Perhaps Iain is a test. Perhaps Harry has been too complacent, and God wants to remind him of all he takes for granted.
Iain is someone from whom everything has been taken: family, land, status, country. Who has nothing but the shirt on his back and a ratty wool cloak besides. And Harry was going to send him back to the very man who planned the premeditated murder of his family, because Iain is difficult. Because Harry doesn’t want to be embarrassed in front of the servants.
Harry’s lips form the words of Sir Simon’s favourite passage from Luke: Verumtamen diligite inimicos vestros et benefacite et mutuum date nihil desperantes … Estote ergo misericordes sicut et Pater vester misericors est.
He opens his eyes, gets on his knees and folds his hands in prayer. He begs God’s forgiveness for his weakness, his unworthiness, his impatience, and he promises to try harder. He knows that for too long he has placed faith in worldly men above faith in God, and for that he has been sent these trials.
He will not fail God.
More importantly, he will not fail Iain.
Tomorrow, he will begin again.
Harry stops by the village church on the ride home and says hello to Father Gilbert, the redheaded parish priest, who hugs him fiercely and tells him that they’ve been saying Masses for his safe return every day. Harry’s grip falters a little then, and he asks if instead they could say Masses for Sir Simon’s soul, as his body remains in Scotland. Father Gilbert grips his shoulder with a firm hand and gives him his solemn word that he’ll do so.
He embraces Father Gilbert again on the way out, and promises to be at Mass on Sunday.
Next, he returns to the manor to go over the accounts with Annie. Things aren’t great, and he shakes his head at her when Katie pops into the kitchen to say that Ralf and Piers are butchering a trio of calves for a welcome-home feast later in the week.
‘We can’t spare three calves, Annie,’ Harry complains. Their annual payment to the lenders is due on Michaelmas and selling those calves at market would inch them closer to being able to make it. Or, at least, a part of it.
‘Nonsense,’ Annie snips. ‘We’ve lost too much. The village needs to celebrate. You can’t keep people working if you don’t give ’em something happy every so often, Harry. Life’s about more than chores and duty.’
Harry frowns, but she has a point. At least as far as the vassals are concerned.
‘And besides,’ she continues, ‘we don’t want the little Scottish lord to think we don’t have any manners.’
Harry groans, dropping his head onto his forearms on the table. He’s been ignoring Iain all day, trying to catch up on all his other duties. Trying to get back on an even keel, before Iain goes and knocks him off balance again. ‘How is he this morning?’ Harry asks.
‘He’s lovely! Ate half a roast chicken for dinner, and a goodly portion of roast parsnips and carrots. I think Katie’s sweet on him,’ Annie chirps.
‘God help us all,’ Harry moans.
‘Oh, and he asked about a bath. I said I’d talk to you.’
Harry nods, his brain already cataloguing everything used in the bathing process, and the likelihood of Iain repurposing it as a deadly weapon. There can’t be much trouble he’d be able to get into with lye soap and a rag … could he?
‘Tomorrow afternoon, before supper. I need a bath too. You think you can draw enough warm water for both of us?’ Harry says.
Annie grins. ‘I can even manage enough to wash both your clothes, too.’
‘Good. He can have one of my old shirts until his dries. And he’ll be coming down to the hall for dinner tomorrow, and every meal after, as long as he behaves. But it would be best if nobody sits too close to him,’ Harry says.
‘Other than you?’ Annie says.
‘Other than me.’ Harry sighs.
Harry stays down in the hall through supper, listening to the quiet gossip of the people of Dartington, his people, and solving small grievances where he can. The children ask him for stories of the war, as do a few of the newer servants he doesn’t recognise. He just shakes his head, and instead tells them of their bright young king.
When he finally goes up to the solar it’s after dark. A few candles have been lit; Annie must have done it when she collected Iain’s supper tray. Iain is awake, sitting on his pallet, and Harry can feel cold, silver eyes watching him as he strips off his clothes.
‘I’m sorry about today,’ Harry says. ‘A lot to catch up on around the manor.’
‘You don’t have to apologise to me, Harry,’ Iain murmurs. ‘I’m your prisoner.’
‘You’re supposed to be my squire,’ Harry says, trying to put some levity into the gulf between them.
‘Because I had so much say in that,’ Iain hisses.
Harry sits on his bed and hits his hands against his thighs in frustration. ‘I had about as much say in it as you did, Iain. This is neither of our first choice—’
The boy on the pallet snorts derisively.
‘—but the alternative is a lot worse, and for heavens’ sake, Iain, I’m tired. Can we just try to make the best of this?’
There’s no answer.
Harry blows out the candles and says his prayers under his breath, adding an extra plea to the Virgin for patience.
Harry wakes at dawn. Iain has kicked his cloak off himself in the night and is splayed out on his pallet on his stomach, head pillowed on an arm, his long hair covering his face. His ribs are still visible under his pale skin, and dark bruises blossom over far too much of him. The
