The Scottish Boy

by Alex de Campi

There are seven knights from the Galloway raid left, and all are in the tent at that moment: Montagu, Rabbie, Brendan le Rous, the two Billies (Sir William Shayler and Sir William Lang), Sir Roderick Griffith. And him.

‘I wonder … with the Templars’ Curse so heavy on the Capets … perhaps she was able to throw some of it on us.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s just … we’re dying, one by one. We of Galloway. Once we were twelve, and now we are seven.’ ‘Nonsense,’ grumps Brendan le Rous, a stocky, no-nonsense lord from Chester. ‘That was five years ago. A few of us dying off here and there is to be expected.’

‘Thank God the Capet boy’s murder isn’t also on our souls.’ Then he exits, his little play-act finished, his lines delivered.

Harry knows it’s just a paranoid delusion that the Black Knight has spies watching over him, but the idea stubbornly remains. As does the hope that a man he watched die is somehow, miraculously, still alive and causing all the trouble he possibly can.

‘Keep riding straight back to our lines,’ hisses Harry, slowing Nomad so the boys gallop past him. ‘Don’t try to fight him. You’re not good enough.’ ‘How would you know, Lyon?’ asks Sir Roderick, loosening his sword in its scabbard. Because I think I taught him, Harry says to himself.

Sir Roderick takes three days to die in screaming agony, the gut wound infecting his entire body. And thus is the Galloway Dozen reduced to a quartet.

He squints at the shadowed wall of the farmhouse. Nothing moves. ‘Iain?’ he calls softly. He suddenly feels ridiculous, sitting there on his horse in the middle of the road at twilight, talking to what is probably an old, upturned cart, or a restless farm cat. ‘I just want you to know I still think of you,’ Harry says, his voice cracking. ‘Every goddamn day.’

‘Just tell her I think I’ve seen a ghost,’ Harry says. Sir Hugh nods. Then he puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Be well,’ he says. ‘I hope you find him.’

The whole time, Montagu is watching Harry, his eyes malevolent. ‘What?’ Harry says finally. ‘The French have the Devil himself fighting with them. And yet you keep escaping his grasp,’ Montagu says, digging hungrily into the bread and cheese they have brought. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had switched sides.’

‘Well, my lord, you see,’ Harry smiles back, ‘I know the Devil of old. Helped him out once.’ Rabbie glares. ‘You know who he is.’ ‘Who who is?’ Harry asks, innocently, reaching for a piece of cheese off Montagu’s plate. ‘I’ve been at war for England for seven straight years, my lord. I was bound to meet the Devil sooner or later.’

‘William Montagu and Robert Ufford did plot to murder Queen Marguerite of France, eldest child of Philip the Fair, and her son, Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, called Prince Iain of Galloway, in order to instigate war with France.’

Harry nearly falls apart when the Bishop takes him aside and says, ‘I only met the boy briefly, with the King, but he was the full measure of what a knight should be. As are you.’ Then the man winks. ‘I can’t promise miracles on command, but Geoffrey and I have been known to do the impossible before.’

‘Iain,’ he says softly. ‘If you’re in heaven, I cannot let you go. I keep seeing you, trying to put you back in the world by sheer force of desire. I saw you in the Black Knight, and I feel like every step I make in this palace I am walking in your footprints. If you really are here, please know that I still love you more than anything in the world, and would make any sacrifice to have you with me again.’ He shuts his eyes. ‘And if you are but a spirit, protecting me, thank you for that. I have needed it. I have always needed you.’

‘Will you still have me, Harry? Scars and all?’ ‘Now who’s the idiot?’ Harry growls