never_promised: (England and St George)
It's a red-faced Hal who slinks into the bar for breakfast, rather late.

...for none of the usual reasons someone might slink red-faced into a bar, rather late. He's been slaying dragons.
never_promised: (Default)
Harry Monmouth has not been pining in Viola's absence.

No, honestly. He hasn't. He's gone for rides on old Barbary; he's practiced tennis, hitting balls against a wall; he's eaten his meals and read books and slept perfectly soundly. And just now he's been watching the football on one of the screens in the main room. Football, followed by some odd tragicomic ceremony, something to do with the closing of the fields? At any rate, it had ended with a rainbow, which surely pleased everyone, being good theater.

He's chasing down some last scraps of a venison pasty, and wondering what he might do to spend the rest of the afternoon. Or is it evening already?
never_promised: (Serious)
Mmmm. Hmmm.

This bed is very comfortable. The light is coming in very strong, strong enough that it must be well into the day: what an idle king he is this morning! But if the king can't idle in bed, the softest bed, once in his life...

He sits up abruptly. Wait. He's supposed to be meeting the French court, the duke of Burgundy, princess Katherine.
never_promised: (England and St George)
The king himself is rode to view their battle: of fighting men they have full three score thousand. That's five to one; besides they are all fresh.

Which the English are not. Harry feels as comfortable in his saddle as--as someone who has slept in it more than once in the last month. And as comfortable staring at the French army as someone who has received the latest intelligence on their number and condition, as well as the reports of his own captains.

Was it an ill omen to see that place, with Percy in it, on the eve--the dawn--of battle? Will he end the day there himself, a laughable ghost in a laughable tavern of ghosts? But that's a foolish thing to dwell on. A sure way to get yourself killed.

He reins in his horse, pats its neck absently. (Isn't that what he's always pictured? A young king at dawn, a white horse, effortless warmth and grace?) The French there, the English there. He can't see the archers, can't hear them driving their stakes into the earth: the wind is carrying French army calls to him instead. But Erpingham knows his business--and York, and Camoys too. And so does Harry Plantagenet.

Right. Well. Back to camp. Time to do what he's here for.
never_promised: (Serious)
It's not very long after Hotspur departs that Hal finds himself free. Free and not especially happy with himself. As soon as Jim is gone, he gets up from his seat and takes off in the direction Harry Percy had gone, stretching his legs in the hope of catching up. He's barely aware of rubbing his wrist as he goes.
never_promised: (Default)
The conversation with Teja has had at least one outcome worth noting: Harry's remembered his fondness for football. He's scrounged up a ball from the gym, and has been kicking it up and down the hallways all day.

Probably making a nuisance of himself, in fact.
never_promised: (Smackable)
Harry isn't exactly resigned to being in Milliways, but he's getting there. At least he's been able to settle in enough to enjoy a ride--and to appreciate some unexpected gossip from a Frenchman. He's still smiling to himself about that when he comes back into the common room, knocking a little snow off his boots.

Harry Percy, horse thief. What a world. And now, let's see...what were some of the things he used to order from the Bar when he was here before?
never_promised: (Default)
A napkin message comes with Hal's meal: Tottenham vs. Chelsea @ White Hart Lane, on in five minutes.

Which is a little puzzling, admittedly, but he's fairly sure he knows what it means. So he takes his tray over to a corner of the bar that has a good angle on one of the larger viewing-box-screen-television-things, and settles down to wait.

Should he send Percy a note? No, that would just be...awkward. But maybe he'll show up anyway.
never_promised: (Default)
People like to say that youth doesn't reflect enough on its good fortune, but Harry Monmouth is inclined to disagree: isn't he thinking, right now, that it's a fine thing to be a healthy young man, able to shake off any sort of overindulgence and take on the day with a springing step and a lively eye? In fact, a bit of exercise seems just the thing: a good day to saddle up his horse and take him around the place so he feels at home. He'd like--like--if it can be done, to restore the creature's confidence; the bay isn't so young as he once was, but he should have some good years left in him, maybe even a few battles. And if not, he's earned a happy retirement.

Harry even has a song on his lips as he strolls into the tack room. "--sowed high and I sowed low aaand under the bush the seed did grow--"

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