Warning: This fic contains brief references to the abuse of children as committed by one of the historical, but non-canon, characters. Nothing explicit and nothing on-screen, but the crimes underpin the plot.

Sequel to 'Jumping o'er Times' which is here: s/6100834/1/Jumping-o-er-Times


Star of England

Chapter 1

'Where is Montjoy King of Arms?'

In the midst of the preparations for his betrothal, while preparing to go through the terms of dowry and dower once more, with his crown a constant reminder of duty in its open casket on the council-table, Henry spoke the words which showed where his thoughts truly lay. Somewhere in the Duke's palace was Princess Katherine, doubtless surrounded by ladies, as nervous as he was himself but as aware of duty to be done. And here were other heralds who had brought the contract to him, men wearing his own arms and those of the French and Burgundian rulers.

Montjoy was not there. He had been at the signing of the treaty yesterday, staying almost out of sight behind the lords and ladies of the French court. Henry, doing his best to woo and win a wife – poor girl, she deserved much better than he could give her - had been acutely aware of him the whole time. And now, no Montjoy. Someone else in his place.

'Your majesty, he is indisposed.' That was the Frenchman.

A lie. Not an insolent one, but not a diplomatic one either; he could see it in the man's eyes. Montjoy of all men would have been here today if he were not at death's door. The sense of duty that had torn him from Henry's side a fortnight ago would drive him to Henry's formal betrothal. Something was wrong.

'Brother Bedford, do you go with him and find out what's amiss.' He glanced over at his brother, standing stolidly by the window of the state bedchamber, and jerked his head. Find him. Make sure he's safe. Bedford nodded, wooden, and left the room in the company of this other King of Arms.

Exeter, glancing at the crown, heaved the very faintest of sighs. Henry ignored him, ignored the crown, and pointed at his sword. Gloucester brought it to him and buckled it about his waist. The atmosphere in the lodging's presence-chamber altered subtly. This was no longer a state ceremony they were preparing for. Something else was in the air.

'Now, gentlemen, let us wait.' And they did, in uneasy silence, while the fire crackled softly on the hearth and the sounds of the town below came in through the windows. Henry's fingers tapped on his sword-hilt.

Bedford came back into the room, and shook his head. 'They don't know where he is. His room is empty, no word left with anyone. He hasn't been seen since yesterday evening.'

'Then we will find him.'

Exeter moved up close beside him. 'Your majesty,' he said quietly. 'Seal this contract first. That's what you came here to do. That's what the battles were about. Then you may search for him. We'll set men to search for him, while you're with the court.' This last with the closest to an air of desperation that he'd ever seen his uncle display.

Henry looked round at the heralds, at all the men who had not been with them on their strange journey through the past. 'Clear the room of all but my councillors,' this to the door-wards, 'these men may wait in the ante-chamber. Sergeant Bates and his squad will wait with them.' And, having ensured they could not run through the town spreading rumour that the English King was as mad as the French, he waited a few moments while the room emptied of most of its occupants.

And no-one would meet his eyes. Nor did anyone speak.

Now Henry was beginning to feel rather a fool. But... He promised me he would be here and He brought us all back and Does someone else know that? All those questions and more, and he could not forget how, on the eve of the invasion of France, his own cousin had been admitted to his chambers with news of betrayal and conspiracy that would have toppled him from his throne and left the kingdom in ruins. Had he paid no heed to Mortimer, refused to admit him to his presence, said that he had matters of greater import to deal with than to speak to a negligible kinsman – disaster. And Mortimer was negligible, and Montjoy he trusted with his life and his honour.

'Sir Thomas,' he began. 'You and the escort brought him to Troyes a week ago. What did you see? What did you hear? Speak.'

The old knight, unfamiliar in his surcoat with its martlets – how long had they lived as vagabonds, in caves or camps under strange stars, waiting for Montjoy to solve the riddle and bring them home? - thought for long moments before replying.

'The journey was simple enough. We stayed at your castles, or at inns once or twice. We went through Alençon and Paris, but' – he paused for a moment – 'Fontainebleau was not so far away. We skirted the forest a little way to the south.'

'Fontainebleau. Where Tommaso had his workshop, or so Montjoy told us. What did you see there?'

'No sign of anything untoward, Sire. Everything was quiet. Not even Montjoy had anything to say about the place - though to be sure he spoke little throughout the journey.'

Nor had Henry, as he in his turn had taken the road to Troyes. Lonely nights, and days which brought him ever closer to a duty he would gladly have shirked. Was shirking now.

'We know that Tommaso was in Bayeaux, when he set the spell that entrapped us,' said Henry. 'But that was months ago. He could be anywhere by now. He could be here.'

'Maybe, Sire. But we had no word of him on our journey.'

In the dark, he was searching in the dark. 'And at Alençon?'

'Quiet, though we had some ill-looks.' That was unsurprising, the last Duke having been killed at Agincourt.

'Did you see the new Duke?'

'No, nor any sign that he was there. He's but a child, though; he could not be a threat to us.'

'So many of them are children. None should be a threat. But someone's taken Montjoy from our midst, and why would - ?' But Sir Thomas had just raised his head as if remembering something. 'Go on.'

'As we left St-Malo. There was a youth, a lordling, riding through the streets with his retinue. A cross sable on a field or. He may even have seen Montjoy take his leave of your majesty.'

They had clasped hands for a moment at the gatehouse, a last touch before parting forever, as they thought, and even then, Henry had hoped Montjoy would change his mind and stay. But no, he had opened his fingers and let Henry's hand fall, and blinked back the tears which were shining in his eyes and ridden out across the drawbridge, leaving Henry standing, equally forlorn, in the courtyard.

'Ask our pursuivant who that might be. As for Troyes: who was here?'

'King Charles and Queen Isabeau only came in three days ago, with the Dauphin and the princess. The Duke of Burgundy was here when we arrived. Some few of the French lords, too. Oh - ' he drew a sudden breath. 'Waiting on Queen Isabeau... Christine de Pisan. She had a new ballad for the court.'

Christine de Pisan. Daughter of the man who had sent them into the past. Tommaso's daughter.

-x-

And she, when summoned, was overwrought to the point of folly. 'King of England, I have no time for this. Tell your guards to open that door, or I swear I will break it down and go my ways!'

Henry felt his face go slack with surprise. No-one, no-one had ever spoken to him like this before. Exeter was moving threateningly towards her, but Henry stopped him with a glance. The woman was beyond ordinary fear, ablaze with rage. 'Madame. Best you tell me why, and wherefore, and then we may discuss doors and guards. Speak. Now.'

'My children! Where are my children?'

'I do not know. Why do you think I should?'

'Chop-logic! Here you are, you and your people, and they disappear the night after you arrive!'

'Disappear, you say?' He took a pace forward. The very night Montjoy, too, had vanished.

She covered her face with her hands and gave a wordless cry of frustration. 'Do you have ears, King of England? Ah, if you cannot listen, I'll be gone - ' and she swung away and was halfway to the door before anyone could stop her.

Henry was after her in a moment. 'Madame. Wait. Your children are gone, you say. Someone else is missing, too. It cannot be coincidence. Tell me what happened. Wine for the lady,' he called over his shoulder, and led her to a bench, and sat down beside her.

Erpingham brought a cup of wine, and Henry handed it to her. She wrapped both hands around it and drank, then set it down on the bench impatiently; a woman approaching middle years, with fierce grey eyes bright with intelligence, hands clenching on her knees, a gown plain and severe but rich enough to speak of a little money.

'Now, madame. Speak.'

She drew a breath, braced herself. 'Last night I was with the court, reading them my new ballad. I have to earn money, you understand? And at seven this morning I went to their room and my children were gone. Their maid struck down, the room in turmoil, the window forced, and I slept in the next room and knew nothing!'

Henry glanced up at his uncle, his brothers. Gloucester was watching her with a crease between his brows. 'Sire, if I may?' he asked, tilting his head at her. And when Henry nodded permission, he addressed her directly.

'Madame, forgive this intrusion - but why do you have to earn money? Are you not provided for?'

She stared at him with contempt. 'Because I have none and must support my children. My kinswomen. I have no time for your foolish questions,' and she made to stand up again.

Henry put out a hand to stay her. 'You are a widow, we know that. But you have a father still living, court astrologer to your king.' And all the men in the room saw where this was leading, and their attention sharpened. 'Why does he not support you?'

Christine de Pisan said flatly, 'He went back to Italy, or so he said. More than a year ago. We have had no word of him since, though we sent there, to try to find him. The money he gave us is almost at an end. Therefore, all I have to support my family is my writing. My ballads have always been popular at court. And thus I myself, and my children, and my aunts and cousins have enough to eat. Now, my lord the king, I will go, whether you will it or no.'

'Madame, we will give you what help we may. Sir Thomas, go with her – to the provost? And later, with your leave, my brother Gloucester will go to your house, and see what may be seen there.'

'The city authorities here will do what is necessary. I do not need your help.'

'It seems to me that we need each other's help. Your father has gone, and your children. It may be that you were only spared because you were at court last night. Someone has an interest in your family. And a man of mine was taken last night too. It cannot be a coincidence.'

'And your betrothal? All Troyes is waiting for that.' She was watching him with narrowed eyes now.

'If there's some conspiracy afoot, I wish to know about it. That is all, madame.'

She dropped him an ironic curtsey, gathered up Sir Thomas with a look, and departed the room.

There was a concerted sigh when they had gone.

'Conspiracy, my lords,' said Henry, facing them. 'We've encountered it before on the eve of a great enterprise. I put back an invasion for a week because of it, and I will postpone a betrothal for the same time if necessary.' He locked gazes with Exeter.

'An hour is all you need for the betrothal.'

'An hour for the betrothal, but we would be committed to France thereafter.' He gestured at the parchments, waiting to be signed, with the details of the financial arrangements set out upon them. 'I have no wish for that until these disappearances are explained. Tommaso. His grandchildren. Montjoy,' Montjoy, his beloved, who had brought them all safe home and set aside his and Henry's love for his duty to France. 'I will not abandon Montjoy, my lords, do you imagine that I would? Whoever has taken Christine de Pisan's family wishes to control Tommaso, may even have him at this moment. Tommaso, who set the spell, do I have to remind you? And I do not doubt that they have Montjoy too.'

If they thought him besotted, deluded, starting at shadows, well, that was just too bad. 'Brother Bedford,' he continued. 'Find out where the rest of the de Pisan family are. See that they are guarded, discreetly. For the rest, we must wait until Gloucester returns. And I'll speak to Sergeant Bates and his men now. They may remember more of the journey here with Montjoy.'

Bates and his squad had been detailed to watch, and then protect Montjoy, throughout their journey through the past. Once here in Troyes, that duty had passed from them. Henry rebuked himself bitterly for a moment – he should never have left Montjoy unguarded! - then braced himself and called for the door to the antechamber to be opened. And a round dozen of archers filed through, strong, burly men all, with their bows in their hands and arrows at their belts, Bates, Court, Guy and the rest of them, all of whom owed Montjoy their lives; all with grim expressions and an air of supreme capability.

The sight gave Henry great comfort.

'Well, my friends, it seems that there's knavery afoot once more. Our Herald's gone missing, and Tommaso and half his family, and if that's a coincidence then I'm much mistaken. I will not proceed with the alliance' – he did not say wedding - 'until I know where, and how, and why.'

'Sire, we'll help all we can. You may rely on us.' And the rest of the squad nodded at Bates' words.

Of course, they had less to lose than the nobles if the alliance with France did not proceed; no chance of wide lands and advantageous marriages for them! But Henry was now inclined to the opinion that there would be small profit to be had in any case, and that his astonishing victory at Agincourt had no wider significance. How his thoughts had changed in the last few months! His first duty was to defend England, and the acquisition of an empire of sorceries might well have the opposite effect. And of course Montjoy, the closest he had to an astrologer-sorcerer of his own, was essential to that duty.

'Then tell me, what happened on that journey you made from St-Malo? What did you see, or hear? Who did you meet?'

And so Bates took him through his own account of the journey; the uneasy peace of the countryside, the rain, the little garrisons where they stayed, the Herald riding quiet and sad in their midst. Henry sighed a little when he heard this last. He himself had been lorn and lost during those days, and the nights had been worse. The loss of that other lover, the traitor Scroop, devastating though it was at the time, had been a minor thing by comparison.

'Would anyone have guessed what he did for us? No-one spoke of it, surely?'

'No, Sire, but we're dealing with sorcerers here. Who knows how they find their knowledge out?'

A shiver ran round the men.

'No, if our enemies were so powerful, they would surely have struck us down long before now. That spell was the only time they've moved against us. If Tommaso is missing - '

'Tommaso had the learning. Maybe he was acting at someone else's behest,' said Gloucester.

There was a little silence. They had so many enemies here in France.

'Someone who must work by stealth. Who will steal away children, and a herald. Someone Tommaso would run from.'

'With your permission I'll go now to Madame de Pisan's house, and search it for signs.' Gloucester was ahead of them all, but -

'Send after the lady and Sir Thomas, and ask her leave first. We'll do ourselves no favours by antagonising her.'

There was a fervent nodding of heads around the room; Gloucester smiled rueful agreement.

-x-

Blanchlyverer, the pursuivant who had lately come down from Calais with Westmoreland, on being summoned to discourse of French blazons, said, 'Sire, that would be Gilles de Rais. He's a young man, come into his lands but a few years since, mostly in the west. He's extravagant, they say...'

And Erpingham broke in, sharply, 'Not much more than a boy – that would be the youth we saw at St-Malo. Going towards Brittany, as we turned east. It was as we left the castle.'

A short silence. Then Henry said, 'Blanchlyverer, tell me all you know of him. His lands, and castles, his friends and family, his alliances and allegiances.'

Blanchlyverer's eyes lost their focus for a moment, as he strove to recall what he knew. Then, 'He will inherit lands mostly in the west, in Brittany and Anjou. His father is long dead, and his uncle was killed in the battle.' There was no need to say which battle. 'He was betrothed to an heiress; she's very young, and her properties march with those of Rais. I am sorry, sire, I cannot remember who she is at this moment...'

'Find out, Blanchlyverer, and you've done well,' and the pursuivant bowed, and took himself from the room. Henry's attention was diverted for the moment as he did so, and he wondered suddenly what Katherine was doing, in her apartment in the palace? Might she be relieved at her reprieve, or chagrined at the delay of her marriage to a king? And there were voices coming up from the streets; the people, looking forward to a show, for a parade of kings and princes. No matter. His retinue, and the troops that had come down from Calais to meet it, were well able to keep the peace. But meanwhile, there was conspiracy afoot.

An hour later, and Gloucester was back with his report. He told how Madame de Pisan had given them the run of her father's books, and left them to search while she paced up and down in the hall of the house.

Gloucester added, as if thinking aloud, 'De Rais likes the high life. Maybe he wants more money, and hopes to raise it by sorcery. But Tommaso has vanished, so he steals away his grandchildren, for Christine de Pisan is too much involved at court to be readily taken. And thus he hopes to call Tommaso to heel.'

'But the Herald?' asked Bedford. 'Why take him?'

'Maybe word has got out of his part in our return. Maybe he's seen as a threat to de Rais' further plans, since he broke the first spell that he and Tommaso set.' And Henry thought, maybe he knows of our affection somehow, and holds him hostage for my good behaviour.

'We will find them,' he said, 'we have a trick or two of our own to play. If de Rais were so very powerful, none of our conquests in France would have been possible, so he must work by devious means; and with Tommaso gone, he has lost his main confederate. But we must find him before he brings Tommaso back, and before he harms the children, or we'll have the lady against us too, and I don't doubt she has something of her father's learning. And we must find Montjoy. He's the closest we have to a sorcerer of our own and we'll need him. Gentlemen... I must find him.' He looked slowly round at each in turn; at all the men who had fought their way through the wild adventures of the last three months, all of whom owed their lives to Montjoy, all of whom knew of the love between their king and the Herald, cut short in its first sweet flowering.

Some of them met his eyes, some did not. Exeter appeared impatient but resigned. It was of no moment.

'So, each to your tasks. Exeter, Bedford, see to the retinue, and to the men who've come from Calais. Have them in readiness to march as soon as we know more; but be discreet about it. Sir Thomas, I will ask you to return to the de Pisan house later, to enquire whether Christine has had more thoughts about her father or de Rais. We need to keep her on our side. Gloucester, stay with me; I would speak with you further.'

The room emptied as the rest of his men went about their business with varying degrees of willingness. Henry went over to one of the windows, and looked out. Below was a walled garden, its roses showing their first buds. Three months they had spent in the past, by Montjoy's journal, and all of them had drawn together during that time. It was this closeness that he hoped would serve him well now.

Gloucester was at his shoulder now, alert and waiting for him to speak.

'Brother, I need your help more than anyone else's, I think. For you knew more about the spell than any of us, save Montjoy himself,' said Henry. Gloucester and Master Stephen, Henry's chaplain, had acted almost as assistants to Montjoy in unravelling the clues they had found; though they lacked his quick eye for small details and his familiarity with astrology from the French court, they were both learned men and of high intelligence, and the three of them had been in frequent discussion together. And Montjoy had been in Gloucester's company on the expedition across the ash-fields under the volcanoes, who knew how long ago; the Quest for the Duckweed, as they had laughingly called it afterwards.

'Yes, and I have the notes he made safe in my keeping. Do you wish me to look through them again? Do you think he, and Tommaso and the children, have all been sent back into the past?'

Henry swung round to face him. 'That hadn't even occurred to me. Let us hope not – but maybe Montjoy could find his way back, having done it once already!' Though they had needed so much to help them return the last time; the powers temporal and spiritual held by Henry as king and Stephen as priest, for instance. 'But it seems to me that there may be a way to find him – and I suppose Christine's family will be with him, wherever he is. So I want you to devise me a spell to search for him.'

Gloucester looked completely taken aback. 'I have no idea how to do such a thing,' he said.

'So Montjoy said, every time I asked the same of him. But he always found the answers. And he had your help. So try, brother. The safety of the realm may depend on it. The safety of all Christendom, maybe! And Montjoy himself; I'll leave no stone unturned to find him. You understand that, surely.'

'Yes. Yes, I do. And for all that our uncle may wish otherwise, and the Church too, I think he is your match in every way.'

'Thank-you.' Henry turned back to the window, looking out across Troyes, basking in the afternoon sunlight. The hollowness at his heart threatened to overwhelm him. After a pause he continued, 'Ach, I feel so helpless... here I am, so fettered by my kingship that I may as well be a prisoner. Back there in the past we were in danger every minute of every day, and I had such freedom to act.' He'd killed a tyrant, a monster as big as any dragon, while the comet flared overhead, lighting the scene with a fierce intensity. He'd felt alive then, as rarely before. Here there were walls and treaties and a crown that overshadowed the man; and his beloved herald gone and no way to protect him.

'You need not be a prisoner,' said Gloucester. 'Have you not adopted a disguise before?'

-x-

Dusk was falling over Troyes. The townsfolk were closing down their businesses or making their way homeward through the darkening streets. A waning moon rode high above, half-veiled by cloud now. It was a subdued scene; there were Burgundian and English troops everywhere to keep order, and they did their job well. Even in the taverns there was simply the hum of conversation.

A party of English archers was escorting the Duke of Gloucester from the lodgings of the English royal party to the palace. They wore padded or quilted armour; some had steel caps; one had a hood that overshadowed his face. But they all bore the fearsome longbows that not so long ago had laid low the flower of French chivalry. An arrow that could pierce armour was not something to be invited; the burghers of Troyes gave way to them, and anyhow were the English not the allies of Burgundy against France? Sure, the Duke's brother had died in the battle fighting for the French, but he'd been a rash young man and had gone the way of rash young men since the dawn of time. So reasoned the townspeople of Troyes, and continued on their homeward path.

When Gloucester's party reached the postern of the palace gatehouse, one of his men stepped forward to require admittance. The guard at the door sent inwards for leave, which was granted forthwith; there had been much coming and going throughout the day. But the chamberlain who met them was perplexed at Gloucester's request, that he be taken again to the room belonging to Montjoy King of Arms.

'We are concerned at the disappearance of so many from the French court,' said Gloucester, 'I am tasked to find out what I may. Do we have your leave to search, sir?' The lions and lilies on his surcoat reminded them of who he was, and the archers in his guard stood stolidly at his back, and the chamberlain, after hurried consultation with a colleague, let them in.

They filed up the twisting staircase by lantern-light, passing a couple of doors leading onto intermediate floors. Henry, climbing up in the middle of the line of men, some way behind his brother, could hear people talking in the rooms within, discussing this or that before seeking their beds; and then the voices fell away as he climbed higher. On the third floor their party left the spiral staircase and followed the chamberlain down a narrow corridor.

The chamberlain's voice was deferential (so fortunate that Montjoy had taught him a little French! he had found it useful yesterday too, when wooing the princess.) 'Your grace, this is Montjoy's room. It is as it was left; the servants have been much occupied, you understand.'

'No matter, sir,' said Gloucester courteously. 'We will look at our leisure; you need not wait.'

Thus dismissed, the chamberlain stood aside to let them enter, then took his leave.

A dozen men within the small room made for a tighter fit than was comfortable. Sergeant Bates took his squad back into the corridor, his face set; this was not a place where he could defend his king with any ease. But so high in the gatehouse, there was no traffic of other people at the moment; and Henry glimpsed a rope slung about Court's person under his cloak - in case a quick departure should be called for, no doubt – not that he'd take so undignified a route.

Now Henry was able to look around him. A narrow bed, a chest, a stool. Shutters fastened tight against the night air. Montjoy's satchel, set down in a corner. His breath caught at the sight of it. It was though its owner would walk in through the door at any moment.

'What do you think?' Gloucester's voice, quiet at his elbow.

'I hardly know.' He opened the chest. Montjoy's bag and cloak lay within it. 'But he's left everything. It's as though he had no idea he would be leaving.' Swiftly he checked the bedclothes, suppressing the feeling that it was an intrusion, but if he missed a vital clue by shirking the task? But no; nothing to be seen there, no note or token. He drew the blankets back up again. But Henry, looking this way and that for any sign of Montjoy, pounced on a silver ring that Guy held out to him. He had worn its twin upon his own finger until yesterday. He forced out, 'Any sign of... blood, of a struggle?'

'None, Sire. It was lying over there,' and he pointed at a small chest against the wall.

Montjoy would not have dropped it by accident. Therefore he had let it fall deliberately, or someone had taken it from him. He closed his hand on it, fiercely, protectively.

'Anything else? Any sign of Christine's children?' he asked the room at large.

'No, nothing,' said Gloucester.

'Bring all you can find that's of any interest,' said Henry. 'Gloucester, Sergeant, we'll go back to the gatehouse.' And he went out into the corridor. 'Did they even come here?' he wondered aloud. 'He was at court all day. They could not have taken him from there. Where else would he go?' and answered himself straight away. 'The stables. Reynard.'

-x-

Back down the stair to the gatehouse door, and a short step across the outer bailey to the low building set against the curtain wall. Bates spoke to the stable-master while Gloucester stood at the edge of the lantern-light, looking aristocratic and unapproachable. Henry, a little to one side of him with his longbow in his hand, had to admire his demeanour.

They filed quietly into the warm-scented gloom of the building, down the long lines of stalls with inquisitive heads poking over the half-doors, or perhaps with nothing but a glossy flank to be seen. In one of the smaller stalls towards the end of the room they found him: Reynard, Montjoy's horse, and as Henry moved up beside Gloucester the chestnut lifted his head and nickered.

'Yes, old lad, it's good to see you, too,' said Henry under his breath, and stroked his neck and ears. Guy opened the half-door, and stood aside to let Henry and Gloucester in, Henry unshuttering the lantern a little further. Its warm glow fell on a hay-net (Reynard still had one or two wisps sticking out of his mouth,) a manger and bucket of water, familiar leather saddle-bags hanging on a peg, and Reynard's saddle and harness.

Henry seized the bags and delved into them. Reynard's brushes, a spare bit, a knife, a roll of leather to repair his gear, a case with needles in it. A old bow-string with a tuft of fur attached, that he recognised as one of the tiger-cubs' toys – Henry smiled – and a few dried dates from the palm trees that grew around Castle Hill. He unrolled the leather, and a scrap of paper fell out; he caught it as it fluttered to the floor and angled it to the light.

Tiny writing on it, and a series of signs. He scanned it intently. He would need better light to read the writing, but - 'Sagittarius,' he muttered, 'that's for him.' He pointed to the little crossed arrow at the bottom of the note, almost like a signature. 'And here are Jupiter and the Sun.' The signs that had identified Henry in the first part of the spell, that had sent them to the land of the sail-backs. 'We must take this.' He put everything back into the bag and stowed it under his cloak.

'Reynard?' asked Gloucester. 'Do we just leave him?'

'We'll have to for the present.' And with one last pat, they left the horse and went swiftly back to the door.

They went through the streets, full dark now and with a light rain falling. All the people of Troyes were snug indoors, with only a few armsmen out and about. The Duke of Gloucester's party came safe back to the King's lodging and climbed the stairs to the royal apartment. Here they found Exeter awaiting them, and Westmoreland, who had arrived yesterday from Calais with a sizeable expeditionary force, mustered when Henry and his retinue had been caught up in Tommaso's spell. Both of them were seething, but quietly so. The archers, at Henry's nod and word of thanks, filed out of the room and back to their own quarters, leaving the satchel and Montjoy's bags on a table.

Henry shed his cloak and laid aside his longbow, but rested one hand one his sword-hilt. 'Cousin Westmoreland!' he said affably. 'Are your men settled?'

Westmoreland bowed. 'Snug in the Abbey tithe-barn for now, your majesty.' He paused. 'I am very glad to see you in good health, sire, after all your adventures,' and the unspoken words 'make sure you stay that way' hung in the air.

'Thank-you; and your journey went well? No magical ambush along the way?' Sheerest trivia and pleasantry, followed by a reminder that they all trod upon a quagmire.

'There was no trouble. The Duke's writ and ours run in these parts. The people let us go our ways; they've seen too many armies passing this way and that to take much interest as long as they're left alone, and I gave strict orders to that effect.'

'Good. And our brother Clarence, and the country?'

'He holds the Tower for you, and has summoned Parliament to await your return. The country's readying for another campaign, if need be.'

'That's welcome news.' Clarence had been shunted to one side as the Agincourt campaign had progressed, as being rather too impetuous and given to going his own way to be trusted on that grim slog through the rainy autumn; but Henry's most trusted captains were with him, and he and Parliament would keep each other in check, perhaps, for a while. 'But we hope another campaign will not be necessary, and to that end' – he did not look at Exeter – 'we have been busy this evening. Gloucester, we'll look through these things now.' And he turned aside to the table and began to unpack the bags.

His brother joined him, and together they laid out the contents, Henry taking especial care with the note, smoothing it out carefully. 'In haste. Rumour of a plot. Be careful.'

Henry read it out, then closed his hand on it briefly, laid it aside, and looked again into the saddle-bag. The ink-pot, and the quill Montjoy had used to write with, taken from the crest of an axe-beak, were in there too. 'So, he knew something was wrong, but not what it was. We believe it may be de Rais, and that he has Tommaso's grandchildren. We do not know where any of them are. My lords, your thoughts.'

Gloucester said, 'It's likely that where they are is where de Rais will be. He will need them close at hand if he's holding them hostage.'

'But maybe not Tommaso, or we would already be under attack. Tommaso might be safely away, maybe in Italy where he said he would go, maybe elsewhere. But it seems neither of them can move against us alone.'

'We must not forget we can be assaulted by other means,' said Exeter. 'We are deep within France now, and if the Burgundians should suddenly turn against us, we are lost.'

'We have your men, Westmoreland, as well as the retinue. More than eight hundred all told. Burgundy's interests lie with us, for the present.'

'We must move soon, one way or another,' said Exeter grimly. 'Either to seal this betrothal, or to leave Troyes. We must be sure what we are about.'

Henry made his decision. 'Call Master Stephen and Dr Colnet, and have Allbright Mailmaker in readiness. Gloucester, you worked most closely with Montjoy. There is one thing we have not tried yet, and Tommaso himself has shown us the way.'

-x-

'Another talisman?' Gloucester was doubtful. They were all doubtful. Westmoreland, Exeter and Erpingham stood together, a little aside; Henry heard Westmoreland say. 'But did you not simply undo the spell that was laid on you, rather than cast one of your own?' But at the table the talk was all of planets and stars and herb-lore.

Henry looked up once, and glanced out of the window, still unshuttered since the night was warm. There were the familiar stars; there was Venus, serene, beautiful. 'We will need planet-light; Bedford, will you speak to John Melton?' And his brother nodded and left the room.

Gloucester was scribbling notes from Dr Colnet's almanac, consulting with him as he did so. Henry left them to it; 'Come, we'll eat, and have food sent in. Call us when you have something for us!'

For a full hour they ate and talked, desultory, at the other end of room. Henry was itching to go and ask what they'd found or thought up, to read over their shoulders and offer his own thoughts. But this would not hurry their thoughts, not by an instant. He curbed his impatience, and looked again at maps of eastern France, heard Westmoreland's reports and considered what marches he might have to make. And there was still the possibility of a wedding, a week hence. There was still a choice, and he knew that most of his advisers were willing him to go to that wedding.

Here was Exeter again, looming over Henry for all that he was shorter.

'What is it, Uncle?' It was sure to be something unpleasant, something he didn't want to face – there were any number of things that could be described thus.

Sure enough: 'The banquet tomorrow. Will you go, or will you miss it?' Bearded face set, hands on his belt; stern reminder of his duty.

The banquet. Henry had forgotten it. Such a trivial thing. He'd never liked feasts; full bellies, empty talk.

He stared through Exeter for a moment, assessing the risks and advantages to each course of action. The insult to Burgundy and to France, and not least to the princess; the wasted time.

And yet, it could prove useful. It could buy them time, as opposed to wasting it.

'I will attend it. But I want to be able to leave Troyes at a moment's notice by the next day.' The day of his public betrothal. 'We can send messages if necessary.' So many possibilities; insurrection, rebellion, any pretext of policy would do.

Maybe the princess would be glad of his departure; she'd made him work hard enough for her acceptance of him!

'We can say we wish to pray at the Abbey.' Exeter, of course.

'I think... not. For one thing, Burgundy and King Charles may wish to make it a matter of state, and accompany us. For another, I have no wish to use God's name thus.'

A baffled silence. 'Think on it, my friends. We're a wily crew; we can surely come up with something! And' - raising his voice - 'Gloucester, it seems to me that you may wish to use the Abbey's library. It's a good one, I hear. You and Master Stephen may well ask the Abbé for permission to use it, and take an escort with you; if we go by dribs and drabs we'll create less of a stir than if we march out with all banners flying.'

Gloucester nodded decisively, obviously relieved to have a course of action, and he left the room in search of Stephen. The others lapsed into thought. Henry found his eye straying to a chess-set on its table a little to one side. He took up the map of eastern France; asked for pen and ink, and sketched Troyes and its environs on the back. Then he sat alone at the little table, and moved the chess pieces back and forth across it, not with any fixed plan in mind but almost letting his hands think for him.

Below, he heard the movement of men, the clatter of hooves, the jangle of harness; Gloucester and his party were beginning to make preparations for their departure.

Exeter was frowning; Henry could almost feel it, though it was directed into the fire, not at him. Bedford, silently watching; Sir Thomas, glancing out of the window at the street below, anxious but collected. The chess pieces swept back and forth across the sketch-map; king, knights, pawns. How to get out of the city?

-x-

The next afternoon, splendid in crimson houppelonde, his crown glinting in the westering sun, Henry rode in procession to the palace, his kinsmen (save one) about him and his archers before and behind. There was the palace, rising high above the streets. There were the guards at the gatehouse; there was the courtyard, with the stables to one side. They dismounted, the archers led the horses away, and the royal party gathered at the steps to the palace, with just a half a dozen bodyguards in attendance. Henry looked up at the great doorway, where Burgundy stood ready to greet them, and braced his shoulders.

The banquet only seemed interminable. It could not have been more than three hours later that it drew to a close, but to Henry, chafing to be off, the rich food, the talk, the toasts were a trial – though the music was good, to be sure.

Christine de Pisan was there, too, which surprised him – but she was attached to the court and no doubt had little choice in the matter. Her face was composed, and gave no sign of the anxiety which must surely be racking her. Indeed she read out a short poem, elegant and complimentary, and the guests applauded, himself included.

Now, he thought, as the first course was removed, Gloucester would be on his way out of the town gates, inconspicuous in the centre of a party of archers. Now, as he smiled reassuringly at his bride-to-be (and she in nervous mood to find herself the centre of so much attention) their moveable goods would be being packed up. And now, as he bowed over Queen Isabeau's hand and received a gracious smile and inclination of the head in return, Westmoreland and his men, crammed shoulder to shoulder even in the immensity of the Abbey tithe-barn, would no doubt be cursing him roundly as they looked over their gear and made preparations for tomorrow's ride.

He still had no idea where they would be riding to.

He would think of something.

So the feast drew to a close, and he bade farewell to Burgundy and his son, standing tall and straight by his side, and next to them Queen Isabeau and her daughter; and to her father, sad and dignified and looking a little lost. The ranks of French nobility were depleted, to be sure, and there was one man missing who, according to Exeter, had seemed a true friend to him: Montjoy King of Arms.

Well. Time enough to deal with that when he had Montjoy back again.

Finally, farewells said, he led his party back down the steps and into the courtyard, where it was now full dark. For some reason, their horses were not waiting for them. Exeter rumbled his annoyance, but Henry said 'No matter, Uncle,' and he and his party went across to the lantern-lit stables rather than wait in the courtyard. Here Exeter began to take issue with Sergeant Bates, who had been discovered drinking with the hostlers. And here Henry stepped into Cloud's stall where a couple of men awaited him, set the crown carefully on top of a bundle that was lying in the corner, and began to tear the houppelonde from his back.

Bedford arrived a moment later, and when Henry emerged from the folds of crimson velvet was already having his hair swiftly trimmed into a cloth. 'If I did not love you with all my heart - !' he said; and the rest of his comment was lost as he pulled Henry's houppelonde over his head and was fastened into it.

His tousled head reappeared; the two Plantagenets regarded each other for a moment. Henry grinned at him, then sobered. He picked up the crown, paused for the briefest instant, then lowered it onto his brother's head.

Bedford flinched at the weight of it. Straightened again.

'I do not know how you bear it.'

'It's just for an hour, brother, and it becomes you well. Now, go.' They embraced briefly. Bedford slung Henry's cloak around himself, then mounted Cloud – whose ears flicked in opposite directions, but steadied when Henry slapped his neck and spoke to him reassuringly. Bedford swept out of the stall with a flurry of archers round him. Exeter, still remonstrating with a hangdog Bates, was waiting impatiently at the entrance to the stables, his own horse being led up to him.

Moments later, another archer joined his mates, jogging down the lines of horses, bumping elbows with them, exchanging good-natured insults with them, and turned into a stall almost at the end. Court was already there, saddling up a chestnut with a white blaze on his forehead.

'Well, Reynard, are you ready to go?' said Henry softly, and Reynard nosed at his hair and whickered. Henry mounted up, following Court back down towards the entrance. The bustle of departure filled the stable; there were men everywhere, English talk, hopefully incomprehensible to the hostlers and adding to their confusion, the clip-clop of hooves, and longbows casually in evidence on every hand.

A magnificent figure on a great grey horse, richly cloaked and hooded, was just leaving the stable. Henry, following Sir Thomas Erpingham now, thought, 'He'll do well. If it comes to the crunch, he'll do well.'

Once out of the palace courtyard, Henry and a dozen men escorted Sir Thomas towards the western gate of the town. There was a brief conference, 'A message for the Earl of Westmoreland,' and the side-gate was opened. They filed under the stone arch, under the murder-holes in the roof, under the machicolations on the further side, and were out onto the high-road running down towards the Abbey.

Henry breathed a little more freely in the cool night air. The party increased its pace to an easy trot. There was a half-moon lighting their way, and stars were visible away from its radiance. A great planet was suspended high in the vault of heaven; not Venus, it was too late in the evening for her. Jupiter or Saturn, then. He had learned thus much in his conversations with John Melton.

They rode briskly, but not fast enough to excite pursuit. Henry found, to his chagrin, that the archers had closed up around him protectively. He swallowed down his inner mutterings, and rode on, Reynard moving easily under him, pleased at the exercise and to have a familiar person on his back. They passed a straggle of cottages and barns, up over a bridge, the water loud beneath and mist curling up towards them, and down its other side onto the river-flats. There was the Abbey, a great dark bulk a quarter-mile down-valley; there was its tithe-barn set at an angle, a little way out in the fields, with a watch-turret climbing up one side of it. The riders swung through a gate, passed a well-tended vineyard, and halted on the cobbled loading area outside the barn doors. They were huge as the gates of Troyes.

Quiet voices; Sir Thomas and the guards, and as Henry walked Reynard up to them, Westmoreland too. One door swung open: they rode straight in, and Henry dismounted at last.

'Sire. Welcome.'

There were men everywhere. In the light of the few lanterns that were burning, Henry could see them, hundreds of them, close packed in rows stretching away into the dark. Most of them were sensibly asleep, or pretending to be so; just a few were alert, and some of these came up to take the horses. Henry gave Reynard a friendly pat on the neck, and let him go.

'Is all quiet?'

'Yes, and we plan to keep it so. When do we leave?'

'First thing in the morning, as soon as Bedford and Exeter join us. Have you a place for us to rest in the meantime?'

'Yes; follow me.'

In the lantern-light he could see, across the barn, a ladder-like stair to a little room, perched high above the void of the barn, with the last of the Abbey's winter stores stacked underneath, where watchmen had been wont to sleep when the barn was full.

They trod up the ladder, paused a moment on a planked landing, then the door of the room was opened by Gloucester. Stephen was there too, and rose as they entered. He looked tired; they were all tired. But he had a sheaf of papers in his hand, as well as Dr Colnet's almanac. Henry vividly remembered the Herald and the notes he was always working on, in the mountains, or outside the tunnel-cave, or with a pair of tiger-cubs curled up beside him, while the retinue went about their business and waited for him to bring them home. Sometimes they had doubted his ability to do that, but they had never doubted that he was doing his uttermost, and now in their turn they could do no less for him.

Westmoreland set the lantern on a rough table. And by the look on Gloucester's face, here was good news at last.

'Well, brother, Master Stephen, what do you have for me?' A quiet question.

'There is a way, we think.'

Henry's body slumped for a moment. His eyes closed briefly. 'God be praised!'

Gloucester was spreading the notes out on the table; they gathered round it, like conspirators by lantern-light, and seated themselves.

'The sign of coming-together is Libra,' said Gloucester without preamble. 'So we will work with that sign. Melton knows where it is; very late in the night, but it's there. We have the right jewels to capture its light, too. Now. We can make a talisman. Allbright is ready at your word; says he can do a better job of it this time. So we need to chose the planet we need to work under. Last time we used the Moon, for home and memory; silver.' His eyes skated down to Henry's hand, where a ring of silver and pearl gleamed. 'But that is not likely to work in our present need. Master Stephen has a list of the other planets, and their metals.'

Stephen passed it across. They were both looking rather uncomfortable; why was that? 'Which do you advise?' he asked.

'Sire, there is one that we feel may serve, but it must be your choice.'

He ran his eye down the sheet.

The Sun. Ruler-ship. Gold. He thought of the token in that most strange land of all that they had visited, with its image of Apollo in his chariot.

The Moon. Home, and memory. Silver.

Mercury. Youth, and travellers, and scholarship; another token that they had found, searching under Montjoy's direction on the windy plains, the tiger-cubs playing nearby.

Venus. True love, copper... He paused, then continued to read.

Mars. War, and carnal love. Iron.

Jupiter. Tin. Expansion; empire.

Saturn. Lead. Boundaries, limitations. Duty.

He looked up. 'Tell Allbright to use copper for the talisman. And should it be of help, there is this, too.'

He drew a breath, and laid before him on the table a little packet of silk, and unfolded it. Inside was a lock of hair; dark, with silver strands here and there. That last morning, in the grey dawn, Henry had asked it of Montjoy, who had given it gladly, but refused to take a lock of Henry's in exchange, lest ill chance befall it. Wisely, of course.

He resisted the urge to stroke a finger along it. The other men stirred, and one or two of them sighed slightly. No matter.

'I have the almanac with me, and we can find whatever we may need easily now,' said Gloucester. 'Dr Colnet has fresh store of herbs. If it's humanly possible, we'll have de Rais brought down and Montjoy safe before long.'

The others nodded soberly.

'To it, then,' said Henry.

Gloucester rose, his face serious, nodded, picked up the sheet, and left the little eyrie. There was a stir of movement as everyone else left, just a couple of guards remaining on the landing just outside the door. Henry, looking round, saw there was a pallet ready for him; but before he lay down on it, he thought for a moment, and rummaged in the bag which held his clothes and other gear. He found what he sought; another ring of silver and pearl, and a pendant inscribed with the signs of homecoming; looked at them for a moment, then put them on. Then he said the evening prayer, and lay down to rest.

-x-

The Abbey bell roused him. He made his way to the ladder, the sheer immensity of the barn now clear in the shafts of dawn-light slanting in through the slit windows, its aisles stretching away beneath him giving it the look of a cathedral. Men everywhere were stirring, muttering and groaning; heigh-ho, another day!

Once at ground level, he went out of the barn to look over a grey and dewy landscape. It was chilly; the air was still. But there were birds calling in the vineyard, and sheep bleating; the thin sharp cry of lambs too. He felt a sudden pang of homesickness. It would be no bad thing to see England again.

He went along the outer wall of the barn, past the watch-turret and the horse-lines to the temporary forge, the damp grass brushing under his boots. There was movement inside the open shed, and the glow of a fire. He paused at the opening, for one did not simply march into a smith's realm.

'Allbright,' he said quietly. 'How goes your work?'

The armourer bowed. His face was weary, his clothes sweat-stained; but he seemed satisfied with his night's labours.

'All but done, Sire. We've some signs to incise – my lord of Gloucester will bring them soon - and then it'll be ready.' A small hammer dangled, toy-like, from his hand. 'Come in, if you will, your majesty, and see.' He drew up a stool close by the fire.

Henry took his place by the welcome heat while Allbright lifted a small thing from the table where it had lain amongst a welter of pincers and burins. He lowered it into Henry's waiting palm. A little pair of scales, all in burnished copper with fine chains connecting the tiny pans to the balance.

A movement at the door. Gloucester was coming in, wrapped up warmly in his cloak. 'Good day to you, brother,' Henry greeted him.

'To you also, my lord.' Gloucester unwound his cloak, and proffered a little packet and a sheet of paper. 'We've caught the light that we need in a sapphire. Venus, and Libra's stars. And here's the herb too. Wall-pennywort, a herb of Venus and Libra, says Dr Colnet.' A small bottle with a salve inside it.

Allbright took the sheet and perused it, grunting now and then. 'Simple enough, my lords. I can be done in half an hour.'

And thus dismissed, the brothers went out again into the dawn light.

-x-

When Allbright had done, he brought the scales to the watchman's room, where Henry had called Stephen and Gloucester. The rest of the nobles were busy around the barn.

Sitting at his table, Henry undid the scrap of paper with the lock of dark hair within. He laid it in one of the little pans – now engraved with a rose, for Venus and for himself. Then he drew his dagger, and taking a lock of his own hair between thumb and forefinger, sliced it off.

Gloucester stirred uneasily, but Henry simply said, 'I have my hair trimmed every month, brother, there's no need to look like that,' and dropped the lock into the other pan. Then he picked up the scales by the pivot, and held it lightly.

He did not show in his face how desperate a throw this was for him. That damned hourglass, the key to Tommaso's spell, had been horrible for him to touch, and though this new talisman was a product of his own love and longing, some of the dread still lingered. And suppose it did not work at all? They were the veriest children in this craft, and though he and Stephen, king and priest, had between them had a power that was surely denied to Tommaso and de Rais, they had not a hundredth of the knowledge. So he held the scales, in hope and apprehension, and waited.

The noises of the camp seemed to drop away. His breathing rasped loud to him; he could feel his chest rising and falling, and he heard the faint rustle of his clothes as it did so. The scales shifted and seemed to pull lightly at him, as if leading him by the hand. A familiar, gentle touch, not at all like the writhings of the hourglass as it tried to escape him. 'Ah,' he whispered, and smiled. 'That way,' he murmured, pointing; 'he's that way.'

-x-

Montjoy woke to a nightmare; bound and bundled into a cramped space, lying on unforgiving boards. Chests and sacks hemmed him in. His prison jounced, lurched, setting off the nausea from which sleep had protected him. He groaned a little in his misery. He was in a cart on rough roads, for there was the noise of wheels, and of hooves.

He tried to move, to ease his hurts, but stilled as the nausea surged up and sweat broke out all over his body.

He tried to sink down into sleep again, hoping that he could find solace there in the memory of a touch that even in his dark dreams had comforted him.

-x-

Henry opened his eyes again. Westwards. Montjoy, his true love. Praise be to Lady Venus, and to God above all.

His friends were still standing in the exact same positions, watching him closely and almost with disbelief. He curled his hand round the scales loosely, lovingly, before laying them down on the table. 'I could feel it,' he said. 'Did you see anything?'

'No – but we saw nothing with the hourglass, either,' said Gloucester. 'You are sure?'

'Yes.' Henry realised he was still smiling, and rearranged his features to present a more solemn front. 'That was Montjoy, no question of it.'

'Did he... speak to you?'

'No. I could feel his presence, that's all; faint and far away, but it was him.' He re-wrapped Montjoy's hair; tore off a square of paper from a map and folded his own sandy lock inside, before giving them to Allbright to be incorporated into the talisman. 'So, where's west of here?' He twisted the map briskly round, and traced a line across France. 'Paris,' he said.

'That's a little north of west,' said Gloucester, squinting at the map upside-down. 'But a little to the south of it...'

'Fontainebleau,' said Henry, 'where Tommaso had his workshop. Gentlemen, when Bedford and Exeter arrive, we must be on our way. And in the meantime' – standing up - 'I should go to the Abbey, and give my duty to God.'

-x-

The great dim building accommodated them with even greater ease than had the tithe-barn; standing inconspicuously among his men, he took comfort in the familiar plainsong of the monks. Then the congregation dispersed, the monks to their morning duties and the soldiers to their horses. Unobtrusively, their baggage was being packed up.

Where were his brother and his uncle?

The bells in Troyes had fallen silent too, and morning smoke hovered above the town, lying in grey, shifting layers at tree-top height, partly obscuring the spires of the cathedral and its sister churches. Bedford was in there somewhere, holding the fort for his brother. He must come soon, or all their plans were overset.

Henry stopped by the horse-lines to greet Reynard, remembering many times in the past when he'd done the same – except that then Cloud had been there too. Court looked up from where he was brushing his own horse – 'I'll see to him, Sire, if it please you.' Henry acknowledged this with a smile before glancing back at the city.

Such a peaceful scene. No commotion of the kind which might be expected if his uncle were being held against his will.

He went in to break his fast with his kinsmen, and to put on his royal surcoat; one way or another he'd need to wear his arms soon. He shrugged on a nondescript cloak over all.

'We're all but ready to go,' said Westmoreland. 'Packed, armed, the men under strict orders not to stray. But if Bedford delays any longer we'll have to send a messenger...'

A man dashed into the barn. 'Sire, my lords – they're on their way!'

A scramble for the door, and there beyond the vineyard, beyond the bridge, coming out of the town a mile away was a riding of a score or more of men with Exeter at their head and pennons a-flutter. There was a grey horse among them, and Henry sagged very slightly in relief.

Then he braced up again. 'Pass the order. Be ready to be off. Do not be obvious about it.' And eight hundred men became as busy and quiet as ants.

He tried the talisman again. West. He stared that way, trying to see so far ahead that he could discern more figures on horseback – or a fastness or prison where hostages might be held – and could not, of course, for all that the talisman assured him that somewhere in that direction was his true love. Montjoy.

-x-

Bedford, unfamiliar in a squire's garb and with short hair, now somehow darkened, dismounted from Cloud. He was visibly annoyed. It was not often that that happened.

'She would come, Sire. I could not prevent her without more noise about it than we wanted.'

Henry followed the jerk of his chin, and there among the riders, dressed for riding, was Christine de Pisan herself.

She met his startled gaze with a correct but distant inclination of the head, before dismounting to speak with her companions – another woman, similarly attired, and, he was relieved to see, a manservant who was taking her horse's reins.

Henry turned back to his brother, and mutely invited an explanation.

'She arrived at our lodging at daybreak; said she'd seen something as she left the banquet. Two horses she knew, each with the wrong rider, or so she thought. So she asked a discreet question or two, and found that squads of Englishmen had been leaving the city by different gates. And so she came to me, and threatened that all hell would break loose unless we took her with us. And short of a noisy set-to, I had no choice but to let her have her way.'

'And thus your delay. Well, you made the right decision, and if she faced down you and our uncle together, she's got the stomach for what we must do now. For I cannot let her go back to Troyes. Have Sir Thomas set Bates and his squad to escort her for now.'

'I think she'd follow us if you tried to send her back.' Bedford dismissed her from his mind. 'So you're determined to do this?'

That was as close as anyone ever came to questioning Henry's decisions, and he gave Bedford a look of half-surprise, half-query. He'd always brought them safe through. And he was indeed determined to do this, and oddly enough, it was Christine de Pisan's presence that had finally decided him. A woman, and of such intellect, so convinced that something was wrong that she flew in the face of all convention and threw in her lot with her country's conqueror – he was right to smell conspiracy! He glanced one more time at Troyes, and now its high walls took on the aspect of a trap.

So he called over the rest of his kinsmen to a corner by a buttress of the barn, and said quietly, 'This is how I see matters now. If anyone can give a different account, I ask that you do so.

'I think it possible Tommaso did not know the source of de Rais' power, and his disappearance would seem to confirm this. Maybe he wanted nothing more to do with de Rais, and simply made himself scarce. Christine and her family were protected by her position at court. But when we returned, de Rais had to make one last throw. He took Christine's children thinking to control Tommaso thus; and somehow he knew of Montjoy's part in our return. So Montjoy was taken too, lest he become a threat, a rival, or for other reasons. Now de Rais is taking them all to Fontainebleau, and if need be will no doubt move on to a place where he can hide. If we tire of the hunt, no doubt he will come forth again, and continue his evil works in France, and plot against us too, I do not doubt.'

'How long has he been gone?' Exeter, ever practical, was looking towards the horse-lines.

'I do not know. Maybe no more than a couple of days. But we have an advantage he cannot guess at; we can follow Montjoy,' and he touched the breast of his cote where the little scales were stowed safely away.

Exeter looked as though he would like to say something, but Henry continued, 'Do we wish to be committed to rule over a realm of sorceries? We barely survived the journey through the past; I've no desire to repeat that experience.' There was a nodding of heads around him, from everyone who had been on that fantastical journey. 'We will find de Rais, and destroy him, and find Christine's children, and win Tommaso to our cause. We may lose what we gained in France, but we will gain safety for England, and that must always take precedence. Now, gentlemen, to horse. We have a long ride ahead of us.'

In the confusion as the group dispersed and mounted up, Exeter and Westmoreland appeared, as if by chance, close at his side.

'Sire, is there no way we can save the treaty? To lose all that we've gained, to cast away that great victory...' Exeter, frowning, was speaking in an undertone; Westmoreland was tense and worried.

'We must deal with de Rais. If one of the French nobles makes alliance with him... Do you think the Duke of Orléans would not join forces with him?' Orléans, who had stood silent and grim, all in black, at the signing of the treaty, had almost looked ready to contemplate such a thing. 'Or even Burgundy if he could see advantage for himself?'

'Then we must send messages to all the garrisons in Normandy, to prepare for evacuation,' said Exeter heavily. 'It will take time to do that.'

Henry paused with his hand on Cloud's bridle. To order an evacuation would be a momentous decision; thousands of men and their supplies to be got safe back across the Channel. The sheer magnitude of what he was planning had not occurred to him until this moment. He saw himself suddenly through others' eyes, as a man so besotted by an illicit love that he would abandon an empire for its sake. A new Mark Antony. Utterly ridiculous, in fact.

For an instant, his world reeled; he imagined himself calling out the order to turn back to Troyes, to ride to the city and order betrothal and wedding to take place as if nothing had happened. His archers would face down the crowds and the French nobility; people would mutter, and look askance, but they would do his bidding. He would stand at the altar with the Valois Princess. He would continue his conquest of France, year upon year of campaigns. He would be King of France in the end. Maybe, in the fullness of time, he could lead a crusade.

Montjoy would die, of course. Christine's children, too. De Rais would continue his evil practices unchecked. He would find other sorcerers to aid him. The memory of the hourglass, crawling in his hand, cried out again in Henry's mind.

'We'll send the messages, then,' he said. 'Everything to be put in train, quietly. Tell them to have ships made ready at the Normandy ports. We will retire in good order. And' – he paused, and thought – 'we must send word to Jean of Brittany. Promise him help to set up his own princedom, if that's what he wishes. Make it clear his interests lie with us.' If he had Brittany with him on one side, and Burgundy poised on the other, they might win through yet.

Exeter looked at him grimly. 'This is the end of all you've worked for.' Westmoreland was equally serious at his side.

'Yes. But I'm doing God's work now, because I must, Uncle: let us not forget it.' And he turned back to Cloud, and mounted. Around him the men of the little army were doing the same. Christine, at the edge of the crowd, stood watching, not quite sure yet what was happening.

'Send out the letters,' Henry said to Westmoreland.

Westmoreland spoke to one of his squires, and the lad ran into the barn and returned with a packet of letters. One to the Abbé. One to Burgundy. One to King Charles. Nothing specific; thanks for their lodging to the Abbé; protestations of friendship to the other two, and reference to an unspecified threat; fond regards to the fair princess, and regret that the formal betrothal would be delayed. Gifts of rare jewels to them all.

The young man paused for a heartbeat, giving him one last moment to reconsider, but at Henry's impatient nod, took his horse at a gallop down the track past the vineyard to the Abbey gatehouse.

And Henry turned away, threw off his cloak, and with the lions and lilies bright upon him, swung up onto Cloud's back. The soldiers milling about outside the barn turned to him as one man.

'Up, my friends!' he called. 'To horse! We ride on the instant! There's plotting and treachery, somewhere in the west. We'll find it and defeat it, I have no doubt! For we've defeated many a plot in our time, and proved equal to the task, you and I.' His hand swept out to include them all. 'For we do God's work now, never doubt it! Mount up, and follow!'

His nobles were already in the saddle, his archers were catching up their packs and saddlebags, and longbows, longbows like a forest all around. He caught a brief glimpse of Christine's astonished face before she scrambled back on her horse, urging her companions to do likewise. The squire came tearing back along the track.

And the army was under way, Henry at its head, and squad by squad they followed, hundreds upon hundreds of men, the roar of hoof-beats following at his back; monks running from the Abbey to watch them go, labourers and herdsmen turning amazed from their tasks; and the army of the English, riding fast enough even to outpace rumour, left Troyes far behind.

If he was wrong, thought Henry, he was truly doomed. If he was right and did nothing, he was doomed also. He rode on; and in the circumstances it was strange how light his heart was.

-x-

After a day's ride a group of archers went ahead with a messenger, north-west towards the garrisons in Normandy, and another to the court of Jean of Brittany, under the command of Bedford. His brother had not liked this assignment at all, but Henry had represented to him, in no uncertain terms, that he was the only man for the job. 'I need someone who can convince Jean how seriously I take this; and truthfully, if I fall in this battle, England will need you. Clarence is too impulsive to rule well without your help,' and this was so self-evidently true that Bedford simply nodded, unable to speak; but he gripped Henry's hand before calling up his guards and turning away towards Rennes, where Jean had last been heard of.

The remainder of the army, still many hundreds strong, swept onwards across country with all the speed of a chevauchée, and indeed Henry's grandfather had cut a bloody swathe through this part of France almost half a century before. Henry had no ambitions to repeat John of Gaunt's destruction. He gave orders that everything they took should be paid for, and generously. He wanted no resentment at his back. That would help their cause not at all.

On the second day of their ride they climbed into lightly wooded uplands, and came to a ford over a stream that hurried down to the Seine. Henry, with Exeter and the vanguard, splashed across, and he and his uncle took up position on the lip of the little valley; watched over their army as it crossed in its turn. The artillerymen were having trouble with one of the light cannon, its gun-carriage being lodged fast, it seemed, with a wheel between two stones.

Henry remembered how they had wrestled with the carts on their journey through the past, up steep slopes, gasping for air that wasn't quite adequate, or on a river of rock with a comet searing the sky above. But the gunners didn't even curse, but drafted extra horses, took long levers, and applied them to the wheel. All in a day's work to them.

And Exeter took his chance. Henry had been waiting for this, the private talk for which there had been no time before; best to get it over with. So when Exeter brought his bay horse alongside Cloud, with serious face, Henry simply glanced at him and said, 'Well, Uncle?'

'Sire, I am your councillor, and I must speak again of Troyes.'

Here it was, the lecture that he had been expecting since he had left the city the morning before, left the nobility of France and Burgundy, left promised crown and promised bride, everything that he had fought for, and set out to pursue Gilles de Rais across half France. He nodded. 'Say your piece, Uncle.'

Exeter drew a breath. 'Leave me to carry on the chase. Go back to Troyes. Claim your rights. The treaty's signed; all you need do is marry the Princess. Wed her, bed her, and maybe get an heir for England. You can be on your way to Fontainebleau within a week, with your queen if need be.'

'I had thought you would tell me to abandon the chase and forget de Rais - and Montjoy.'

'Nephew, I know you too well – and Montjoy is my friend too. But the prize is within your grasp; all that we fought for, all that your men have died for. I beg you, do not let it slip through your fingers now.'

'You say you know me? Why then do you say I should leave you to fight my battles for me? Uncle, I cannot.' He kept his voice down low. His guards, a little way down the slope, would be deaf to all that was said, but there was no need to strain their loyalty.

'There's another reason why you cannot, is there not, my lord?' Exeter was grimly determined to do his duty.

'Would you have me abandon him?' A cold response.

'You have parted once already, at his wish. You are a king. Your duty is to your people. He knows that.'

'And the game has changed. We destroyed a spell of great power. Tommaso has vanished. But de Rais may be an even greater threat. He may have Tommaso. I believe we have to abandon France, let everything go that we have gained, and retreat to England. That, perhaps, we can defend.'

Exeter stared at him in disbelief. 'It is not like you to give up so easily. Have you fallen under a spell yourself?'

'And it is not like you to refuse to face facts. De Rais is a threat while he's at large. Not just to us, to all of Christendom. I have a larger duty even than to England. I'll be needed for this task – oh, I do not doubt your ability to conduct a pursuit in the normal run of things. But I am an anointed king. Do you not remember the hourglass? I know how it was made, Uncle. Do you want me to tell you?' Henry remembered it still, the visions it had sent him; they crawled in his mind in the night sometimes. Montjoy had driven them away.

A pause. Below them, the work of freeing the gun-carriage went on. 'Tell me,' said Exeter.

Henry swallowed. 'There were children. The hourglass was full of their pain and de Rais' pleasure. That was what I fought, back there in the land of the sail-backs. That was what felled me to the ground.' For a moment he was silent, then forced himself on. 'I was a child hostage myself. You know that. So were my brothers and sisters. Richard smiled, and was halfway to making us love him. I knew even then what could have happened, to any of us, to all of us. Philippa was just four years old. Maybe he could have bedded me willing in time, if he had threatened them. I do not know. And then, at Harfleur... do you remember what I said to the Governor, when the last assault failed?'

'Yes. Yes, I do, nephew. And I remember that no such deeds were carried out.'

'But now it's time to make reparation for that threat. So you see, uncle, it is not just for Montjoy's sake that I stay here. I must bring de Rais down, and I will do it though it cost me my life, for maybe my soul depends upon it.'

Exeter reached out all at once, and gripped his arm, hard. 'This... Nephew, you've carried this burden alone, all these years?'

'God has carried it too. But I swore, from the moment that I was freed, that I would never be helpless again. If I am a warrior-king, if I am a conqueror, that is why. And that's why I want my Herald, safe by my side; and that's why I let him go. Uncle, do you have any more questions? Anything more to say to me?'

'No. Nothing more. Save that I am yours to command.'

'Then my command is that you aid me with all your power, and if I should fall, to carry on my work.' That perhaps was too heavy a note on which to end the conversation. 'And for now: to aid them,' and he pointed at the artillerymen. Almost all the army was across the ford now, winding up the bank below them, but the gun-carriage still stood like a little island in the stream of horsemen. 'That carriage looks stuck fast.'

Exeter, with one last, serious look, went. And Henry sat back in the saddle, feeling unexpectedly exhausted.

-x-

Then there were another two days of hard riding; luckily the weather favoured them and the roads were passable.

No-one who had marched with Henry on the Agincourt campaign could doubt his determination to enforce discipline, and every man was a very model of Christian soldiery. And for this reason, perhaps, now and then someone would speak to them - or more likely to Christine de Pisan or her cousin Emma, for it was usually a woman who came forward.

'There are more children missing, your majesty,' Christine said to him on the third evening, as he made his way round the camp-fires – a bigger task than it had been on the journey through the past, but still he spoke to some of the men, at least, every night.

'How many? Where?'

'Two that I know of, in the villages we went through today. Both under ten years old.' Her face was drawn with worry.

Seeing a mother's anxiety thus renewed made him uneasy. 'Take note of them, madame, and tell any who ask that we will search for them.'

Neither he nor she gave voice to their thought, that these children were not simply lost, but had perforce joined her own, and Montjoy, wherever they were being taken.

'That I can do, your majesty. It will be a comfort to their parents.' On that note of accord they parted.

He did not doubt that they had been taken by de Rais. And the next day, when gently questioned by Christine, a woman with a face full of worry replied, 'Yes, a riding went past yesterday morning. A young lordling, and his men. All Frenchmen. Yes, there was a man taller than most in their midst; now I come to think of it, he did not look happy to be there.'

Henry kept his face under strict control, but his heart bounded up; my herald, alive!

Everyevening now, when Venus was at her height, he brought out the little copper scales, and waited for that very faintest of tugs that he felt in his heart as much as on his fingers; though now they were following the trail of de Rais and his men, and the rumours of lost children, as much as the delicate touch of the talisman.

-x-

'He'll guess we're on his trail,' said Exeter next evening, as the camp was being set up around them. They were on a shelving hillside, some way above a river, and he looked out across the short turf. There, the flocks that had been peaceably grazing were hurrying towards a village where a tocsin was ringing. 'He can't fail to know it. And though the Herald should be safe enough, for he'll be kept as hostage, these children that have been stolen along the way... He'll have a use for them.'

'We must keep alert for traps such as we fell into at Bayeux, yes,' replied Henry. 'Though if Tommaso has evaded him, we need not be too afraid. I think de Rais has not the skill to set another such spell on us. Gloucester and Stephen, and Christine too, can perhaps match de Rais' knowledge though not Tommaso's; they must be our safeguards in that respect.'

'What is your plan, when you find de Rais?' The question was respectfully asked, but it was a reminder that the real battle was not even in sight yet.

This question had vexed Henry in all the days and nights of their riding. Should they bring him to battle, or let him think he could treat with them, or challenge him directly with the authority of the Church? Nor could they waste much time over it, for the speed of their passage had been their best defence so far, but they were deep into French territory now.

'We must find him. Then we may bring him to battle, and suddenly,' he replied, and Exeter nodded, respectful but unconvinced, and withdrew.

-x-

The next morning, having crossed the river, they were into the forest of Fontainebleau; oak and stately beech, and butterfly-filled glades covered with bracken and short grass where the deer grazed. It was an odd place; a royal hunting preserve, all well and good, like many a hunting-chase in England that he'd had so little time to visit. But in amongst the aisles of trees were looming boulders, worn into strange shapes; as he rode past this lopsided tower or that, he was reminded of the tors of Dartmoor, but these were all the more menacing for appearing so suddenly out of the trees.

The main body of his army, formed into a column of four abreast, followed him, the horses stirring up buzzing flies from the bracken. Every so often, Henry heard someone mutter a short prayer, but for the most part they rode in silence.

They were coming close now, he was sure of it. The talisman pulled at his fingers when he held it. The castle of Fontainebleau was just a few miles away. It seemed inevitable that the last act in this wild adventure must be played out in the very place where Tommaso had cast his spell.

They halted at midday in the ruins of what looked like an abandoned religious house, for there were tumbledown walls in the familiar pattern of church, cloister and outbuildings. Henry sent scouts forward under Richard Calder, the Cheshire huntsman, and he himself waited in the corner of the old herb-garden, with its clumps of rosemary and bay. Here he ate a scratch meal, finishing with stewed plums from the orchard – untended as the trees were, the fruit was still sweet.

'It's as we feared, Sire,' said Richard, on his return. 'The castle's not big – it's more of an overgrown hunting-lodge, so there's no moat, God be praised! But it's occupied, and not by King Charles' men – at least, there's no royal standard, nor any that I recognised. But the gates are closed and there are men on the battlements.'

'Standards, you say? Whose? No, wait, you can tell Blanchlyverer later. Sketch me out this hunting-lodge.'

Calder took the pen that Gloucester had ready, and drew, with a few short strokes, the castle of Fontainebleau that they must assault. Henry frowned down at the map; a small castle, rather old-fashioned in outline, with a gatehouse and bailey. Certainly not beyond Henry's capacity to take with the forces at his disposal – if it were not for the hostages held within.

And yet, they must free them now, or they'd be held forever. De Rais would never give them up willingly.

'Go get some food, Calder, you and your men. I'll send for you when we need you.'

The debate with his commanders was still going back and forth when Gloucester touched his arm and pointed across the herb-garden. There, escorted by Sergeant Bates, with as non-committal an expression on his face as Henry had ever seen, was Christine, picking her way towards them between the clumps of tough herbs.

She halted before them, and made the barest curtsey; they acknowledged it.

'Well, madame? Do you have something to tell us about Fontainebleau?' It was possible, and therefore Henry curbed his impatience. She might have visited it with her father.

'I have more than that, your majesty. I have keys.' And she produced them, to an outraged silence.

Exeter, with an aspect of thunder, stood, tramped over, and took the ring from her with little ceremony, glancing at it briefly before passing it across to Henry. Two iron keys, not big enough for the main gates, to be sure, but suited to smaller doors.

'Explain, madame,' said Henry, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. Exeter's hand twitched slightly towards his sword-hilt and Henry could hardly blame him. But he suppressed his own thoughts of murder, and waited.

'My father gave me a key to his workshop, years ago,' she said tiredly. 'There's one for a postern gate, too. He'd come out here sometimes, for the herbs,' and she gestured at the overgrown garden. 'It was of no moment to the castellan. Fontainebleau was never a stronghold of the realm, and when the king was here, he was well-guarded. But my father wanted me to have access to his workshop. He wanted me to be educated, and educate me he did, though my inclination took me more towards philosophy and writing than astrology. Well, no matter; that's the key to the postern by the southern tower,' and she pointed to the larger of the two. 'You may find it useful.'

Four or five Englishmen drew breath to snarl 'Useful!' but Henry silenced them with a raised hand. 'You would have done better to tell us of this days ago.'

'Maybe. But I hoped that I could creep into the castle secretly and free my children without a full-scale assault. I'd no wish to give him the chance to harm them while you manoeuvred before the walls, you understand me? But if the castle's strongly held, I can do no creeping-in. There are the keys. Use them well, King Henry.' She curtseyed again, and turned to go.

'Wait, madame. You came with us with your plan already in mind?'

'Yes,' she said simply. 'It was my quickest way to find them – and I thought it likely that the road would lead to Fontainebleau.'

Henry's nobles were now looking at her with an rancour which Henry privately echoed. To make use of a king and his army thus..!

'You may keep me under guard,' she added. 'This is no trap. I want Marie and Jean safe. You want to bring de Rais down. Therefore our wishes coincide. Bring them to me safely, and I'll be your friend forever. If they're harmed - ' and here her assurance deserted her. She looked down at her feet, and passed her hand swiftly across her eyes. 'Well. I'll have to trust you to make sure they're not harmed.'

'They will not be, if I can prevent it,' stated Henry. 'You will pardon me if I say I wish you'd told me of this earlier. But for now, we'll take your keys, and you may tell us what you remember of the castle. And you'll be kept under guard, never doubt it, you and Emma and your servant.'

She inclined her head with a dignity which matched Montjoy's own, and at his gesture, seated herself on a fallen bock of stone, and began to make additions to the sketch-map which Calder had drawn for them.

-x-

Late that evening, Henry and his personal retinue rode ahead through the forest, which was busy with moths and with the hunting-cries of owls. These were the men who had battled their way through the past with him, the men who owed their lives to Montjoy. They had less fear of any sorcerer than other men, and a powerful desire for revenge.

So they filed, squad by squad, through the trees, and picked their way north towards the château, made a marching-camp, and waited while their commanders made their plans; and at the end of that discussion, Henry said, 'Send Bates to me now.'

When the north-countryman arrived at his tent, his bow as always to hand, Henry said, 'Sergeant, you and your squad will form the rescue party for the Herald. You and they are excused all other duties; stand ready to go whenever and however we find him.'

'We'll do that gladly, Sire,' said Bates quietly; things had become a little informal between the members of the retinue, even the lowest, and their King. They had been through fire and flood and portent together. A bond had formed that could not be broken. 'John Melton says he's found nearly all the planets; still looking for Mercury, of course, but he hasn't given up yet. He's found a good tree to climb to take his sights.'

Henry half-laughed. 'I have a whole army of sorcerers to bring against de Rais! Tell Melton I thank him.'

'I will, Sire. And the lads have been hard at practice this afternoon; your majesty will not want for marksmen.' He paused, looked carefully at Henry for a moment, and ventured, 'Have no fear, Sire. The Herald brought us home. We'll do the same for him.'

'I thank you, John Bates.' Henry paused a moment; he could say no more, and nodded dismissal. Bates bowed, and left the tent; and Henry subsided onto his camp-bed, put his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a while. Then he knelt, and prayed; he had nothing but a suffering heart to offer his Lord, a heart full of forbidden love; but he was as God had made him, and perhaps He would understand.

-x-

And thus reminded, though truly God was never far from his thoughts, he sent for Stephen, to give him absolution. It was full dark now; the air mild and soft under the trees; night-sounds all around, with the croak of frogs down by a small stream, and the quiet cry of an owl a little way off. Stephen came in through the tent-flap, and in the light of a shuttered lantern they looked at each other.

'Well, my confessor?'

'You already know all that I should say, my lord.'

'Yes. And you do not say it.'

'I could listen, and prescribe penances, and you would do them, humbly and with the love of God in your heart. And they would not change your nature. So I say this: the Church teaches that man and wife should love each other; and if you cannot love the princess, it would be a sin against God to marry her. Maybe He has brought you to this point that you should do His work against this de Rais. Free the children, and send him to his trial. Your sin with Montjoy is slight by comparison.'

'Thank-you, Stephen.'

'Thank God's love, not me. You hold Him in honour, whatever necessity drives you to do, and there's many a prince who could not say the same. And Montjoy; he is my friend too, and a truer man never breathed.'

'Nor yet a braver.' Henry stood, and stretched; his shoulders ached. 'We'll have him out of there, and any who are held captive with him; Christine's children, and the others who are missing. Are you ready to face what we may find in that castle?'

'No. But we must to the task; there's no-one else to do it. I'll pray with you now, if you wish it.'

'I do. Thank-you, Stephen.'

They knelt together, and Stephen whispered the prayer; Henry beside him bowed his head over his clasped hands and felt a little comfort steal into his heart at the old familiar words. So many down the ages had spoken them in time of trouble, and God had listened as He was surely listening now.

They rose at the end of the prayer, and Stephen said severely, 'Go to your rest now, your majesty; you've work to do soon.'

'I will soon, Stephen. Thank-you.' And Stephen left him, and Henry sighed a little and took to his camp-bed for a few hours.

-x-

Then he called for his armourer, and dressed ready for battle; sword, and boots, and his usual light armour, and his surcoat over all.

In some ways it was like the preparations for so many night attacks he'd conducted before; the quiet movement of soldiers and horses outside the tent-flap, of commanders counting off their men, and tension winding up tight as a crossbow string. There was Stephen, his black garments making him all but invisible in the night, murmuring an absolution. In contrast, away on his right the gunners were busy at their emplacement; more men with axes were standing by to run in after the guns had fired. And across a cleared space, the château of Fontainebleau waited.

They were all in position now; Henry just inside the cover of the forest at the head of his squads with Westmoreland beside him, peering towards the postern; Exeter in charge of the axe-men; Gloucester, unhappy but resigned, with Stephen towards the rear, and the little party of Frenchwomen with the baggage where they could be guarded.

It was deepest night. The moon was in its last quarter now, partly obscured by clouds, and a few faint stars peeped here and there. But there had been no fires in the camp, and all their eyes were accustomed to the dark. Nor was there a sound from his men; only silence, even more strictly enforced than on the night before Agincourt. And they were all, from the king down, as frightened as they had been on that night.

No point waiting any longer. Henry rose to his feet with a murmur to Bates; a runner went off to Exeter, and silent as ghosts, Henry and his men slipped out from the shelter of the forest, and made their way fast across the enfilade, towards the walls and towers of Fontainebleau.

-x-

Over to their right there was an billowed up; the thump of the blast struck his ears. A confusion of shouts, curses and orders. Beyond it, higher-pitched screams, fear rather than anger.

Bates was at the postern, fighting with the keys; was the lock stiff, the door bolted on the other side? He got the door open at last. Henry raised his shield, and ran past him. Behind him were his men, scrambling fast and silently to follow.

Another explosion. Henry was under the archway, ducking his head, and into the bailey. A figure loomed up before him, swinging an arm. Henry savagely swung his own sword, felt it bite home, and the body fell away before him. Two more men, both yelling. An arrow stopped one in his tracks. Westmoreland dealt with the other.

Now the whole squad was through the postern and the arrows flew in earnest. A guard fell from the wall-walk, the body thumping loud and final onto the ground. Two more men, rushing from a tower doorway, were down.

Crossbow bolts hissed viciously among them; someone screamed behind him. First casualty. No time to check who it was. He charged across the bailey before the crossbowmen had time to reload. Another violent roar at the gatehouse, rolling flames, the smell of gunpowder, good! Now they were almost at the keep. A howl of warning behind; one of his light cannon was already lined up. Figures surged around it.

Bates and his men were guarding his back, picking off defenders as they saw them. Men were shouting inside the keep. The cannon bellowed, and blasted the studded doors to planks and flying splinters. Everyone ducked; arrows sped past him and he was into the gap, yelling as he went. Into one of the doors within, near tripping over the sill. Two men blocked the passageway before him. Their hearts were not in the defence, they gave way before him.

His men were filling up the warren of passageways around the entrance now. There was a thumping of feet above him, shouts and screams all around. Someone was smashing the machinery of the portcullis by the sound of it. They were through and into the keep proper.

Cries of 'St George!' and 'King Harry!' behind him. Across the bailey the gatehouse had fallen, and Exeter's voice blared out across the courtyard. 'On, lads, we'll miss all the fun!' Savage laughter and cheers.

The copper scales, still carried under his surcoat, reminded him of why they had come to this place. No time to take them out now and follow them; all they could do was storm the keep and deal with what they found there. So he left the wall-chambers for the Great Hall. There were doors in each corner, leading to stairs no doubt. He paused for a moment, taking in the scene in the flickering torchlight. There was Gloucester, come in with the second wave, fair hair dishevelled, wild-eyed. 'Up!' Henry ordered, gesturing at one of the doors, and Gloucester nodded, gathered his men around him, and was gone.

'Sergeant Bates!'

'Here, Sire.'

'Find the stairs to the dungeon.' Another blast, this time from one of the corner towers of the curtain-wall by the sound of it. De Rais would never use this castle again, whatever happened. The men of the squad, fired up and beyond fear, dashed across the room, a group to each of the doors, a-bristle with weapons, a force unstoppable. Henry waited, panting, in the middle of the hall. He'd lost his shield somewhere.

A commotion heralded the arrival of Exeter, face blackened, eyes and teeth flashing white; 'Sire! Have you found him?'

There was only one him as far as Henry was concerned, but he presumed Exeter did not mean Montjoy. 'We're searching now. Gloucester's gone up, looking for the tower workroom. Bates and his men are into the basement - ' he paused as a group of defenders burst into the hall, their hands raised high, prodded by Melton with a pikestaff, and a few other Englishmen similarly armed behind him.

'Get them out into the courtyard, Melton!' It was overrun with his men now, their cheers firing up his blood still further. 'Don't let them be killed if you can help it!' Maybe they would be useful later on. Feet pounded across the floor of the room above, then a scream and a sliding thud. 'The gatehouse, Uncle, what of it?'

'Gone. Rubble. They're starting on the curtain-wall now.'

'You found no-one inside it?'

'No, we checked. A dozen defenders, that's all, no-one we know. Some are dead, some saw reason.'

'Good.' Henry was looking this way and that, waiting for the word that would send him to the upper floors of the keep or to the cellars. Should he take the talisman out now? But he would never feel that faint tug at his fingers in all the tumult around him. Trust in his men, that was all he could do.

And now one of them came hurtling down a spiral stair; Richard Calder. 'This way!' he shouted without ceremony, and without ceremony Henry was after him, with Exeter cursing at his back.

'You've found him?' he asked Calder.

'No. But there's a locked door at the top!'