The boy would probably tear his hand off if he tried.
Harry can’t tell if Iain’s still asleep or not. The boy doesn’t move as Harry potters around the solar, slipping on his clothes from yesterday and grabbing a few things out of the chests, but he swears he can feel Iain’s eyes on him.
‘We’re going out today,’ Harry says, as he pulls the last item he needs out of a chest near the bed. He tosses a pair of his old woollen chausses at Iain’s head, along with braies and a breech belt. ‘Here. You’ll need these.’
‘Why?’ Iain frowns at the bundle in his hands. ‘I distrust immediately any endeavour that requires hose.’
After a day of listening to the simple chatter of servants and farmers, something in Harry’s heart leaps at Iain’s casual eloquence. But he doesn’t say anything. Iain’s not his friend, and probably never will be. He just holds up his right hand. In it is a two-foot length of iron chain, with heavy, lockable rings at either end. He can tell the moment Iain’s expression changes in understanding: leg manacles. ‘You still have sores on your ankles from Montagu’s ropes,’ Harry explains. ‘These will let you walk around, but unless you put on those chausses and let me wrap over them with some strips of hide to protect those sores, you’ll be in agony before we even leave the hall.’
Iain glares at him, but shoves his free leg into the chausses. They’re a little big on him – they’re an old pair of Harry’s for riding, mended at the knee until they couldn’t be mended any more – but they’ll do. Iain then looks at his other leg, chained to the weight by his pallet, and looks up at Harry, pointedly.
Harry kneels down over Iain’s clothed leg and wraps his ankle and lower leg with soft leather. Then he latches one of the manacles over the dressed leg, and detaches the cuff on the other. He looks at Iain expectantly.
‘I could bash you over the head with that,’ Iain says, tilting his cleft chin towards the other, unlatched end of the leg manacle.
‘Indeed, but then you wouldn’t see what I have planned for today,’ Harry says, grinning. ‘Also, the Peters and Ralf are at the bottom of the stairs with clubs, if you try to make a run for it. And trust me, you never want to get hit by Ralf.’
Iain narrows his eyes and yanks the hose up his other leg. He sighs in frustration at how loose they are at the top, and sets himself to trying to tie them up as tightly as possible to his breech belt.
‘All Annie can talk about is how much you eat, so no doubt we’ll have that problem solved soon enough,’ says Harry as he wraps and manacles Iain’s other leg.
He steps back and offers Iain a hand up.
Iain ignores it, and stands up under his own power. He takes a few experimental steps, his eyes cutting over towards Harry, working out distances to windows and stairs. Figuring out how fast he can move. Calculating.
Harry stands in front of the stairs, arms folded, smiling his mildest smile.
Iain’s hands ball into fists and the boy exhales in angry frustration as he realises the manacles’ chain is too short and too heavy to allow him to do anything more than shuffle. He looks up, his jaw tight. ‘So. What do you have planned for today,’ he says, his voice expressionless, ‘Harry.’
‘Thought we’d get some of that pent-up aggression out,’ Harry says, turning and going down the stairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Coming?’
Iain follows, stomping and clanking with every step.
Harry leads him through the hall, stopping to grab a bag filled with bread, cheese and apples on his way past from Annie. Once outside, they head around the back of the manor to a small, disused paddock near the home barn.
Brown-haired Peter follows them, carrying a bundle that, to Iain’s surprise, reveals itself to be wooden practice swords, quilted jackets and padded metal helmets.
Harry tosses Iain a protective jacket and helmet. ‘Squire training. Day one,’ Harry says. ‘I need to see how well you can use a sword.’
Iain picks up one of the wooden swords and gives it a look like it’s personally insulted his family. Then he holds it up and raises an eyebrow at Harry. ‘I’m not a child, Harry,’ he grumbles.
Harry checks the ties on his jacket and picks up the other sword. ‘If you think I’m letting you anywhere near proper weapons at this moment, you’re out of your mind,’ he says.
Iain smirks at that. ‘I can never decide if you’re soft or not.’
‘Don’t mistake being soft as treating someone with a modicum of human decency,’ Harry says, loosening up his shoulder with a few practice swings. ‘That’s all I’m trying to do.’
‘It would be easier if you didn’t,’ Iain mutters, putting his helmet on.
Blond Piers and Ralf wander up and join Brown Peter sitting on the paddock fence. Ostensibly, they’re just casual observers, and so they will remain, unless Iain tries to murder Harry. Which Harry estimates as having about even odds of happening. Ostensibly, that’s a walking stick Ralf has, not a shillelagh.
Harry assumes a garde position and beckons Iain. ‘Come on, then. Rabbie says the Scottish can’t fight.’
He barely gets the last word out before Iain is on him.
Now, Harry is very good with a sword, and he knows it. He’s spent the past nine years practising every day. He’s won or placed highly in every squires’ competition he’s entered since King Edward started up tournaments again.
But
