He drags Iain inside. The boy’s pale blue eyes burn with hatred, and he’s tense under Harry’s hands, a coiled snake waiting to strike. Harry looks around his hall and thinks of how his people had welcomed Iain into their home, fed him and taught him English, and tried to be kind to him.
He’s about to rebuke Iain, under his breath, but then he sees what Iain is glaring at. And it’s not the hall. It’s Rabbie, sitting by the hearth, his feet propped up on Harry’s table, his mace on the bench beside him.
Rabbie shakes his head and clucks at Harry like a disappointed parent as he brings Iain further into the hall. The firelight illuminates the ragged edge of Rabbie’s ear and the sharp planes of his face. ‘Still got a problem with your dog running stray, Lyon,’ he says.
‘I do,’ Harry admits. He swallows his pride and confesses the one thing he’d hoped never to have to say to Rabbie. ‘I need help. With him. I can’t— we’re not— I just need two weeks. To prepare. Please. Can you hold him at Ordlington? Just for … a fortnight.’
Iain jerks savagely then, out of Harry’s exhausted hands, and Kit and Piers dash forwards to grab him. The boy is hissing with fury, glaring at Harry like he’s betrayed him.
And Rabbie must be able to see the weariness in Harry, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, because he looks almost sorry for a moment. Hope swells in Harry’s breast, and then Rabbie says, ‘Bad luck, Harry. I can’t.’ He grins, thrusting his chin forwards. ‘I’m due at court.’
Harry’s mind churns as he stares beyond Iain and Rabbie, into the blurry, dancing flames of the hearth. He thinks of the cage, banished to a corner of the home barn to be a perching place for hens. He considers moving Iain’s iron weight and manacles to the hall, where more eyes can watch over him … and where Iain could hurt more innocent people.
He comes back to himself to hear Rabbie calling his name. The fire snaps into focus, and then Harry looks over at the dark-haired, rough-hewn knight as he rises to his feet. Rabbie jerks his head in Iain’s direction, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. ‘I can solve that problem for you, if you want.’
Yes, Harry thinks. Please. Let Iain become someone else’s problem. Anything to bring an end to all this confusing, stressful, heartbreaking turmoil. Then he can sleep. Then he can know his people and his horses are safe.
And all he has to do is nod at Rabbie.
His head twitches downwards. The act is done.
Rabbie grins and picks his mace up off the bench.
I’m sorry, Iain, Harry thinks, staring down at his feet. I tried. I tried so hard.
Then Rabbie calls out, ‘Mark! Hold him down,’ and Harry looks up in confusion. They aren’t leaving. They aren’t taking Iain away.
Rabbie’s squire hauls Iain roughly away from Kit and throws him onto the ground. Iain snarls at him in Scots, the strange, alien language vibrating through the hall, and attempts to kick the squire. Mark visibly flinches back, but one of Rabbie’s men-at-arms steps in and pins Iain’s ankles. The whole time, Rabbie strides towards the boy, swinging the nasty big mace in his hand. When he reaches him, Rabbie looks at Harry expectantly. ‘Got a preference? Right leg or left?’
Harry’s brain stutters. His mouth opens and closes like a fish seeking air.
He’s about to lift his hand to tell him to stop, when Rabbie gets bored of waiting. ‘Fuck it. Left leg,’ he says, and swings the mace down onto Iain’s shin.
There’s the horrible, wet-twig snap of bone cracking in half, and Iain goes white with pain. The lower half of his shin is … wrong now. The angle is wrong.
Iain doesn’t scream. He just grunts high in his throat, and it tails off into a whine.
Ufford spits in Iain’s face as he cleans blood and gobbets of Iain’s flesh off the mace with his thumb. ‘Where were you going to run, you stupid cur?’ Rabbie says. ‘Balliol rules Scotland now, sitting pretty in Galloway. You manage to get north of the border, you’re only going to find English and our allies. Balliol’s got an army of retainers. You going to kill every one of them with your kitchen knife?’ he taunts.
Iain snarls silently, blood welling up from his curled lip where he’s bitten it.
Rabbie points his mace at Harry next. ‘And you. Do better, Lyon. If you weren’t so soft with him, this never would have happened. Riding lessons. Jesus’ blood, it’s like you want him to escape.’
Harry gapes. ‘How do you—’ he begins.
‘I know everything that goes on in this hall,’ Rabbie calls over his shoulder as he swaggers towards the door, his men falling in behind him. ‘Everything.’
Harry sinks to his knees and cuts the bindings on Iain’s wrists, taking the boy’s hands (cold, too cold, and shaking) in his own and trying to rub some warmth back into them. He doesn’t even look up as the hall door slams shut. He just presses Iain’s bruised knuckles to his lips and mumbles I’m sorry like a litany.
Dimly in the background he can hear Annie clapping her hands, calling for hot water, and wood for splints, and linen to bind. She sends Piers, the fastest runner, to fetch Ralf. The big blacksmith is as good at setting bones as the butcher, and closer.
They’re working by lamplight as Ralf arrives. By then, they’ve eased Iain onto his back, and he’s biting a strip of bridle leather against the pain as Ralf hops off his horse to examine him. The blacksmith shakes his head at the wound, his expression grim. Harry can do nothing but hold Iain’s hand and try not to look at the mess of his leg
