never_promised

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?

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.

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.

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.