Iain is leaving.
Harry moves to follow Iain but feels a hand on his arm. He whirls around, ready to punch the person restraining him.
It’s the steward. The steward is raising his arm in the air, and the crowd are on their feet, yelling his name.
Harry looks at the man, bewildered.
‘You won the tournament, Sir Harry,’ the steward says. ‘Don’t you realise? You won.’
Harry washes and dresses in his stifling court clothes for the celebratory supper. He still moves like a man asleep, insensate to the smiling faces, the pats on the back. His hands are so clumsy pulling up his hose that he thumbs a hole into them, up near the thigh. Hopefully his coat is long enough to cover it. He throws on his hood and tries to arrange the tail of it in the casually elegant way Iain managed so well, but the damn wool serpent seems put on this earth purely to vex him. Eventually he gives up, rakes his hands through his hair, and trudges to the King’s marquee.
The King’s tent is a palace of canvas. Three hundred knights, nobles and ladies are assembled inside, a fabric hothouse of English high society in microcosm.
A servant guides Harry towards a table in the top rankings, the third closest to the King’s own. It’s an honour that would have thrilled his eighteen-year-old self, who would have counted each seat, weighed each courtier in judgement, that remained between him and the King. Back when he thought there was merit in this game.
But Harry is twenty now, and he can’t bring himself to care. He’s seated next to Alys. For this, he is grateful. They can still place next to each other while they are engaged. Afterwards, custom dictates that they sit separate, a rule for all but kings.
Edward and his retinue are late. It’s expected. Kings are always late.
It’s a balm to see Alys again, though, and Harry even welcomes Arundel’s brash humour, across from him. They chat about everything and nothing, and she even makes Harry snort with laughter over a tale of a very arrogant but illiterate knight she’d witnessed dictating a love letter to a monk.
After a few cups of ale and banter with Alys and the Earl – no, Richard, he wants to be called Richard – Harry feels almost human again.
Suddenly the hum of chatter in the canvas hall dies down, save for a few clear voices emanating from the entrance. ‘All stand for the King, His Majesty Edward of Windsor and Queen Philippa,’ cries a harbinger, and there’s the scuff and groan of benches pushed back, the little clatter of cups and eating knives placed on the table.
Harry stands and looks.
Just behind the King is Iain, in cobalt-blue silk, picked out with gold embroidery at the cuffs and neck. His knight’s belt is slung tantalisingly low on his hips. A long, simple sword hangs from it on one side; the dagger Harry gave him on the other. His jacket is short, barely to mid-thigh, and his legs are encased in hose of the same vivid blue. His long hair is oiled and sleek, twisted back in a bit of ribbon. He’s smiling, joking with the Queen in their soft, Continental French, completely at ease.
Harry can’t breathe. He feels Alys’s small, cool hand over his, wordlessly offering support.
Iain looks well. He still moves like a predator, but now there’s an elegance to it: a sophisticated hunter, rather than a starved, feral dog.
He sees Iain’s eyes rake over him in passing, as the man prowls towards the King’s table. There is no acknowledgement of Harry in his expression, and there will be none, for Iain sits down with his back to the hall.
Harry has to turn his head to see the King’s table, but he finds if he’s careful he can look out the corner of his eyes, checking to see if there is still a blue silk coat there, a broad back slouched in lazy elegance, a strong, graceful hand gesturing with an eating knife.
Nearly everyone is rushing off to Smithfield in the morning, as the big London tourney begins in two days’ time, so there are no ludi or fancy entertainments this night. Yet still the evening seems to drag on. Harry looks at Arundel in despair. ‘Please try to speak to him,’ Harry says. ‘Tell him … tell him everything.’ He closes his eyes. ‘Tell him I can’t live without him.’
Arundel considers. ‘Tell him yourself,’ he decides.
‘How?’ Harry all but howls. He inclines his head towards the King’s table. ‘I should march right up there and say excuse me, I’d like to borrow Iain for a minute?’
‘You could write him a letter,’ Arundel says.
‘The things I want to tell him cannot be read by others,’ Harry whispers. ‘You know that. I cannot even consider putting them on paper.’
Arundel stands up. ‘Your Majesty,’ he shouts.
Harry turns beet red, cringeing, trying to make his large frame less noticeable. He kicks Arundel under the table.
‘My lord of Arundel,’ the King calls back. ‘What have you on your mind?’
‘A petition for Sir Harry here to come back to our team on the opening mêlée, that is all. When he’s around I don’t get knocked on my arse so much,’ Arundel admits, to general laughter.
‘Except for that time he knocked you on your arse,’ Iain purrs, his grin wicked. And God, that goes straight to Harry’s groin.
Arundel points at him. ‘That’s why I said our team, Your Highness. Whatever team I’m on. If he’s going to be on the other team, he can bloody well stay in the scary mêlée with the veterans.’
There’s a laugh from Iain then, rich like smoke and honey, and he and the King exchange a glance. Iain shrugs.
‘Done,’ says the King, waving a hand. ‘If only all such boons were as easy to grant. Oh, and congratulations, Sir Harry. We believe this makes your … third championship this year?’
Harry stutters. He hasn’t been
