They ride into Dartington Manor on a fine mid-August day almost a fortnight after leaving Shrewsbury. The manor’s dozen servants are arrayed outside the small, wattle-and-daub hall to greet them, with Annie’s strawberry-blonde head split by a grin nearly ear to ear. Annie has managed the day-to-day business of Dartington Manor for almost a decade. She’s a dumpling of a woman, rosy and broad, country beautiful with her freckled cheeks and easy smile.
She throws her arms around Harry almost as soon as his feet touch the ground, chattering in broad West Country English her thanks to God for his safe delivery, and then shrieking in delight when she spies the knight’s belt sitting at his hips. She demands he tell her everything, but before he can answer she pulls him into a triumphant little jig, right there in the courtyard, in front of everyone. Harry would be mortified, but the servants had known him his whole life and they’ve seen worse. So much worse.
Then the cart comes through the gates, and sound stops coming out of Annie’s mouth. Her brows furrow, and she looks at Harry. ‘A cage?’ she mouths.
Harry rolls his eyes, a gesture that he realises he’s picked up from Iain. ‘It’s a long story, Annie, but he’s … he’s a Scottish prisoner. And my new squire.’
Annie marches over to Iain and chatters pleasantly to him in English, asking him his name, where he’s from, and so forth, while Peter the stable-boy unhitches the cart-horse and Johann’s palfrey that was tied behind the cart, and Harry directs Katie the kitchen apprentice to pull Johann into the hall for some food.
Iain just cocks his head at Annie, watching her, as she watches him, waiting for him to answer.
Harry realises what’s going on once the initial bustle of their arrival settles, and calls out to Annie. ‘Annie, he only speaks French and, uh, the Scottish language. He hasn’t understood a word you said.’ And he prays that Annie won’t react badly to Iain being Scottish. She doesn’t seem the sort, but he’s learned on the road back from Berwick that people can surprise you in odd and uncomfortable ways.
Annie, bless her, merely clucks in annoyance and waggles her finger at Iain. ‘We’ll have to teach you English, m’boy! Scots ain’t much use ’round these parts.’ Harry turns and snorts into his sleeve at Iain’s somewhat cross-eyed expression of shock.
Then Annie rounds on Harry, and it’s Iain who splutters with laughter as Annie braces her hands on her hips and scolds, ‘He’s too thin, Harry! Looks like he could barely lift a sword, much less swing one. You know you have to feed them, right?’
Harry shakes his head. ‘Annie, he has eaten every damn bit of food England can provide, from the border to here. I swear he puts away more than Ralf does.’
A delighted, if somewhat manic, glint appears in Annie’s eye.
Harry turns to Iain, his expression forbearing. ‘Annie’s a feeder. She’s eyeing you up like a Christmas goose, Iain. You and your appetite are about to become her favourite people.’
Iain raises an eyebrow, looking hilariously nonplussed.
Annie elbows Harry so he translates for her. As Harry talks, Annie just folds her arms and nods at Iain, a slightly unhinged smile on her face. She then pats Harry’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get him settled in soon enough and then he’ll never want to leave,’ she says. ‘All the prayers I’ve said to find you a friend your own age, looks like the Blessed Virgin was listening after all.’
Harry’s smile goes tight. ‘You know I was knighted by the King himself, Annie?’ he says. She squeals in delight and grabs his arm, and all talk of the horrifying events in the North is forgotten for now.
The kerfuffle their arrival causes dissipates within an hour as Annie smacks people about the head and sends them back to their tasks. Harry sends for Ralf, the blacksmith, and they have a hurried conversation in English about Iain’s … proclivities. Harry at first tries to be subtle, out of a reflexive shame for what they did in Galloway and his part in it, but when Ralf’s brown eyes cloud with confusion Harry finally huffs, throws up his arms, and explains that Iain tries to run away at every opportunity.
‘Then why is he your squire, if all he wants is to run away?’ Ralf asks.
Harry grumbles that it’s a complicated situation and it’s best for everyone if Iain stays around for a while.
Ralf frowns, glancing from Harry to Iain, who is sitting cross-legged in the cage watching them, then back to Harry again. Thankfully, Iain has been on best behaviour since arriving at Dartington. Harry can’t help but worry that he’s planning something.
Ralf returns to his forge and comes back towards the end of the day in a cart containing a pyramid-shaped lump of iron with a chain and a cuff attached to a loop at its top. He also brings a set of leg manacles, loose enough to allow walking, but heavy enough that they’ll significantly hamper any attempt to run.
Harry and Annie decide it would be best if Iain slept in the solar, with Harry – the one person who can communicate with him – rather than in the hall with the servants. Annie catches something in Harry’s tone, a hesitation, and she narrows her eyes at him. ‘You want me to make up a pallet?’ she asks.
‘That might be best,’ Harry sighs. ‘He threatens to kill me on a regular basis.’
Annie hums, and gives him a look, and that look says, we will discuss all of this later. Then she marches off to make sure Katie has supper under control and Blond Peter (who they’ve all nicknamed Piers so he doesn’t get confused with Brown Peter, the stable-boy) is actually making up bedding and not just sitting on a fence woolgathering.
It takes both Ralf and Harry straining together to carry the pyramid of iron up the stairs from
