‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to eat upstairs,’ Iain mutters, ducking his head so his wet hair falls forwards to cover his face.
Harry sighs and stands up. ‘Everyone, this is my new squire, Iain. He’s from away and doesn’t speak English. I’m sure you will all join me in trying to make his adjustment to life here in the West Country as easy as possible.’ He continues standing, stretching to his full height of six feet two inches as he tucks his thumbs into his knight’s belt, and glaring at the people treating Iain like a zoo animal. Slowly, they get the message and turn back to their food. The swell of conversation in the hall rises again.
‘What did you say?’ Iain asks when Harry sits down.
‘I’d say you need to learn English,’ Harry says, digging into the pottage and roast trout and bread in front of him.
‘I’m going to kill you one day,’ Iain sighs, digging into his own food.
‘Well, if you could wait until the end of next tournament season I’d appreciate it,’ says Harry.
‘Unlikely,’ mutters Iain around a mouthful of stew.
Annie brings out summer pudding for dessert, with huge portions for Harry (it’s his favourite) and Iain (because his appetite remains a thing of joy and wonder to her). She sits down next to Harry and starts in on her own plate. Once the consumption of England’s greatest seasonal dessert has been given its due attention, Harry gets to talking to Annie about what day they’ll have the feast. They’re midway through deciding they should postpone it to Saturday rather than Friday, when Annie nudges him and jerks her chin towards Iain.
Harry glances over.
Iain is asleep, his head pillowed in his forearms, his lips messy and dark with berry juice.
‘Poor lamb must be exhausted,’ Annie whispers.
Harry looks down at Iain, at how peaceful he looks in sleep, long lashes fanned down over sharp cheekbones, and realises he’s exhausted too. He hasn’t stopped since … since before his mother died. Two months of unimaginable stress and misery, and constant travel. And then watching death ride in on wings made of English steel to a mist-shrouded Scottish loch. Harry shakes his head, trying to get rid of those thoughts before they overwhelm him again.
‘I’ll take him up,’ Harry says. ‘I think I’m going to rest too. The travelling’s finally caught up with me.’
‘Good,’ Annie says, gathering their plates. ‘You need it. There’s more to life than duty, Harry.’
Harry doesn’t answer her, because he’s not sure what to say. Not for me, is what he thinks. Not for me. Instead he says, ‘Definitely postpone the feast to Saturday.’
He scoops Iain up – the boy weighs so little – and freezes when he stirs. But Iain just mumbles sleepily in Gaelic, tucking his head into the crook of Harry’s neck and slinging an arm around his shoulders.
Harry wrinkles his nose as he gets a whiff of Iain. ‘And we’ll both need those baths tomorrow.’
Iain sits bolt upright at dawn, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps, his eyes darting around the room without recognition.
The clank of his leg chain sends Harry hurtling into wakefulness, his sleep too light, lying as it is on a bed of fear that Iain will somehow escape in the night. ‘You’re fine, Iain,’ Harry says, rubbing his eyes. ‘You’re safe.’
Iain curls in on himself, hiding his face behind his hair. ‘How did I get here?’ he murmurs.
Harry smiles. ‘You fell asleep after eating almost an entire summer pudding by yourself. Right on the table.’
The look of affront on Iain’s face is somehow the most adorable thing Harry has ever seen. ‘I … would never,’ the boy chokes.
‘You did,’ Harry grins. He can’t help the warmth that creeps into his voice.
Iain moans something in Gaelic and rubs his face. Then he switches back to French. ‘If we hear howling, that’s my mother’s unquiet spirit come back to haunt me for a horrific lapse in table manners.’
Harry giggles. ‘Your mother would really come back to haunt you and not Montagu?’
‘Without a doubt,’ Iain snorts. ‘In our family, murder and betrayal are commonplace. But lapses in etiquette? Unforgivable.’
‘Sounds like you have an interesting family,’ Harry says, hoping he can prise some information out of the Scottish boy about his background.
‘Yes. They were,’ Iain says quietly, idly rubbing one of the flaking scabs on his wrist with a thumb.
Silence hangs awkwardly between them after that, and Harry gets up to clean his face and hands in the washbasin. When he finishes, he looks over at Iain again. ‘Can you ride?’
Iain wrinkles his nose and makes a so-so motion with one hand. ‘We, uh. We had to sell our horses. After Father died.’ A blush colours his high cheeks. ‘We wrote to my mother’s family for aid but I think the letters were intercepted. Or they didn’t want to help us.’
Harry thinks back to Percy and Montagu, and the conversation he half-overheard in Berwick. ‘At least one was intercepted. That’s how Montagu found you.’
Iain hums, a resigned, hopeless sound.
‘Well,’ Harry says, forcing himself into a cheerfulness he doesn’t feel, ‘if you’re going to squire for me, you have to know how to ride.’
Iain glares at him, and for a moment Harry is fiercely happy to have that back, to see the fight in Iain’s eyes return. ‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’ Iain says.
‘What else am I going to do?’ Harry replies. ‘It’s either that or chain you up in here all the time, and Iain—’ Harry gestures out the window to the brilliant August sunshine— ‘it’s too nice outside for that.’
Iain grumbles briefly to himself, but is quiescent as Harry attaches the leg manacles and leads him down and across the hall to raid the kitchen. Harry steals a couple of carrots for the horses and shoves
