Harry sits down on the good chest, the one with the carving, and puts his head in his hands. What has he got himself into?
Distantly, he hears Iain exploring the range of motion the chain allows him. There’s even straining and muffled swearing that suggest the boy is trying to shift the giant chunk of iron at the end of his tether. Harry can’t even muster the interest to look.
He should have said no. He should have told Montagu to go to Hell. He can’t do this.
Johann is due to leave tomorrow to head back to Salisbury. He can carry a letter to Montagu, Harry thinks. Tell him the deal’s off. Tell him that Dartington Manor can’t hold Iain. It’s too small. It’s not meant for keeping prisoners.
Montagu won’t have had time to buy up the manor’s debts. Iain can go somewhere else.
Just … not here. Anywhere but here.
It’s quiet in the room.
Harry rakes his hands through his hair and looks up, suddenly filled with dread.
Iain’s sitting on the floor, half turned away from Harry. His fingers absentmindedly trail over the iron cuff around his bony ankle as he stares off into space.
Harry follows the direction of Iain’s gaze: he’s staring at the bed, and the desk next to it with Lady Joan’s mirror and comb.
And he’s crying, completely silently.
Three
August–September 1333: Youth of the Beast
Annie works out that Harry and Iain aren’t coming down to the hall for supper that evening. She and Katie come up to the solar an hour later with trays of food, to find two sullen boys sitting at opposite ends of the room staring moodily at the floor, the sun nearly down, the hearth nearly out, and not a single candle lit in the room.
But even in the half-light she can see the puffy redness around both boys’ eyes.
Annie clucks to herself and motions Katie to put down her tray near Harry. It’s mutton and crusty bread and pie with clotted cream, and the smell of it – hearty and so much of home – breaks Harry out of his reverie.
Katie sets herself to lighting candles and stirring the embers of the hearth into life again, so as the room begins to flicker with light Annie’s shape becomes clearer as she bustles towards the boy sitting on the ground.
‘What’s his name, Harry?’ she asks.
‘Uh,’ Harry says, glancing down at his tray. At the eating knife lying on it, glinting dully in what little light is left. He stands up so fast he feels dizzy. ‘Annie, wait!’
He strides over to her quickly. ‘It’s Iain. He’s called Iain.’ Then he plucks the utensil off the boy’s tray. ‘And no knives.’
Annie frowns at him. ‘What did he do, Harry? That he has to be chained like this.’
Something twists inside Harry. ‘Nothing. It’s … he did nothing.’ The dizziness of earlier is rapidly morphing into a headache. ‘I’ll tell you later. I’m too tired right now, Annie.’
Annie hums her disapproval and puts the tray down on the floor in front of Iain. Harry idly notes that it has almost twice as much food as his own. And that Iain is glaring up through his curtain of dark hair at Annie.
She grins at Iain, oblivious.
And then she reaches out and pinches his cheek.
Harry gazes in horror as it happens. He remembers a tournament in Cheltenham where he watched a knight break his neck. It had seemed to take forever for the man to hit the hard-packed ground once he’d fallen free of his horse. Harry feels now exactly as he did then: that something inescapably terrible is coming. His mind pushes back against it, slowing time, trying to keep the moment from arriving by any means possible. And Harry thinks, so help me if Iain lays a finger on Annie I’ll—
—‘get some weight on you before the harvest! You eat up, m’boy, and if you want more we have plenty. I thought I’d make blackberry crumble tomorrow.’
She’s ruffling his hair.
Iain’s hands aren’t bound and Harry knows how snake-fast the boy is when he’s out to do damage. Harry’s heart skitters in his chest; every muscle in his body is tight with stress. ‘If you even think of harming her, Iain,’ Harry hisses.
‘I don’t believe in hurting women,’ Iain snarls back out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Unlike some.’
Annie canters on, her good cheer almost a physical force. She’s pointing to herself, repeating loudly and slowly, ‘AN-NIE.’
And Iain brushes his hair out of his face, inclines his head and smiles at her. The complete, utter little shit.
Harry is seized with the urge to strangle him as Iain murmurs, in his beautifully accented, courtly French, ‘Thank you so much, milady Anne. For your kitchen’s fine cooking and your generosity in sharing it with a prisoner like me.’
‘Coo-er,’ Katie calls admiringly from where she’s poking the hearth. ‘He’s a proper young lord, isn’t he?’
‘What did he say, Harry?’ Annie asks, turning to him.
Harry sighs and folds his arms. ‘Iain, if you want to thank her you can do it in English. Thank you.’
Iain switches to Gaelic, because he can, and says something to Annie that sounds pleasant but could be I hope you get fucked by a syphilitic donkey for all any of them know.
Harry nudges Iain’s tray out of his reach. He raises an eyebrow at the boy. ‘Thank you,’ he repeats.
Iain rolls his eyes and groans, then turns to Annie and puts that smile back on his face. ‘Fank you,’ he says to her, bowing as much as he can from a sitting position.
‘Aww, you’re welcome, duck,’ Annie says and reaches in to pat Iain’s cheek again.
Harry winces. She could lose a finger that way.
As she and Katie leave, Annie whispers to Harry, ‘He seems sweet. Are you sure he needs to be chained up like that? He won’t run, will he?’
‘He fucking will,’ groans Harry. Then, once they are
