When they wake, Iain is gone.
Harry should have expected it, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Iain had hauled the weight over while they were asleep and stolen its key from where it hung around Harry’s neck. The pyramid of iron sits next to the bed, the manacle open, the key still in the lock.
Harry sighs as he rubs his eyes. At least Iain didn’t stab him in his sleep. He supposes he should be thankful for small mercies. He staggers downstairs and wakes Annie, has her count the knives in the kitchen. She comes back, shaking her head and cursing. Two long carving knives gone. And bread and cheese and dried meat.
Harry saddles up Nomad and sets to organising the search. He figures Iain will head north, back to Scotland. The easiest route would be through Exeter, but the fastest would be to strike out across Dartmoor. He dispatches Peter to Ordlington Hall to warn Rabbie. As High Sheriff, Rabbie can whip up a search force to cover the far side of the moor. Meanwhile, Harry warns the people of Dartington Manor that Iain is armed, and will fight, and they don’t have to participate in the search for him if they don’t want to. The servants still all set out, on foot, on donkey and on horseback. This isn’t the frantic haste of the first time Iain ran. They spread out slowly, methodically, apathetically, searching down lanes, checking in barns. Harry and Kit and Piers ride the main roads, stopping at each inn to let the keeper know that there’ll be silver for Iain’s capture and safe delivery back to Dartington. Harry doesn’t hold out much hope, though. Not a single person recognises Iain’s description.
The search goes on all day. There’s no sign of the Scottish boy.
He’s gone.
As the bells of Vespers sound across the valley and the shadows of the hedgerows lengthen across the lanes, Harry gives up on the peasants he’d been questioning on the Exeter road and turns Nomad towards home. They’ll have supper, and Iain will turn up or he won’t, and Montagu will take over Dartington or he won’t. In any case, the awful unease and frustration of the past month will be over and Harry can get on with his life.
But halfway home there’s a shout. Little Wat, the pig-boy, canters up on an extremely unhappy Numbles, waving his arms. ‘He’s on the Plymouth road! They got him cornered, trying to steal a horse.’
Harry swears, and spurs Nomad south. ‘Get Rabbie!’ he shouts to Kit. ‘Tell him to come to Dartington for the boy.’
The bells of Compline ring as he and Piers reach the dingy little inn where Iain is holed up in the stable. A few travellers and villagers block the exits, weapons drawn. A short distance away, two big men-at-arms nurse deep gashes to their forearms. Something flickers in Harry’s gut when he sees that, a pride at Iain’s growing skill with a sword. He tamps it down. Now isn’t the time.
He dismounts Nomad and draws his own sword as he approaches the stable. ‘Iain,’ he calls out.
There’s no answer but silence, and Harry takes another step towards the stable doors.
There’s a blood-curdling yell as the doors explode open and Iain gallops out on a skinny chestnut palfrey. The horse is wall-eyed with fear as it charges towards Harry. Iain has the reins in one hand and a carving knife in the other and his knuckles are white around both. He barely has control of the palfrey, its bridle is too loose, the bit already in its teeth. Harry can hear the villagers behind him scattering as he tenses his jaw and turns his blade.
The first thing Sir Simon had taught him was how to fight on foot against a mounted opponent.
Harry steps aside when the palfrey is almost on top of him, and swings his sword high and hard. Iain flinches away, but not far enough, and the flat knocks him across the hand and stomach. He lets go of the reins, lurching so far to the left that he’s completely off balance, barely on the horse’s back at all. There’s a moment where it looks like he may be able to cling on, throwing the knife aside and scrabbling for a hold on the horse’s mane, but the palfrey hops sideways and bucks and it’s over.
Iain lands with a thump in the dirt, howling his fury and disappointment. The horse puts its head down and bolts across the road into a field, its high whinnies of fear gradually easing to annoyed snuffles.
Harry sheaths his sword, sighs, and yanks Iain to his feet. ‘Piers, get the rope,’ he says.
Iain is tense under his hands, all hard muscle and spite, his head down, face hidden. ‘Let me go,’ he hisses.
‘I can’t do that,’ Harry replies, as he pushes Iain against the stable wall so Piers and Wat can tie his arms.
‘Why not?’ Iain whispers.
Because I’ll lose my home, Harry thinks. ‘Because it’s my duty,’ is what he says.
Numbles seems almost happy to see Iain, whickering cheerfully as the boy is again tossed over his back. They trudge home to Dartington in the moonlight. It takes almost an hour, not helped by Iain trying to writhe his way free the entire time. He succeeds, once, and only manages to dump himself onto the ground again. He doesn’t even make it to his feet before Harry and Kit slide off their mounts and tackle him. By the time the manor is in sight even Numbles is fed up, arching his head back to nip at Iain.
Annie’s got torches burning and as Harry rides into the courtyard he can see four strange horses tied up by the stables. Rabbie’s horses, no doubt. Peter lurks by them, wringing his hands.
Harry shuts his eyes and thinks for a moment before he slides off Nomad. Just tries to figure out what he can do, to lessen his burden but
