Harry flaps his arms awkwardly. ‘Please don’t stab me,’ he says. Then he reaches in, very slowly, and hugs Iain.
He tenses for a moment, then sags into Harry’s arms, letting the older boy take his weight.
Harry whispers in his ear, ‘Do you want a Mass said for her?’
Iain nods into Harry’s shoulder, trying to stifle his sobs.
Harry smiles, and rubs circles on Iain’s back. ‘It’s raining so loud, nobody can hear you cry,’ he says.
‘You can,’ Iain snuffles.
‘Iain, I saw Numbles drop you into a drainage ditch like you were yesterday’s night soil,’ Harry smiles. ‘Your dignity is long gone with me.’
Iain’s arms come up tentatively around Harry’s back, but then he is hugging him fiercely, pressing himself into Harry’s broad, warm chest like it’s the only safe harbour he knows. And he sobs for what feels like hours, great wracking sobs, finally mourning everything he has lost.
Sometime when the sky begins to lighten, the rain still pattering against the roof, Iain confesses, ‘I was going to run to France. She was French.’
‘Do you know anybody in France?’ Harry asks. ‘Or were you just going to run to her people?’
‘I … no. I don’t remember France. I was very young when we left. And … she has no people. She was disgraced. My father was not the husband they chose for her.’ Iain shuts his eyes. ‘There was a scandal. She had petitioned the new King, but … it’s complicated. She could have returned long ago, if not for me.’
‘I’m so sorry, Iain,’ Harry says.
‘It was a stupid plan,’ Iain sighs.
‘So is that why your French is so good?’
‘No,’ he says, poking Harry in the ribs. ‘It’s because in Scotland we believe in education, you great Sassenach idiot.’
Harry barks out a surprised laugh. ‘I missed you,’ he says, and the words are out of his mouth before he can think about them.
Iain hums, and snuggles his face into Harry’s neck. ‘I’m sorry I’m so much trouble.’
That Sunday, and every Sunday afterwards, a Mass is said for Lady Marguerite mac Maíl Coluim in Dartington Church. And occasional sighs are heard from the Lyon family pew as Sir Harry’s squire takes issue with matters of Latin pronunciation.
Five
November 1333: Pale Flower
Iain’s leg heals slowly. He’s bed-bound for a good few weeks, through the rest of October. The entire hall breathes a sigh of relief when Ralf brings Iain a crutch, because the boy is a mass of frustrated, pent-up energy, bored out of his mind and making everybody’s life difficult.
When Ralf leaves, he takes away with him the weight and the sets of leg manacles, hopefully forever. Harry never wants to see them again.
Iain’s appetite is still a thing of joy to Annie, and she makes it her mission to pack on him the weight he’d lost through his difficult, rebellious September.
He adapts to the crutch quickly, and takes to hobbling around after Harry like a dark, murderous duckling as Harry goes about the business of the manor. He’s still restless, and finally Annie grabs him by the ear, hauls him into the kitchen, and presses a knife into his hand.
Iain blinks at it, surprised.
Annie narrows her eyes and points to a bushel of onions on the kitchen table. ‘Cut,’ she says.
‘But—’ says Iain, gesturing with the knife.
Annie picks up a heavy iron pan and raises an eyebrow.
Iain sits down on the bench and cuts the onions.
As soon as he’s done, Annie removes the knife from his hands and gives him the first of several bowls of dough to knead. The work is tough – the manor goes through a lot of bread – and Iain limps out to sit next to Harry at dinner with aching shoulders and a quiet mind.
‘Peter needs some help with the horses this afternoon, if you’re up for it,’ Harry says, smiling at Iain.
Iain nods, and so finds himself in the stables, currying horses and fetching hay and raking manure, as Peter uses a combination of simple words and demonstration to teach him what to do. Harry wants to stay and watch but he’s due to inspect the winter stores in the north barn, so he grabs Nomad and sets off.
Late in the afternoon, his business done, Harry goes to check on Iain. The Scottish boy is sitting on the old, cracked milking stool, his shirt shoved down to his hips, lost in the task of cleaning tack. Harry just stands there, leaning against the stable door, watching him.
Iain has a look of concentration on his face, the tip of his tongue peeking through his lips as he rubs dirt off the old leather of a bridle with a rag dipped in oil. His hair hangs down in messy waves over his face, and there’s a play of lean muscle across his shoulders and forearms as he performs the delicate actions of the task. His tan has faded, but galaxies of freckles still remain, coating his shoulders and back and trailing down his arms.
Perhaps Harry is deceiving himself, but he thinks Iain looks more relaxed than he has previously at Dartington, like he’s no longer bent under the weight of a burden only he can see.
Harry scuffs his feet against the dirt floor of the stable and says, ‘Are you well enough?’
Iain glances up at him and smiles, his face full of a soft warmth. He says, ‘I am,’ and the smile stays as he looks back down at the dirty bridle in his hands.
Iain continues to work for the next week at whatever chores the hall and stables can find for him, his English improving by leaps and bounds as he’s forced to communicate with the servants. By early November, Ralf prods his leg, watches him walk, and declares him fit to ride. The blacksmith cautions Iain should ride bareback, as the pressure of a stirrup on the healing leg might cause problems with its
