‘Yes,’ Harry says. ‘Annie makes good bread.’
Iain is silent for the rest of the meal. Harry respects that, even though he’s not sure what Iain’s latest mood is or how it’s been brought on.
Vassal farmers come up to Harry’s table to thank him for his help with the harvest. It’s tradition in their area for the lord to cut the first wheat, if he’s around, but not every lord stays to help with the real work. Harry’s learning their names, slowly. Rufus, Eddie, Gawain. Walter. John. They thank Iain too, which surprises Harry, and even more so when Iain looks up and quietly responds, in heavily accented English, ‘You’re welcome.’
The problem is that everyone wants to toast their health when they stop by, so Harry consumes a little more of Annie’s cider than he intends. Maybe a lot more, he thinks muzzily, as he gets up at the end of the meal only to find his legs unsteady beneath him.
Iain is staring glazedly off into space, blinking occasionally and swaying slightly in his seat, and Harry reckons that Iain’s been drinking along with the farmers’ toasts too. Ugh. They’re both going to feel like a cow shat in their head tomorrow, Harry thinks. ‘C’mon, Iain,’ he says, slinging an arm around the boy’s chest and helping him to his feet. ‘Let’s go sleep it off.’
‘What is that stuff?’ Iain slurs.
‘Scrumpy,’ Harry hiccups. ‘Issa West Country speciality.’
‘Och,’ Iain moans.
They sway against each other, shoulders bumping, arms slung around each other’s waists as they make their way up to the solar. It’s only just gone dusk, the low sun filling the sky with streaks of rose and gold, but both of them crash down onto Iain’s pallet. Iain sticks his legs out and grins at Harry. He has a really nice smile, Harry’s fuzzy brain thinks. ‘Do the honours?’ Iain murmurs, gesturing at his leg irons.
Harry nods, and unlocks the manacles. ‘Wish we didn’t have to do this, Iain,’ he says, his voice coming out thick. He reaches for the single cuff that will keep Iain tethered to the weight for the night, but Iain chooses that moment to flop bonelessly against him, tucking his head into Harry’s collarbone. The boy hums, and slings a warm, solid arm around Harry’s waist.
‘Iain, what are you doing?’ Harry frowns. He’s had way too much to drink. All he wants is to lie back and go to sleep, with Iain curled up against his chest. There’s an alarm dimly ringing in the back of his mind telling him that would be a terrible idea. But Iain’s hair, now that it’s washed regularly, is so soft. He runs his hand through it, and then makes the mistake of looking down.
Iain turns so he’s sitting in Harry’s lap, his legs straddled around Harry’s waist, and gazes up at him. Harry feels pinned by those pale-grey eyes, glowing in the last of the summer sun.
Iain licks his lips and—
His mouth.
It's so beautiful.
Something low in Harry’s belly sparks into flame, and Harry shifts uncomfortably, his brain going no no this is wrong but he can’t get his body to respond with anything but yes as Iain reaches up and strokes Harry’s cheek. ‘You’re so nice to me,’ Iain mumbles. ‘Nobody’s ever been as nice to me as you are, Harry.’ There’s something akin to regret in his voice, and Harry’s too drunk to figure out why. Then Iain’s thumb passes over Harry’s lower lip.
Harry leans forwards, a moth to a flame, drawn in by pale fire and red lips. His eyes fall shut.
And the iron cuff crashes into the side of his head.
Harry jerks back to consciousness in the middle of the night, face-down on Iain’s pallet, his hair sticky with blood.
Iain is nowhere to be seen.
Harry lurches to his feet, his head pounding with a mixture of cider hangover and blunt force trauma. As he shuts his eyes to steady the spinning room, he remembers something from the feast that he’d dismissed as unimportant at the time: Iain’s mug of cider had been full when they left. Harry remembers thinking waste of good scrumpy as they passed it.
Iain’s mug had always been full. He mustn’t have drunk a drop, no matter how many times he put it to his lips.
It’s a clear night with a full moon, nearly as bright as day. Iain could be halfway to Exeter by now.
Harry staggers downstairs and wakes the hall. The Peters, Kit, Adam the shepherd’s apprentice, Wat the pig-boy and the other men of the hall quickly rise from their pallets and light torches in the embers of the fire. Harry’s already halfway to the stables, barefoot and furious, when there’s a clattering of hooves at the gates of the manor.
He looks up, clutching his torch, as Rabbie Ufford canters in with a crew of his bully boys. Rabbie reins up hard, only a few feet from Harry.
And he realises Rabbie is pulling something behind his horse.
‘Sir Harry,’ Rabbie sneers.
‘Sir Robert,’ Harry returns, as politely and tonelessly as possible. ‘What brings you to Dartington so late?’
‘You know Montagu made me Sheriff of Devon on the way home from Carlisle?’ Rabbie says, his voice haughty. ‘Or maybe you didn’t, seeing as you weren’t with us.’ Then he yanks the rope anchored to the pommel of the saddle. ‘Found some livestock of yours running loose on the moor.’
Iain stumbles forwards. His hands are bound and the rope is around his chest.
And he’s been dragged.
His knees and shoulders are a mess of dirt, blood and shredded clothing, but he is somehow still standing, glaring at all of them like a wet cat. Harry is sure the only thing keeping Iain on his feet right now is pure spite and suddenly he’s fiercely proud of this boy.
He steps forwards to take the rope from Rabbie.
‘Ah-ah!’ Rabbie says, lifting it away. ‘Lyon, part of my duty as sheriff is to put down any stray dogs that get reported to me. You need
