Harry exhales as the smells of straw, sweet hay, leather and horse manure envelop him. He loves the stables, and he can more than understand why Peter chose it as his life.
Iain, on the other hand, is looking around as if he is in a strange, alien land.
Harry goes up to his everyday horse, who sticks her bay head over her stall and whickers to him. As he scratches her bristly nose, he says, ‘You know my palfrey, Star.’
‘Well, not personally,’ Iain says.
Harry pulls a face and gestures to the mare. ‘Then come and meet her.’
Star flicks an ear.
Iain pulls a face back at him. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘C’mon, give her a carrot,’ Harry says. Star is a great horse, sweet and mild but fast when she wants to be, and friendly with all strangers. Even strangers who don’t seem to be thrilled with the whole concept of horses.
‘She’s your horse. Give her a carrot yourself,’ Iain mutters.
Harry sighs, then indicates the empty stall next to Star. ‘My destrier, Nomad, normally lives here but he’s still on his way back from the North with Montagu’s household.’ Then he walks down to the end stall. ‘This’ll be your horse.’
Harry looks over the half-door into the stall, and groans. ‘Get up, you fustilugs.’
He can feel Iain peering over his shoulder as there’s a disgruntled whuffle from the stall, and the horse inside stands up.
And up.
And up.
Iain gasps as the horse’s massive, strawberry-roan head looms over the stall door. ‘Jesus, Harry. That’s not a destrier, that’s an elephant.’
Harry steps away from the stall door with a grin. ‘His name is Numbles. I’ll let you two get to know each other.’
Numbles glances between the two of them, works out that neither will be offering him treats, and sticks his big nose into his hay net.
Iain’s face is aghast. He gestures at Numbles. ‘Are you having me on? Harry. That’s a plough-horse. Look at him. He misses the plough. Don’t do this to either of us.’
Numbles looks up, hay falling out of his mouth, and grunts like he’s been insulted.
Iain flails angrily. ‘And he only has one eye.’
Numbles retaliates by butting his head into Iain’s chest, smearing his shirt and neck with copious amounts of green, hay-filled saliva.
‘Och, you horrible creature!’ Iain screams, brushing at the slimy green mess. His panicked ministrations only make it worse.
Harry can’t help it. The ice that’s gripped his chest since his mother died suddenly cracks open, happiness bursting through him. Before he knows it he’s fallen over into the pile of clean straw, clutching his sides as he overflows with laughter.
‘Oh, fine, laugh it up,’ Iain pouts.
Numbles blows his lips at Iain.
Iain frowns at him. ‘Not you too. It’s a conspiracy. You’re all conspiring against me and my dignity.’
Numbles coughs, spraying small flakes of hay all over Iain’s hair and face.
‘Plough-horse,’ Iain hisses. Then he turns to Harry, who is red-faced and gasping with mirth. ‘Harry. Why?’
Harry wipes the tears from his eyes. ‘He’s Nomad’s idiot brother. Nobody wanted a one-eyed war-horse who’s too lazy to gallop. They were going to sell him for meat, so I said I’d take him. Nomad loves him, and they’re great paddock mates. Plus, he’s a perfect learner horse.’
Iain folds his arms and glares at Harry. ‘I am not going to ride this monstrosity.’
Unfortunately, Iain turns his back on Numbles.
Which is something Harry probably should have warned him about.
Numbles stretches his neck over the stable door and pulls his lips back, then bites Iain hard on the shoulder.
Iain screams, then turns around and smacks Numbles on the nose, cursing him in Gaelic.
Harry should feel sorry for Iain but instead he starts howling with mirth again. He gestures helplessly between horse and boy. ‘Look, Iain,’ he chokes out between ragged gasps of laughter, ‘you’re meant to be together. He’s a bitey bastard, too!’
Iain’s face does something complicated, going through shock and surprise and then it’s like something in him gives way, too. A grin lights up his face, and then he’s cackling as well, clutching his stomach and stepping away from Numbles. He trips over his leg chains, overbalances, and lands in the straw next to Harry, the pair of them helpless, shaking with laughter.
It’s not even that funny, Harry thinks, but somehow that just makes him laugh more.
Harry looks over at Iain and suddenly understands why Annie calls him the little lord; his face is transformed in happiness, eyes crinkling, dimples appearing in his cheeks. He’s incredibly, stunningly aristocratic when he’s not scowling or hiding behind his hair. Like how Harry pictured Sir Lancelot when he’d play King Arthur all alone down by the pond: his imaginary best friend, the exotic, dark-haired knight of the lake.
Harry coughs as he swallows a breath.
Then Iain makes a profoundly inelegant snort-laugh, punching Harry gently in the side, and the spell is broken.
Peter comes running in a moment later. ‘What happened? Is anything the matter?’ he gasps, panting heavily.
He’s presented with Iain and Harry lying almost on top of each other in a pile of straw, giggling their heads off. ‘He turned his back on Numbles,’ Harry says, gesturing at the bite-mark on Iain’s shoulder.
‘I hate you all,’ hiccups Iain, tears of mirth in his eyes.
Four
September 1333: Rusty Knife
Harry isn’t really surprised when Iain shuts down again after their morning in the stable, but it still aches. He wants Iain to be happy. He wonders if it’s just his guilt talking, his complicity in the massacre of Iain’s people, but he doesn’t think so. Iain has turned out to be funny, smart and surprisingly athletic, and Harry is surprised to discover that not only can he endure Iain’s company, he would seek it out. Yet Iain persists in shutting down Harry’s every gesture of friendship.
