility settled on the court. There was less awkwardness in acknowledging Montjoy, less behind-the-hand laughter, less obvious occasion for dislike. Nor did the king's behaviour dissolve into the brazen fondness which had made Edward's passion for Gaveston so scandalous. Choosing a man instead of a woman was, after all, not unprecedented in the lower orders; it became tolerable in a king as long as he maintained his dignity in public and there were clear provisions made for the succession.

King Charles's response to Henry's request to be released from the arrangement with Katharine was awaited. It had been the opinion of his ambassador that, while Charles would dissolve the betrothal, he might be less inclined to accept the substitution of Bedford. Further negotiations would be necessary, but meanwhile Henry should consider himself free to contract whatever allegiance might seem suitable to him, with whomsoever he might choose.

Two days before Christmas, with the doorway to the privy stair restored and the rooms aired and sweetened, a bed was installed in Montjoy's quarters with a traceried headpiece, a deep mattress and blue velvet hangings fringed in gold. French tapestries clothed the walls, new shutters were fitted across the window, a square of carpet appeared beneath a table and chair thoughtfully placed to catch the light, and Henry surveyed with pleasure the realisation of his instructions.

"Yes, this is just what I imagined. Simple, but fine. Like you."

Montjoy's eyebrows lifted. "Fine?"

"Don’t try to deny it. Your family's better-descended than my own; it just happens that you're less wealthy at the moment. A hundred years ago it was the other way round. A hundred years from now … who knows?" When Henry was in this sort of mood, there was no disputing with him. Montjoy merely folded his sleeves over his hands and smiled indulgently. "You're laughing at me, aren’t you?"

"Not entirely. It’s just that you see things in me that I've never seen in myself. Things I didn't know were there."

"Good. Someone should see them. Someone should appreciate you, since you obviously don’t appreciate yourself." But he waved off any further discussion with a dismissive hand. "Did you find a varlet?"

"I did. He's called Ivo."

"The one with the club foot?"

"Yes."

Henry laughed. "I might have known. Gloucester won’t keep him around because he's lame, but naturally he's perfect for you. Ugly, misshapen, damaged creatures just seem drawn to you somehow, don’t they? Perhaps they know you'll be kind to them. Perhaps," he amended, "we know you'll be kind to us."

"Us?" Montjoy stepped closer, slipped his arms around the strong body. "You are neither ugly nor misshapen," he said, clearly. "Damaged, though … "

"Yes," said Henry. "Damaged, certainly."

"Yes," responded Montjoy, "that I will concede." And it made the perfect excuse, had he needed one, for kissing him again.

The centrepiece of the Christmas celebration, as usual, was a substantial feast on the day itself, attended by royalty, nobles and commons alike. Advent had gone on long enough to be tiresome; even the ingenuity of the royal cooks had not been able to make a diet of fish, grains and vegetables endlessly amusing. Thus the lavish entertainment of Christmas was eagerly-awaited and preparations for it - the bringing-in of evergreens, the sweeping of the chimney in the Great Hall in preparation for the Yule Log, the composition of sweetmeats and the baking of the king cake - seemed to occupy most of the household most of the time.

There was, too, a lurking sense of anticipation in the knowledge that soon the king would be brothered to the French herald; it made for a rich source of gossip among the staff, and some, less inhibited than the rest, were not averse to speculating what might take place in the bedroom Henry had furnished for his friend, and exactly how that encounter might proceed.

It was a subject occupying Montjoy's mind, too, as the time drew nearer. The first night in his new quarters he spent some time staring at the door to the privy stair, but it remained locked. It was not without gratitude that he slid into bed that night, his mind reeling, and awoke when Ivo entered in the morning. It seemed he was not, after all, to be importuned at every hour of every night as he had somehow dreaded; Henry was younger and more physically active than himself, and he was glad to be spared demands that his body could not hope to meet.

Not that the absence of physical contact pleased him any more than it pleased Henry, if the latter's world-weary whisper of "Soon" as they walked from Mass was any indication.

Christmas morning, with the bells ringing from a steely grey sky, was a time for business, and Henry heard greetings and petitions for three solid hours in the forenoon. He came from it tired and impatient, to take wine and meat with his Council and listen to minstrels in the Inner Ward. Then he retired to his quarters, and shortly afterwards Ivo reported that the king was with his confessor and would be thus engaged for quite some time. Montjoy, who had refreshed his soul earlier in the day, settled down to wait - but the afternoon rolled past with no summons from Henry, and when the light faded Ivo returned to dress him for the banquet.

The hall was already beginning to be crowded when he arrived, and Montjoy was glad to have taken his varlet's advice and worn cote and leggings rather than one of the new houppelandes which had been appearing from the Great Wardrobe of late. Ivo had known how warm the room would get with so many people pressed so closely together, eating and drinking and talking at the tops of their voices.

He sat with Gower and Williams at the end of a long table. Considering the numberless aristocracy who had to be entertained, a quiet backwater between a pillar and an exit seemed the safest option. They had, however, a reasonable view of proceedings; they could hear the prayer before eating and witness the ceremonial arrival of the boar's head accompanied by stamping, cheering and hand-clapping on all sides. After that the occasion disintegrated into noisy revelry and the minstrels wandering amidst the throng often could not be heard above the roar of conversation, the bursts of raucous laughter and the eruptions of swift-suppressed aggression.

Captain Fluellen, strolling around the outside of the room, exchanged occasional greetings with his fellow Azincourt veterans. Reaching their table, he clapped Gower warmly on the shoulder and nodded to Montjoy.

"Blessings of the season to you, sir," he said, formally.

"And to you, Captain. Will you take a drink?"

"I will, sir." The Welshman accepted an empty seat at their table and a goblet of wine to go with it. "Huffern! Sy 'n ddrwg! My God," he went on, more comprehensibly, sampling the stuff. "That's rough!"

Gower laughed. "There's no wine too rough for a Welshman," he grinned.

"Indeed," acknowledged Fluellen, "that is simple truth." He gulped readily, then wiped his mouth and smiled at them. "Well, sirs," he said, "I must not linger, but will ask you not to leave the hall. When I return we will have better wine and company to match. Blasa s anerchiadau, now, boys," he completed, and sauntered off like a man with no particular purpose in life. A few moments later, however, Montjoy noticed him leaning close to the king and speaking into his ear; Henry's eyes turned in his herald's direction and a faint smile passed between them.

"Oh," he said aloud, and turned back in confusion to his companions, half-aware that perhaps he had missed a knowing exchange of glances.

Henry waited until the king cake had been brought in and distributed. A petrified farrier discovered the golden bean in his portion, and was immediately declared King of the Feast. When the young man was brought towards him Henry rose from his seat, bowed, seated him between Gloucester and a sour-faced Clarence, and advised the youth that 'more wine' was usually considered an appropriate first command for a monarch. Then, with Fluellen in attendance, he left the dais and made his way to Montjoy, slipping into the seat next to him and sliding an affectionate arm around his waist.

"Well," he breathed, "I am not the king tonight."

Montjoy's eyes closed and he half-turned his head towards the soft sounds. When he opened them again, it was to find Gower smiling across the table and to know that he and Henry had somehow organised this between them.

"Conspirator," he accused the Captain, happily.

Gower glanced at Henry. "Aye, my lord," he admitted, with good humour. "But leagued with your friends, not with your enemies." He raised his wine cup, his thin face twisting over it. "Life, health and happiness," he said.

Henry laughed. "I'll drink to that," he said, "if you'll pour me some."

Montjoy reached for the jug. "It may not be wholly to your liking."

"Why? Is our host a miser who serves cheap wine?" Henry took a mouthful, grimaced, then said; "Well, this is the worst I've tasted in quite some time. But it's just about bearable at a pinch."

Montjoy smiled at him. "I'm told there's no wine too rough for a Welshman," he said, mischievously.

"Well, no," conceded Henry. "Sy 'n ddiau, that's absolutely true."

"What would have happened if you'd found the bean?" Montjoy asked, some time later, when the wine was flowing freely and the presence of the king at one of the lower tables no longer seemed remarkable.

"I make sure I don’t."

"How?"

"Dear herald! I exercise the royal privilege of cheating. I don’t eat the king cake; they don’t give me any. That way I make sure someone else gets the bean. It's simple."

"Of course." Montjoy glanced across to the head table. "Will he be all right?" he asked, indicating the farrier.

"Probably. I've got my steward keeping an eye on him. And Gloucester's in the mood to be charming, even if Clarence isn’t. He doesn't understand why I keep up all these traditions; he doesn’t realise it's important to amuse the people who do the actual work. They're not asses, they're assets. Without them, the business of royalty would grind to a halt. What is a leader without followers, after all?"

"You'll never lack for followers," Montjoy assured him, fondly.

"No. And I've been lucky in those who chose to follow me; together we've achieved great things." He paused, glancing in the direction of the dais. "You know," he said, idly, "I believe my brother Thomas may be on the brink of an apoplexy. Either that, or he's about to spontaneously combust. I think I would prefer not to be here when that happens. What say, my lord, shall we withdraw?" His hand closed about Montjoy's fingers and tightened, and the look in his eyes made his meaning plain as day.

The noise in the hall was suddenly louder than before, the cacophony burrowing into Montjoy's brain, and then his free hand closed on Henry's wrist and he said, without ambiguity, "Yes."

A king does not leave a room without people noticing, even people who are too drunk to care whether he is the king or not. A cheer arose as they got to their feet, flanked by Gower and Fluellen, and made their escape into the adjacent passageway, hands still locked together; probably it was only accidental and their exit had been fortuitously timed to coincide with some incipient riot in the hall - but, then again, possibly not. Away from the scenes of revelry, however, the labyrinthine passages of the old citadel were dark and scarcely tenanted, and Gower walking a few paces ahead with a lighted torch was their only source of illumination, so hand-in-hand they scurried up stairways and through doors guarded by grim-visaged men, until at the entrance to the royal apartments the two Captains fell back and let them continue alone. As soon as the door was closed between them Henry paused in shadow and wound his arms around Montjoy's neck and kissed him, urgently and passionately.

"Go to your quarters," he said. "The door will be open tonight."

"My lord." The herald said it without thinking.

"My love," came the quiet response, and Henry spun away from him and into his own apartments without further colloquy.

Montjoy's quarters were in semi-darkness, a dramatic contrast to the hundreds of blazing candles in the hall. The fire was sullen, a new log spitting and smoking, a cluster of rushlights providing the only illumination. Ivo, stepping from the shadows, helped him out of his boots, cote and leggings.

"Have you eaten?" Montjoy asked him, concerned for his welfare.

"I have, sir, but I'll go down to the feast again now. Martin and I - his majesty's varlet - will eat together. You won’t need us for a while, now, sir?"

"I suppose not."

Montjoy wrapped the mouse-coloured cloak around himself and sat by the fire while Ivo fussed with his discarded clothing.

"Nervous, sir, are you?"

Montjoy did not answer.

"Don't worry," his varlet said, his tone conspiratorial. "Kings are the same as ordinary men; everything works in exactly the same way. And they get nervous, sometimes, too. The door's open, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," said Montjoy. He did not look up as Ivo left, but a few shivering moments later rose and barred the door behind him. He wondered whether Henry would have done the same in the room below.

From the first moment of the new quarters being proposed one thing had concerned him above all others; which of them would go to which when the time came. With a husband and wife it would normally be clear enough; no modest wife would go to her husband, at least not the first night, but Henry had indicated that he would sometimes sleep upstairs. Did that mean that he intended to be the one to close the distance between them? Yet stories about his relationship with Scroop had all been clear on one thing at least; Scroop had taken the active part and Henry the passive, which would seem to give some indication of his tastes.

Montjoy had never had a way of asking the king how he wanted this to be. Not that it mattered in a practical sense; he was quite as willing to give as to receive - having no experience meant that he had no preference, either, although he had taken the trouble to acquaint himself thoroughly with the theory. He had managed to arrive at no definite conclusion about Henry's wishes, however. Rumours of the late Edward suggested royalty would not always insist on being the aggressor, but try as he might he could not imagine quiescence from the lusty lad who had carried all before him at Azincourt; surrender simply wasn't in Henry's nature. Then again, in a man accustomed to command, it might be the rarest and most treasured commodity of all. As time passed, and there was no footstep on the privy stair, he began to believe that after all it could be so.

He waited an unconscionable time, in dread lest he would descend the staircase only to find Henry climbing up towards him. If that happened, their liaison might disintegrate into farce before it had properly begun. If, after everything that had passed between them, he had somehow contrived to misread his king, his shame would be eternal; Henry would never trust him afterwards. Thus he sat unmoving until the quarter-chime from St Katharine's-by-the-Tower, when he knew that he had sat too long. He was cold, his limbs ached, Henry was downstairs. It was time, as his beloved king was fond of saying, to imitate the action of the tiger.

He gathered his courage around him with his cloak, took up a rushlight, and slowly crept towards the stairs.

The door to Henry's quarters stood half-open. The room beyond was in darkness except for the flames in the fireplace, but their light was just enough to allow him to see Henry sitting in the window embrasure wrapped from neck to foot in what appeared to be a cloak of sables. His head tilted enquiringly as Montjoy entered the room.

"Do you understand?" was the first thing that he said.

"I think so." Montjoy could not keep astonishment out of his tone.

"You think because I'm a soldier I can't possibly want this? But Achilles was a warrior, and so was Patroclus; they pleased each other well enough."

"Dear king." Montjoy took Henry into his arms, only belatedly realising that he was naked under the cloak. "Whatever you want will please me. You'll find me slow, but diligent; I'll learn whatever you teach me."

Henry's head rested against his shoulder. "Then the first thing you need to learn," he said, "is how to say my name. Let me hear you say 'Henry' - or 'Harry', if you will. Forget the king. There is no king here."

"Henry." Less a word than a kiss. Then, again; "Henry." Finally, experimentally, the French pronunciation; "Henri. Chèr Henri."

"Ah, yes, that," said his love. "I like the way it sounds." Royal fingers in the fastenings of Montjoy's underwear. "I want to see what you look like." Montjoy's cloak fell to the floor; he pulled the shirt off briskly over his head and kicked out of his drawers. "Just as I thought. Even naked you're an aristocrat." A light caress across the herald's smooth, pale chest. "I, on the other hand … " Henry cast his cloak aside and stepped to meet him. "You'd think I was a peasant, with all this hair."

"Or an animal," Montjoy whispered, stroking him experimentally. He matched their bodies together, Henry's so much warmer than his own, arousal stirring between them.

"Yes, an animal." Henry's mouth lifted to his and the kiss was long and deep. "Take me to bed, dear herald. Let's find out everything there is to know about one another."

Gently Montjoy swung the man up and stood holding him there, kissing him repeatedly, drowning in him, supporting him longer than anyone of his wiry build should reasonably have expected to be able to support another full-grown man. He had not known he was strong, had never even dreamed it until this moment, but any miracle at all seemed possible where Henry was concerned. Kisses followed kisses, soft names and endearments, the moment lasting and lasting until finally he placed his king gently in the middle of the bed, stretched out beside him, and ran a slow hand possessively down Henry's flank from shoulder to hip.

"Husband," said Henry, not entirely in jest - and Montjoy smiled, and pulled him close, and began to master his eagerly-responding body.

And in the morning, when they were still together and Henry was fair and warm and happy in the bed beside him, Montjoy the herald knew at last that everything he had ever dreamed about had finally come to pass.

* Matthew 6:34 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof' in the Tyndale translation.

* * *

*

IV. Constancy

One year, two months and twelve days following the events of the field of Azincourt, at the Feast of the Epiphany, a brotherment took place between the King of England and a herald from the court of France. The day was cold and the sky leaden with snow which fell as soon as the light had faded; royalty and nobility in attendance were obliged to cross the Inner Ward against it, and tracked it up the narrow spiral on their boots and dripped it damply from their cloaks and houppelandes. A brazier in the chapel of St John smoked away to little effect; the chill was never off the room throughout.

The Duke of Exeter stood for the Frenchman's family. Massive and heavy, in a cloak of bear that made him look like the animal itself, he loomed at Montjoy's shoulder, ill-at-ease but determined to see the matter through. The Council had agreed that Henry should have his affrèrement; Exeter had argued for it, and gave this demonstration of loyalty in the belief that accession to the king's will would do more good than harm in the long run. When it came to favourites, as he told the Council, there were good and bad, and he knew no bad of Guillaume d'Albret known as Montjoy.

The formalities were not prolonged; a joining of hands on the pages of the Gospel, a calling down of God's blessing upon these thy servants Henry and Guillaume, a thrice repeated "Lord have mercy" and a prayer. Henry, when he lifted his head at the conclusion of the rite, looked as if he would have liked to throw himself into Montjoy's arms and kiss and be kissed by him, but a sober glance prevented any such display. There would be time for that when it did not trespass on the tolerance of their friends.

When it was over, nobody quite knew what to say. Exeter, in his usual ebullient manner, solved the problem by embracing Montjoy and addressing him as 'nephew', an example followed by Westmoreland, and expressions of regard from the royal brothers were warmly received whether sincere or not. Indeed, the goodwill displayed was rare in any family. The business was concluded, though, and for that at least they were all quite willing to be glad.

"I wish there had been a ring," said Henry, when they were alone and naked and the doors were locked.

"It doesn't matter." Montjoy's lazy murmur was muffled against the king's shoulder. "You've given me far too much already."

"Well, there should have been a ring."

"Perhaps."

Henry was toying drowsily with his hair. "There's a manor I want you to have, in the border country between England and Wales. It's called Stokesay - a pretty spot, you'll like it. With the income you can pay back the money my uncle Exeter advanced you, which I suppose you thought I wouldn’t find out about."

"I can pay him myself," Montjoy protested. "I have funds."

"I know - in France. But the Dauphin won't let you near them, and by the time my Lombards have finished doing battle with his Lombards there'll be nothing left. So I'll make you a gift of the place; if nothing else, it'll give you somewhere to retire to one day."

"What, after you've worn me out?"

"Do you think I can't?"

"On the contrary," was the wise reply. "I'm so much older than you, I shouldn’t think you'd have any difficulty at all."

"Hmmm. I should have married someone younger, then." Henry fell quiet for a time, then said; "Did you ever think they'd let us? Some of them didn’t look very happy about it, did they?"

"Not really. But you can be quite persuasive, chèr Henri."

"Oh, hush. You make me want it all over again when you say that."

"Chèr Henri," the herald repeated, mercilessly.

"Enough, you heartless ravisher." Henry squirmed out of his arms and lay on his back looking up into the embroidered canopy of the bed; he had ordered new hangings for the occasion, on which lions and lilies alternated in heraldic confusion. Like their relationship, it made no sense but somehow seemed to work. "I want to tell you something, now that I'm sure of you. About Masham."

"You've always been sure of me," came the gentle rebuke. Then; "But I'm listening. What is it?"

"You remember what I said about boys and barrels? Did you understand what it meant?"

"That he liked to serve them, I suppose. As if they had been girls."

"Exactly. He wanted to do that to me, too, but I wouldn’t let him. I wasn't sure who else he'd had, you see. I couldn’t trust him, so I made him think it was beneath my dignity. But really … "

"Really?" prompted Montjoy.

"Really it was what I wanted all along. Only I'd rather have it from you, because you've always been chaste and I know you'll be careful. Could you learn to serve me like that, do you think, if we gave it time?"

"Like a girl?" asked the herald, his tone dangerously seductive. "You want me to lay you down and use you … as if you were a girl?"

"Yes. It's just such a relief not to have to be the one in charge all the time. Will you do it for me?" Henry's eyes in the candlelight were dark, flickering, full of secrets, and not for the first time Montjoy wanted to do anything, be anything, give him anything he might possibly desire. He edged closer, turning Henry's face towards his, closing in to kiss him deeply, letting his lips shape promises for which words were less than adequate.

"In this, as in all things," he said, "obedient to your will, o king."

By the following month the weather had settled down sufficiently to be predictable for days at a time, and reluctantly Henry acknowledged that demands of state must now take precedence over his own happiness. The Swan was in preparation to carry Montjoy and Bedford to France, the latter to remain at Rouen while negotiations with Charles were taking place, and their departure was imminent. Gower, permanently assigned to Montjoy's protection, went with them; Fluellen and MacMorris remained in attendance upon the king.

"Remember not to be afraid of him," was the last thing Henry said, as they parted beneath the Cradle Tower. "Get him on his own and give him this. Make sure you get an answer before you leave." A scroll of paper, Henry's handwriting in the direction, Henry's seal attached to the outside.

"May I know … ?"

Henry shook his head. "You'll know the question by the answer. Now go, or I'll lose my dignity completely. Stay safe and come back as soon as you can; I don’t sleep well any more unless you're with me."

And since, heaven knew, that was equally true of them both, Montjoy broke away and stepped into the barge, and was borne thence quickly before either had a chance to change his mind.

Ten days later he was in Paris again, at the Palais du Louvre, presenting himself as the ambassador of England and requesting audience with King Charles. Montjoy had retained considerable affection for the monarch whose sensibilities had been so worked upon by ambitious men. Even a realist like the Constable had been caught up in the fever for war, largely because there had never been any idea that France could be defeated on her own soil - least of all by little more than a peasant rabble - but Charles had been afflicted by more than just his periodic bouts of madness; there had, too, been a sense of his destiny as protector of France. He had not been able to reconcile himself to ceding French territory, whatever the legal grounds; he had felt Henry's claim as a personal wound, and in rushing to defend him - and advance their own interests - the nobility of France had courted their destruction. Left to advise Charles now was a most unsatisfactory rump of nobles, priests, adventurers and men who had yet to learn discretion. They were no fit retainers for a king in need of measured council, and in the abandonment of Charles to their judgement lay the only regret Montjoy ever experienced about defecting to the English crown.

Thus he was glad to see the king apparently in command of the situation when he was admitted to the presence. Charles, however, left the majority of the talking to his son.

"Ah, Montjoy! Newly from England, I see?" The Dauphin's tone was honey and vitriol, contempt with a veneer of courtesy; it was apparent that by 'England' he alluded to the country not so much as to the man.

"Prince Dauphin." Montjoy inclined his head but his bow was not as deep as in former times it would have been.

"And your king no longer suitor for my sister's hand! Perhaps the Duke of Bedford has more idea what to do with a woman?"

"His majesty has chosen otherwise," was the calm response.

"Aye, so we hear. Affrèrement after the old fashion, was it not? Did you mix your blood and call each other 'brother'? Advise me, noble father," the Dauphin added. "How should we address this man who was once our servant? Shall we call him 'Montroy' - one who is mounted by a king?"

"Enough," said the king. "My lord, you are welcome for yourself as much as for your errand. How fares our cousin England?"

"In health, sire, when I left him." Montjoy declined further converse with the Dauphin. "Concerned to know why agents of France should seek to bring about his murder. He reminds your majesty of a Treaty promising allegiance 'to the ending of the world', and asks you hold the Dauphin more closely to your side."

"I?" The note of indignation in Louis's voice was like the shrieking of a fox. "You accuse me of opposing my father's will?"

"Unless you have ten thousand knights whose lives you are prepared to lose, he urges you instruct your son to desist from seeking his death - or he will come again in person, at the head of an army and arrayed for war. There should be peace between our countries, noble king, and also between yourself and him. Thus Henry, my king. My brother."

"Brother!" The Dauphin's tone dripped scorn. "This is no respectable brotherment! Did you think it would not go abroad that you share King Henry's bed? What has England sent us, father? His ambassador? Or his catamite?"

"A man may be both, Prince Dauphin, without injury to either. Revile me as you wish; it cannot change my lord's intent concerning you."

"Posturing!" yelped Louis. "You abandon France in time of trouble, then tell us how to order our affairs!"

"Be silent." Charles, who had never lost his air of apathy, glared at him in disapproval. "His majesty's admonition is clearly understood." He turned to Montjoy. "We are much inclined to the offer from the Duke of Bedford as guarantee of amity between ourselves. We understand his highness to be presently at Rouen?"

"That is so, your majesty."

"The matter could be completed soon? You stand here for your king?"

"I do. It may be done as soon as you desire."

"Very well. Then let me have your company in private where we can speak without restraint. Prince Dauphin, we will acquaint you with our discourse later."

"But your majesty … !"

"You will be told," repeated Charles, "in time."

For a moment it seemed Louis would continue to protest but then, mutiny in his posture, he bowed and strode away. When he had gone Montjoy nodded dismissal to his escort and offered an arm to Charles, helping the old man rise and giving him a shoulder to lean on as they made their way together from the chamber.

In a small, cluttered room some paces distant, which could have been a study or an embryonic library, Montjoy assisted Charles to a chair and accepted wine from a servant.

"My last son," sighed the king. "More of a trial than the others put together. One always seems to indulge the youngest, and it is frequently unwise."

Montjoy sat opposite him, wondering how anyone could ever have been afraid of such a gentle, ineffectual old man. The answer, of course, was that Charles hadn't always been gentle, ineffectual or old.

"You've changed so much," the king said. "Are you truly affrèred to Henry?"

"Yes, I am."

"To reject my daughter and choose you instead," laughed Charles, "he must be a remarkable young man."

"He is." Montjoy's hand slid into the sleeve of his grey houppelande. "He sends you this. He asked me to give it to you privately. I don’t know the contents, but I am to seek an answer before I leave."

Charles's fingers were unsteady on the seal. He unrolled the note, held it to his eyes and squinted in the firelight.

"Ah. Yes." He beckoned a lackey who stood close by. "The Princess Katharine's gentlewoman, Alice de Carteret. Let her be sent for."

The order apparently caused consternation in the palace, as it was some time before the woman arrived. The intervening discussion, however, resulted in the determination that Bedford be invited to Paris soon, and his marriage to the Princess Katharine celebrated within the month.

"I cannot make provision for my son," Charles confessed, as his clerk scribbled instructions for various departments of his household, "but to see my daughters settled with good husbands is a blessing."

At this point, pink-faced and discomposed, Alice was ushered in. She courtesied to Charles, and almost as deeply to Montjoy.

"Madam," said the king, "long ago we entrusted to you the welfare of a lady insulted by our brother and have not made enquiry of her since. Is she still living?"

Alice's eyes flickered uneasily. "I have not heard otherwise, your majesty."

Montjoy sat on the edge of his chair, his long hands wrapped together before him, formality and protocol vanished from his manner. "My sister?"

Alice looked to Charles for approval to continue. "Your sister, Marguerite d'Albret. Her name in religion is Constance. She's at the Benedictine house of Fontevraud, where a relative of mine is Superior. I last had news of her four years ago, and she was well and happy then."

"Good," said Charles. "Montjoy, your father was my friend before either of us had sons, yet I saw him injured and I did not act. Your family had its enemies, but I was not among them." Montjoy was unable to speak. He looked into the sad old face and waited. "I could have remonstrated with my brother, but I was afraid it would divide the kingdom. He took advantage of that. I failed to save either your father or your fortune, but your sister has been under my protection all this time. King Henry," he added, flourishing the note for emphasis, "asks me to restore her to your care."

Montjoy stared at him. Nothing had been said about this; he had assumed that his visit to Paris was to administer a reproach for the Dauphin's conduct and to negotiate Bedford's marriage; no more personal objective had ever been discussed.

"Henry," he murmured, shaking his head in bewilderment. An exchange of glances between Alice and the king indicated that he had spoken loudly enough to capture their attention.

Charles took control with a determination that reminded Montjoy of the more forceful monarch he had once been. "Madam, you will kindly make yourself available to accompany my lord to Fontevraud and escort his sister as far as England if need be. She will be safer there than in France after I am gone; I have no great hope for anyone with English connections at that time. It is the last thing I can do for my friend d'Albret," the king concluded, his expression sorrowful. "To reunite his children. I wish it had been more, and timelier, but perhaps it may in some sense make amends. Give instructions for whatever you need, Montjoy," he added, generously, "and God attend your journey."

They set off two days later. It was not possible to expect a lady of Alice de Carteret's age to travel on horseback, so Montjoy procured a carriage and two steady horses to draw it, and that first morning rode with her, flaps over the windows to keep out unseasonable gusts of rain.

"Your sister was determined to leave the world," Alice informed him, sadly. "I remember the day your mother brought her to me, both crying their hearts out. All they wanted was a lodging where there were no men, but Marguerite was already inclined towards religion. I'm sure she is better suited to the life than you ever would have been."

"It was never my wish," he admitted. "My grandfather's brother was an abbot, and my parents hoped I'd share his pious nature. They didn’t know what else to do with me. They knew I wouldn't make a soldier."

"Well, you've found your place in the world," was the thoughtful response. "I doubt your sister will have learned of your affrèrement; even if word has reached Fontevraud it would never be mentioned in the convent. You know as well as I do how such things are regarded in religious life. She may refuse to leave with you when she knows."

"Let me break it to her gently, then," he said. "No mention of the king except as my employer. If she objects anyway, it hardly matters who he is."

Alice's eyebrows lifted. "Sensible," she allowed. "What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, eh?" Montjoy was reminded of the Duke of Exeter in one of his more expansive moods. "That was your sister's feeling, too. It's why I've only ever written to her four times. That was her choice."

"Four times? In thirty years?"

"On the deaths of your parents, your brother - and her rapist, the late Duc d'Orleans. She doesn't expect to hear from me again except with a report of your death. I haven't sent word ahead," she added. "I thought it wise."

"Of course."

Montjoy lifted a window flap and glanced out. He had never imagined missing England quite this much. He had got used to the way things were done there, and was finding France wet and dull and the people hidebound. England, somehow, seemed more interesting and alive. Or, if he was honest, perhaps not all of England. Perhaps just the corner of it that was his alone.

Henry.

Homesickness rolled over him in a wave. Lovely as it was, France was no longer his country. He was a foreigner here now, and he longed to be back with those who understood and cared for him. He missed Henry desperately. They had been apart for far too long.

Shortly after crossing the Loire they drew near to Fontevraud, a huge double monastery, white and gleaming and infinitely prosperous. The signet of King Charles gained them admission to the elegant salle capitulaire, where they were made to wait for a chance to apologise for their unannounced arrival. The Superior, thin-faced and shrewlike, regarded Montjoy with suspicion.

"Soeur Constance," she mused. "You are her brother? Sometimes men represent themselves as brothers who are nothing of the sort."

"Guillaume d'Albret, Montjoy King of Arms," he said. "The son of Gaston d'Albret and the brother of Marguerite." He handed her his warrant from the king. "This lady is Alice de Carteret."

"Cousin Alice?"

"Cousin Helène." It was all rather distant and formal between the women, but at least they were civil to each other.

"Very well. She may see you if she wishes. She may also," continued the Superior, perusing the document, "go with you to England. There is a Fontevrist house at Amesbury, in Wiltshire, which will receive her. However she may prefer not to go, or even not to see you. Sometimes our sisters do not like to be reminded of the world. Soeur Constance must make that decision for herself."

"I understand," Montjoy told her. It would be cruel to have come all this way, to have got so close, and to be denied his sister at the last, but as long as she was happy he would learn to live with her decision.

"Wait in the garden," the Superior told him, briskly. "I will have enquiries made. You are required to conduct yourself modestly, and you must not speak to any of the sisters."

He nodded. "Show me where to wait," he said, and tried to quell his over-anxious heart.

For what seemed half an eternity he stayed in the centre of a carefully-manicured garden, perching on the basin of a fountain, conscious of being the only man within the precincts. Black-clad figures flitted through the edges of his vision, none venturing within twenty paces. It seemed polite to feign ignorance of their existence so he fixed his attention on the profusion of spring flowers in pink and white and gold and regal purple burgeoning around him. He knew nothing about gardens; plants grew, their blossoms were cut, people used them in their houses. Throughout the convent they were placed in jugs and vases on altars and in front of icons, their scents and colours softening the stones.

Montjoy could not imagine anyone ever wishing to leave such a tranquil and abundant place.

"You," someone said to him, quietly. "You are Guillaume d'Albret."

He turned, scrambling to his feet. The woman had his mother's face. "Marguerite?"

"My scapegrace brother." She was looking up at him, examining his face in wonder, her hands clasped firmly together as if she was afraid they might reach out for him without consent. She was shaking, and so was he.

"Marguerite? Is that really you?"

She drew in an uncertain breath. "You're taller than I remembered. And so fine. Mother Superior says you're here with soldiers and a warrant from the king to take me to England."

"Only if you want to go," he said. He could not stop looking at her. For thirty years she had stayed in his mind as a dear dark-haired girl with laughing grey eyes, exactly as she had been last time he saw her. Now time had worked its magic she was a woman of mature years, her face thinner and her skin less bright, but her look of wonder and affection was the one he carried in his heart. Tentatively he reached out a hand. "Is it allowed?"

"Perhaps just this once," she said, and slid her fingers into his.

The contact was brief, circumspect, and then she seated herself a decorous distance away. Alice and the Mother Superior, who had followed Marguerite down the path, took station on a nearby bench, their attention firmly on the pair.

"Gui," said Marguerite, wonderingly. "You were a child."

"And you were little more," he said. "Are you happy here?"

"Happy? Yes. Who could not be happy?" She gazed around in contentment.

"Then you wouldn't like to change?"

Silence greeted this remark. At length, Marguerite spoke again. "I've never felt the need," she said, "but neither have I ever had a chance. One is content with what one has as long as there is nothing else. I would like to see the world outside the gates again if I could. But England … What's in England, Guillaume? Who do you have there? A wife? Sons?"

He shook his head. "No wife," he said. "No sons - or daughters either."

Marguerite was looking at him sideways. "No," she said. "There wouldn’t be. If ever I doubted who you were … "

"Did you?"

"Perhaps. The Devil takes many forms; why shouldn’t he take yours?"

He looked away. "But you know I'm not the Devil, because … ?"

She sighed. "Gui, do I have another brother?"

This was no time for dissembling. "You do," he admitted. "Do you mind?"

"I should. I should tell you it's the worst of sins. But you've been my brother all your life and all I want is for you to be loved. Are you?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Shall I meet him if I come to England?"

"Would you like to?" he asked her, anxiously.

"I would," said Marguerite, as though it was the simplest matter in the world. "That is just what I would like to do."

It proved surprisingly straightforward to extract Soeur Constance from among the ranks of the sisters of Fontevraud. She had, as she reminded her brother, no possessions of her own; such items as she took with her belonged to the Order, and she was required to surrender them to the Superior at Amesbury in due course. Then, burdened with instructions about conduct for a Benedictine sister permitted to travel, she accepted Montjoy's assistance into the carriage and sat beside Alice, unable to suppress the excitement she so clearly felt. By the late morning of the day after their arrival they were trundling out again through the convent gates on their way to recross the Loire, heading for a rendezvous with Henry in Rouen, but progress was slow and the road vile, and when evening came it found them still frustratingly close to the point of their departure.

After they had dined Alice retired to bed with a headache. It was still light, however, and the inn had a garden with a dovecote reminiscent of the one they remembered from their childhood, so with Gower in attendance the brother and sister stepped out to stroll slowly around the turf paths and reminisce together.

"Tell me about your friend," said Marguerite, when they paused to appreciate the cool evening breeze. The sky was steady, the horizon wide, the air soft enough to be a comfort.

He shook his head. "I don’t know where to start," he admitted. "There's so much, and I don’t know what's important."

"How long have you known him?"

Well, that at least was easy enough to answer. "Two years, almost exactly. That was when we first met, but he … had someone else then. When that ended … " He stopped, realising he was doing himself no justice with this piecemeal recollection. A herald should at least be able to organise a coherent narrative of the facts. "There was a battle. At a place called Azincourt. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes. Were you there?"

"I was. We both were." But there was no way to articulate how it had affected him. "Nothing made sense before we realised - about each other, I mean. Then everything came clear and we knew exactly who we were."

She looked up at him. "You didn't know? I did, even when you were a boy."

Yes, it was more than likely that she'd known him better than he knew himself, considering that he hadn't known himself at all. "I wish you'd told me. But of course there could only ever have been one love."

"And you found him on the battlefield? It must have seemed like a miracle!"

"It did. We were on opposing sides, you see. He was with the English."

"I supposed so, from what you said about England. So, what manner of man is he? From what sort of family? And does he," she added, her tone mischievous, "have a name?"

"He's a soldier. A loyal friend. Serves God the best he can."

"A good answer," Marguerite smiled. "What else?"

"His family? Noble, wealthy, most civil, some not. They didn’t like our brothering."

Her eyebrows rose. "You had a ceremony?" she asked.

"In London. After Christmas. But I had to leave him after only a few weeks, to come here."

"Well, well! I didn't think such rites took place in England?"

"They do. Not often, but sometimes."

"Good. Then you can always be certain of each other. I know some men are brothered for different reasons - but to you, I'm sure, it meant a great deal more."

"Yes." He thought about it a moment. "That he would even consider it; it meant … it means … everything."

"And yet you still haven't told me his name," she teased.

"Henry," said Montjoy. "His name is Henry."

"The same as the king's?"

"The same," he admitted. "It's a popular name in England."

He didn't really know why he hadn't told her everything there and then, except that perhaps he was afraid it might be overwhelming all at once. Perhaps he had been too much around poor old King Charles, to whom bad or upsetting news always had to be broken gradually, allowing him to get used to one shock before another followed. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that there were robuster souls in the world, and that it was not always necessary to shield them from the truth. Nevertheless he erred on the side of caution, which in his experience was rarely wrong. He could apologise later, when Marguerite and Henry met and she knew what she was dealing with.

Although, he amended wryly to himself, nobody ever did know precisely what they were dealing with where Henry was concerned - and Montjoy himself least of all.

On every day of their journey there was a constant traffic of messengers up and down the road bearing dispatches, scouting for directions, securing accommodation and reporting on the hazards ahead. As they came within sight of the spires of Rouen, however, cresting one last hill to find the city laid out in the valley before them, Montjoy was gratified by the sight of a rider heading back up the slope towards him at speed.

"Captain MacMorris!" he cried out, and the man reined in swiftly at his side.

"'Day to you, my lord. Is all well?"

"Thank you, it is," Montjoy assured him.

"And the lady's with you?"

"She is."

The Irishman smiled. "Shall you bring her, then?" he asked.

It did not take long to understand what the question implied. "Where?"

"Below, where the bridge crosses the river. It seems there's someone anxious to meet with you," said MacMorris, grinning. "We've been watching this road for three days. It's best the lady dismounts here," he continued. "Give me your horse's reins."

Montjoy did so, and was quickly down from Burnet's back. "Thanks, Captain," he said, as he turned towards the carriage.

Marguerite did not require much persuasion to step out and stretch her limbs; she and Alice were both cramped and stiff from lack of exercise. However if Alice thought there was anything odd about being asked to remain while Marguerite was taken away by her brother she was wise enough to hold her tongue and assist the other woman to descend.

"Why have we halted?" Marguerite leaned on Montjoy's arm as he escorted her past the ranks.

"We've encountered the outriders of the king's party," he told her, carefully. "Henry's with them. I thought you'd like to meet him."

"I would!" Her eyes were gleaming. "Is that him, waiting on the bridge? Young and fair-haired?"

"Yes." He paused, drinking in the spectacle with satisfaction. Henry was dressed like a well-to-do farmer or merchant, his pale hair in its usual careless disarray, leaning idly against the parapet of an old stone bridge which at this time of day should have been choked with traffic. When he saw them he started towards them, a smile of welcome spreading across his face as he hurried up the road. Montjoy's heart missed several beats at the sight of him, at the urgency of his movements, at his own almost overpowering desire to throw his arms around the man and kiss him breathless no matter who could see.

They met somewhere on the road in a chaos of emotion; Montjoy's half-suppressed "Mon chèr!" and Henry's fervent "I missed you!" were accompanied by nothing more demonstrative than a fierce clasp of hands and an almost violent slapping of shoulders which soon gave way to a slightly incoherent introduction; "Henri, this is Marguerite." And then, after a breath and a little more thought; "My sister Marguerite; Soeur Constance of the Benedictine House of Fontevraud. Marguerite, this is your new brother. My Henri."

"Your Henri! You love to say that, don’t you?" Henry took Marguerite's hand and bowed over it respectfully. "Soeur Constance. I'm sure I would have known you anywhere; you have your brother's eyes!"

Marguerite was captivated by his unstudied charm. "Our mother was a famous beauty. Jehanne de Lisle; have you heard of her?"

"Certainly I have; she bore handsome children, didn’t she? But I hope you've forgiven Montjoy for choosing me? I couldn’t manage without him, you know. England couldn’t manage without him."

"Sir," said Marguerite, "I haven't seen my brother for thirty years and I find him alive and well and happy. After that I can forgive anything - anything at all."

"That's just as well." Henry glanced at his love. "Because I'm not the best choice for any Frenchman. I don’t suppose he's told you, but I caused a lot of suffering in your country. Do you know about the battle?"

Marguerite's brow furrowed. "Where you met? Yes."

"Well," continued Henry, "we were lucky nobody tried to keep us apart - although I think they realised we'd just have ridden off and left them to their own devices if they had. But they need me, of course - and I need this serious, sensible brother of yours even more than I realised. I've been quite lost without you," he admitted, sheepishly.

"Mon coeur! But you were the one who sent me away!"

"I know, and I wished I hadn't, but there was no help for it. Unfortunately, ma soeur, most of the people who hate me now hate your brother, also. It's no easy path he's chosen; he's a brave man to stay with me the way he does."

"Tsch! When we were children there wasn't a thing he wouldn’t do, just to prove it didn’t scare him - even if it did. But you mustn't blame yourself for what happened in the battle. God puts kings and princes in authority over us so that the blame will fall on their shoulders and not ours."

"No." He clutched her hands. "This time the blame was mine and mine alone."

"Yours?"

"Mine." He glanced at Montjoy, as if seeking reassurance. "I was leading the army, Soeur Constance. I made the decisions that day. I'm Henry of England."

The emphasis almost passed unnoticed, but Marguerite's mind was fully as agile as her brother's. "Of England? Then you are … ?"

" … the king," he acknowledged. "Although with your brother, sometimes, I manage to forget. Your gentlewoman knows me; we met when I asked for the Princess Katharine's hand - which I'm afraid was a terrible mistake."

Marguerite turned to Montjoy. "This is true?"

"Perfectly," he said, but left it there.

"Ah, then it all makes sense. I couldn't imagine what would make my dear brother, of all men, leave his country and pledge allegiance to another crown, but I knew there had to be a reason." She paused, looking at Henry levelly. "You, sir, I think, would be more than reason enough for any man."

A short time later Henry himself escorted Marguerite back to her carriage and handed her into it where she sat, wide-eyed, watching the two men walk away. MacMorris had taken Burnet up through the lines to where Spider, the king's grey, was waiting, and when the column re-formed it was under Henry's banner, with outriders in the vanguard, the king and his companion next, the ladies in their carriage immediately behind, the rest of the party fortifying the rear. Thus, in the full panoply of a royal progress, they thundered fifty strong in a cacophony of hooves down from the crest of the hill and over the cobbled streets of the city, through the Bouveruil Gate and into the grey Castle of Philip Augustus, the convoy drawing to a halt beneath the leaded windows of the Royal Chapel.

"The ladies will be quartered in the Ducal Apartments," Henry said as they dismounted, waving a hand towards the buildings at the foot of the castle's Donjon. "You, I'm afraid, will have to share with me. There's so little space," he added, with a sly twist of the mouth.

"I dare say we'll manage somehow," said Montjoy. He paused, drew a breath, then added; "We shared our bed when it was straw; there's nothing I need at night but darkness and you. And, if I had to, I'd even do without the darkness."

"Spoken like a lover," was the softly-whispered response. "Don’t keep me waiting long, my herald."

"Very well. I'll see my sister settled and join you as quickly as I can." And Montjoy was aware of Henry's hot eyes boring into him with every step he took across the courtyard.

The bedchamber in which the king had installed himself had a high barrel-vaulted ceiling and the bed was a sumptuous slab of red velvet with tasselled hangings fringed in gold, the whole a riot of gaudy French taste Henry hadn't cared enough to change.

"I shall sleep tonight," he proclaimed with a grin, "completely vanquished by the might of France," and the meaning of his words could hardly be misread. He was lounging on the bed, propped on one elbow, wearing shirt and leggings. His surcoat, sword-belt and boots were dumped against the wall, his sword the only item which had been set down with any delicacy. Montjoy discarded his riding-boots, houppelande and cote and ran a careless hand through his hair before stretching out and taking Henry gently into his arms.

"Make the most of this," Henry whispered. "In the morning, it will be all problems. Westmoreland's badgering me about the Dauphin's manoeuvres south of the Loire and the bishops want to talk about benefices, but when they told me your party had been sighted I made them wait and set off to meet you immediately. And you won't have any peace, either. Someone's come from the Constable's widow; I think she wants to remarry or sell property or something, and she can’t do either without your permission."

"Which she must find galling," Montjoy mused. His hands were busy in the laces of Henry's shirt, releasing him from it and allowing his fingers to roam delightedly through the soft hair on the king's chest and belly.

"At least you won't refuse her out of spite." Henry lifted to his stroking hand. "Your sister took it well, didn’t she? She's just like you - impossible to scare."

"Perhaps," conceded Montjoy. "Perhaps it wasn't the shock we thought it might be; Heaven knows what she and Alice were whispering about in the carriage all that time. Or maybe she just has as much trouble resisting you as I do, mon chèr," he concluded, tongue in cheek. "You're a difficult man to say 'no' to."

Henry grinned. "How would you know?" he asked. "You've never even tried."

"Hmmm. Well, maybe I should - just to find out what it feels like."

"I'd rather you didn't." Henry grabbed the wandering hand and moved it very firmly to where he wanted it, pressing up into it with a kind of desperation. "Or, at least, I'd prefer it if you didn’t start tonight; I want you far too much."

"I want you, too. I've been quite distracted thinking about you. Every time I closed my eyes, there you were. Naked," he added, making short work of Henry's leggings and drawers, "and ready, just as you are now. Dear king, you're every dream I've ever had."

"Do you want me enough, though," asked Henry, whose hands were similarly occupied with the fastenings of Montjoy's clothing, "to take me like a girl tonight?"

Montjoy pushed him down and held his hands still, pressing him into the mattress, using the illusion created by his greater height to good advantage as he ground teasingly against Henry, a glitter of determination in his eyes.

"Yes," he assured his beloved, hungrily. "I do. And much, much more than only just 'enough'."

They lay late the following morning, warm and satisfied and wilfully ignoring the sounds of activity in the courtyard and the echoes of bells calling them to prayer. Montjoy never discovered what orders Henry had given to preserve their privacy, but when the king dragged himself out of bed, unlocked the door and called for his varlet, Martin and Ivo both answered the summons, one bearing a basket of clothing and the other breakfast, and neither of them seemed even marginally embarrassed about any of it. When they were both washed, shaved and dressed and the servants had withdrawn again Henry produced a bundle wrapped in velvet which he placed into Montjoy's hands.

"I've had my goldsmith busy," he said, almost diffidently. "You'll need this for Bedford's wedding anyway, but you may as well start wearing it today; Exeter and Westmoreland will have theirs, and so will Gloucester."

The parcel disgorged a river of gold links alternating the shapes of the letter 'S' - the mark of Henry's father, Henry IV - and those of sprigs of broom, the planta genista which had given the Plantagenet line its name. Depending from it was Henry's own swan device, also in gold, and beneath that a ruby the size of a plumb bob, trapped in a cage of gold wires.

"I don’t need to explain the significance to a herald, do I?" Henry asked.

"You're making me a Privy Councillor?" Even after all the intimacy they had shared, all the evidence of Henry's trust in him, it scarcely seemed credible.

"Who better? I'm going to need a replacement for Bedford; as Charles's son-in-law he'll be his man now and wear his collar - which will look very odd, and means he can't serve on my Council any more. Besides, it seems quite fitting - a Frenchman in England to counterpart an Englishman in France." He was trying to make light of the offer, but they were both sensible of the wider significance of the appointment. "I've never been sure how much of an honour it is to be expected to wear a collar like a dog," the king continued. "Although if it's any consolation I wore my father's, and he wore his. But when we get to Paris it will show everyone you have my confidence - and demonstrate to Katharine how seriously I take this thing between us. I wouldn’t want her thinking I'd discarded her on a whim."

"I doubt that will be a problem," Montjoy reassured him. "I'm sure her new husband will explain it. His highness and I had plenty of opportunity to discuss the matter during our travels, and I think we reached an understanding."

"Did you?" smiled Henry. "I hoped you would, if I left you to yourselves. John's a reasonable man, on the whole, just a bit lacking in imagination. Even so he's got more than Thomas … and Humphrey probably has far too much. But I thought he'd get to like you if he knew you; he and I are very similar in some respects. Fortunately," he added, "not in all."

Montjoy glanced across at the bed which dominated the room and which had been put to such very good use during the hours of darkness. So far, the servants had not been permitted to disturb it; it still lay exactly as it had when they had reluctantly torn themselves away from its sheltering embrace.

"I'm sure he'll be just as passionate with Katharine," he observed, mildly. "If he is, you shouldn't have to wait too long for an heir."

"No indeed." For there had been no lack of enthusiasm on either side, and the temptation to disrobe now and begin all over again was almost overwhelming. "Well, will you accept the collar? I should invest you with it formally, I suppose, but that can wait until we're back in England. Put it on now and come down to the Council meeting with me; we may as well start as we mean to go on."

"Now?" repeated Montjoy. This was the first he had heard of any meeting.

"Immediately. In fact we're late already. I suspect my entire Council - such as it is, with Clarence and Erpingham still in London - will be wondering what we've been up to. Not that they'd have too much trouble guessing, I'm sure. Here - bend your head for me."

Not giving him time to protest, Henry looped the collar over Montjoy's head and settled it into place around his shoulders, his fingers stilling the plumb bob ruby as he straightened up.

"Thank you. I'll strive to be a faithful councillor to your majesty."

"Hush, man, I know you will; I don’t need speeches - there never was anyone as loyal as you in the world before. Help me with this, will you?" The king had taken up a diadem fashioned from linked golden stars, obviously the work of the same artisan who had formed the collar. He handed it to Montjoy, and stood with his hands meekly folded whilst the Frenchman settled it carefully on top of his springy fair hair. Then Montjoy leaned in to kiss him, and Henry's arms slid around his waist and held on tightly. "We're very fine, aren't we?" the king whispered as they parted.

"You," was the judicious reply, "are magnificent."

"We're both magnificent," Henry corrected, with a grin. "You ought to see yourself the way I see you. Now, mon coeur, are you feeling brave?"

"Not at all," conceded Montjoy, and they set off anyway.

"We'll sail into Southampton when we return," Henry said, as they crossed the ante-room which was suddenly full of people. Montjoy did not look at any of them but kept his attention directed towards his king. "That way we can take Marguerite to Amesbury ourselves. If I make an endowment to the house there it should serve to ease her way - and may be enough to overcome the disadvantage of having you and me as relatives. Money often goes a very long way towards soothing painful consciences, I find."

"I don’t think she sees it as a disadvantage," protested Montjoy. "She's very fond of you."

"She's a sweet woman," was the affectionate response, "but you're both unreasonably biased toward me. After we've seen her settled we'll go on to Bristol, and then into Wales; I want to show you where I was born. It's such a lovely place."

"Monmouth?"

"Yes. In a high room overlooking a bend in the Monnow. Then I'll take you to your manor at Stokesay and you can decide what you want to do with it - and I should go to Chester while I'm in the area, there's always business waiting for me there. We'll spend autumn at Windsor, and go back to the Tower again for Yule."

He was still talking, still making plans, as they moved out towards the head of the stairs, with Gower and MacMorris forming up beside them and a small group of armsmen fore and aft.

"There are a lot of people waiting, your majesty," Gower said. "But it's all good-natured as far as I can see. Do you want us to move them back?"

"Don’t bother, Captain. They're curious to look at you," he grinned to Montjoy. "In London we're not a novelty any more, but here … nobody's really seen us together yet. They want to inspect you. You'd better get used to it; by the time we get to Paris it'll be very much worse."

From the foot of the stairs rose a fascinated buzz, people pressing close to the shoulders of the armsmen who lined their route. Indeed, there must be a distinct paucity of worthwhile entertainment in Rouen today, as it seemed everyone in the castle with nothing better to do had turned out just to watch the king and his favourite descending a staircase. Not that they did not present a glittering spectacle, as even Montjoy had to admit - he tall and serious in crimson, every inch the senior councillor; beside him Henry, in scarlet and jewels still the martial king but struggling to keep from smiling. An excited movement rippled through the crowd. They flexed and surged like the waves of the ocean, one nudging the shoulder of the next, people swaying and stepping sideways and washing back to their original positions. Hands were reaching for Henry, too, people who wanted to touch him as he passed.

"This reminds me of those women who went after me on the battlefield," said Henry quietly as they began to descend. "I never did understand who they were, only that you saved me from them."

"Mothers of sons, I suppose," replied Montjoy. "Dependants of some of those who died. I'm sure they wouldn't have hurt you, but they might have made you drop the boy."

"And you put yourself between me and them. It was gallantly done and I've never forgotten it. That was the moment when I knew I didn't want to be without you." Henry paused and they smiled deeply at one another, and there was interest in the crowd and people commenting beneath their breath, but it was pleasanter than Montjoy had ever imagined to be displayed at Henry's side like this. If it got no worse, he could certainly tolerate this much.

When Henry started moving again Montjoy fell into step beside him as if he had been accustomed to it all his life, and they descended the staircase together and strode into the Royal Chapel side by side.

For his first Council Meeting Montjoy was glad to be offered a seat next to the Duke of Exeter, who smiled on him benevolently, and opposite Gloucester and Westmoreland who at least did not seem to hate him. Nor was there any immediate necessity for him to make a contribution as the matter of the bishops was dealt with first and seemed to rumble on interminably until Henry had had more than enough of the conversation.

"I fail to understand why any of this must be dealt with now," he said, "or why you pursued me all the way to France about it. This could have waited; I have a man in mind for one of the vacant bishoprics, and once he's installed we can consider this again. No more," he said, and turned to the Earl of Westmoreland. "The Dauphin?" he prompted, with a sigh, and listened to a rehearsal of worries that Westmoreland had articulated more than once. This time, however, some of the details were new.

"I have been able to confirm, your majesty," said the Earl, "that the Captain of the Thomas was in the pay of the Duc Grandpree. My agents traced him to an estate in the Languedoc, and have established themselves in the district to keep him under observation. Your majesty may wish to consider what action would be appropriate against him; he did, after all, make an attempt on your life, and will almost certainly be ordered to try again."

"And the Duc Grandpree is Louis's creature," said Henry, firmly. "Montjoy, inform my lords how your meeting with the Dauphin went."

There was no time to think. The herald was on his feet immediately, bowing formally to Henry and addressing the Council with confidence.

"As far as I could tell, my king, the Dauphin is barely under his father's control. He has built his own power-base south of the Loire and is effectively establishing himself almost as a rival sovereign. The division in the kingdom which his majesty of France has feared for many years is now even more likely to occur; if the Dauphin could score a notable success - by arranging to have your majesty killed, for example - it would be sufficient to win over many of those unwilling to abandon King Charles."

"So, I am to be a pawn in someone else's power struggle, am I?" Henry mused. "He'll find me not so easy to kill as he imagines. He tried it once, hand-to-hand, and failed; he'll never have a better chance than that."

"Nevertheless," repeated Montjoy, "he will try again. He will keep trying either until he succeeds, which God forbid, or until King Charles is dead. And even then," he added, "I suspect he will go on. The Dauphin's hatred for your majesty has grown out of all proportion since … since the battle."

"Since you," corrected Henry, gently.

Montjoy lowered his eyes briefly. "Since," he agreed, "me. And since the passing of the late Constable and your majesty's detention of the Duc d'Orleans there are very few moderate voices any more in France. Now that Grandpree has allied himself with the Dauphin rather than the king, his grace of Bedford may be the only true friend his majesty has at court."

"And he, too, will be a target," acknowledged the king. "Thank you, Montjoy."

He bowed and sat, receiving a grunt of approval from Exeter as he did so. "Well said, my boy," the big man muttered under his breath. "You'll make a councillor yet."

"We will acquaint our brother Bedford with the news," declared Henry, calmly, "and give out that his safety is our chief concern. For ourself and our companion, the affection of our people is all the guarantee we need. If we can be sure of that then we can be sure of our lives also; if we lose that affection, our lives are of no further matter anyway and may as well be forfeit. Say you so, Montjoy?"

"I do, your majesty." But there had really been no need to ask; they were of one mind on this, as on so many other subjects.

"Well, then. The notary from Albret may present himself for my lord's attention later in the afternoon." Henry rose, and everybody else rose with him. "Did I see your man Williams lurking outside the chapel, uncle?" he asked Exeter, as they left the chamber. "Has he returned from sea?"

"He has, your majesty. Arrived last night. Will it please you see him now?"

"It will," said Henry. "Send him along behind us. And have arrangements made to begin our journey to Paris in the morning," he concluded. "The sooner I can talk to Bedford in person, the happier I'll be."

Shortly afterwards, Williams was admitted to the royal presence and greeted warmly by the king.

"Come and tell us how you fared!" he said. "Sit and take a cup of something while you talk; I can see from your face that you have something to impart."

Williams, awkward in such exalted company, did as he was told. A steward, busy with flasks and horn cups, set wine down at his elbow. "How did you leave our friends on the island? Is the prior hale and hearty? I sent Williams to find out if he'd like to be a bishop," Henry explained jovially to Montjoy. "There are two sees vacant at the moment and I could do with a friend in the convocation - assuming the Pope is willing to see things my way. What did he think of the idea?"

Williams had not yet taken the first sip but lowered his cup and looked at the king thoughtfully over the lip of it.

"That's the problem," he said. "I wasn't able to see him, and I don’t exactly understand why. The island was there - just as we left it, sir - but it was empty. Everybody that we left behind had gone."

At first Henry could not comprehend the concern in Williams' tone. "They must have been recalled," he said. "We'll make enquiries for their parent house and commend them for their charity to strangers." But the sergeant's expression was not encouraging. "Why, what's the matter, man?"

"Did they tell your majesty the name of the parent house?" asked Williams. "I couldn’t recollect hearing it, and Captain Gower says he never did."

Montjoy and Henry exchanged thoughtful looks. "Well, they were English, of course," said Montjoy, "although that doesn’t signify. They could have come from Brittany, or Scilly, or anywhere around those shores. Someone must know."

"That's just it, sir. We made enquiries everywhere. We sent men to Braye Harbour, to St Peter Port, to St Helier, to Minquiers and even to one of the islands where there's a hermit living, but nobody had heard of any Benedictines ever being on Redmouth. Not these last hundred years, anyway." Williams gulped his wine, wiped a hand across his face, squared his jaw. "So we went and had a proper look around. The lighthouse is there, sir; I recognised the stones I'd cut myself, and the place where you and Brother Ambrosius mixed the mortar and it turned a different colour when it dried. There was even Captain Gower's initials scratched into the lintel."

Henry's brows were drawn down. "Go on," he said, although he knew he would hear nothing good.

"Well, sir, we looked at the houses. The roofs have gone, and I thought maybe there had been a storm and they'd had to leave on account of the damage, but it wasn't that. They'd fallen in, that's all, from not being looked after properly, and the weather had got inside and done damage everywhere. The pig's house," he smiled, "well, that was gone - and the pig too, God bless her. Even the Infirmary where my lord Montjoy was treated - the wall's fallen down where your bed was, sir, and the weeds have grown up over it. It takes more than a few months to get a building into that condition. It takes more like a decade - maybe two or three."

"But … " Montjoy was trying to puzzle it through. "We were there less than a year ago. Six months. There couldn’t be so much damage in so short a time, surely? You're certain it was the right island?"

"Oh, yes, sir," nodded Williams, seemingly not at all upset about being challenged over so fundamental a matter. "Believe me, we asked ourselves that, but there was Weed Island in the distance, and we went there and found the place where the Captain and I sheltered and where we built our fire, and it was all as familiar as my own hand, sir," he said, holding up the hand for emphasis. "So back we went again to Redmouth, and sure enough there were the graves his majesty digged, and if we'd opened them there would have been the men we lost in the shipwreck, too - only we didn't like to disturb them, sir."

"No," agreed Montjoy. "That was the right decision." He glanced at Henry. "How is this possible? You seem to say, Williams, that the monks were never there? Or that they weren't there at the same time as us?"

"That's as close as I can get to it myself, sir," the sergeant admitted, with a frown. "There was all the houses that we knew, and if you were there yourself you couldn't have said different, and the work we'd done and the graves of our friends, but no sign of the monks or the Prior. And the only thing we could learn was that there had been monks there a hundred years ago, but they'd been recalled to their parent house. Except," his face twisting in discomfort, "that a storm came up on the way, and their ship was lost. The people we talked to said they should have stayed on the island. They said they'd still have been there to this day if only they had."

"But Francis told me he'd been at the coronation," protested Montjoy. "That was four years ago."

"He said it, sir," Williams pointed out. "But do we have any word for it but his? Did anybody see him there? Did you, sir?"

Montjoy was obliged to acknowledge that he had not.

A long silence descended then, until at length Henry spoke again. "What," he asked, "did you do with the gifts you took?"

Glad to be able to return to practicalities, Williams managed a smile. "We shared the food and clothing between the Benedictines on the other islands, sir, and not forgetting the solitary gentleman. We gave them in your majesty's name, and asked them all to pray for you. The money we thought best to bring home with us, being too great a matter to decide. If we have failed your majesty … "

Henry waved aside the apology. "No, you haven't. Nobody could have done better, and I'm grateful. How should a man act when everything he thinks he knows is altered overnight? You dealt honestly, Williams. You have my thanks."

"Your majesty's humble servant." Williams rose to take his leave. "But sir, there is a further matter." He extracted his purse from his belt, opened the drawstring and took out what at first appeared to be a coin which he placed into Henry's open hand. "I found this among the rocks."

Henry pinched it between his fingers and held it up against the light. It was a small mother-of-pearl button with a silver mount.

"I recognise that! It's a button from your shirt!" In his astonishment Montjoy allowed formality to lapse completely, and could not help noticing Williams's indulgent smile. "I have eight of them; the Prior gave them to me. How many were there altogether?"

"A dozen," Henry shrugged. "Why do you have them?"

"Ambrosius found them among the rocks. I thought at the time … " He stopped, awkwardly. "Well, never mind what I thought."

"You thought it would be all you ever had," Henry told him, handing him the button. "Well, sir herald, when you draw your own grant of arms - which you will be doing soon - you had better make sure there are nine silver disks included somewhere in the design. Thank you, Williams," he said, dismissing the man with a nod of the head. "We'll hear more of your travels another time, but for this present that will do. I need to think a while on what you say."

Williams bowed, and in a moment he had gone. After his departure a softer and more reflective mood settled upon the room, and eventually Henry sighed in deep frustration.

"Of course," he said, "no amount of thinking will do any good, because there is no solution to the matter. The island is still there, but the men are not - and, if Williams is to be believed, they never were. We were there, which is proved by the button, and we saw them and spoke to them - and so did my uncle Westmoreland, if it comes to that - and they saved our lives by hiding us from the Duc Grandpree and his men. But if there were no monks on the island, then none of it could have happened - and we did not, therefore, spend a night hiding in a pig-sty, and it is absolutely impossible for you ever to have kissed me there. But you did, didn’t you?"

"So I seem to recall," smiled his love, gently. "And it met with your approval, also as I recall."

"It did, by God, and always will." Henry considered this for a few moments longer, and then said; "Do you think God is playing games with us, mon coeur?"

Montjoy sat down and slid an arm around his shoulder. "God," he said, wisely, "has been playing games with us ever since the day we met. What could it be but a joke of his, after all, to give the two of us into one another's hands the way he has?"

"True." Henry rested comfortably against him and seemed utterly disinclined to move. "It's a good joke, though, my herald, isn't it?"

"It is, your majesty," agreed Montjoy, folding the king into his arms and leaning in to kiss him tenderly. "A very good joke indeed."

* * *

*

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursued the story,

In little room confining mighty men,

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly lived

This star of England. Fortune made his sword,

By which the world's best garden he achieved,

And of it left his son imperial lord.

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crowned King

Of France and England, did this King succeed,

Whose state so many had the managing

That they lost France, and made his England bleed;

Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,

In your fair minds let this acceptance take.

Henry V, Epilogue