But Iain’s already looking up at Harry, a pleading expression on his face. ‘Ri-ding less-ons,’ he parrots, in a good approximation of Rabbie’s nasal sneer.
Harry laughs, and promises his friend they can go out tomorrow. They’ll pack their dinner and make a day of it, go up to the forest at the north end of the manor’s lands. Then Harry looks over at Ralf. ‘Could he swim?’ Harry asks.
Ralf shrugs. ‘If he wishes.’
Iain just about drags Harry out of bed the next morning and propels him to the stables. Half-asleep though he is, Harry can’t help but feel a thrill of delight as he watches Iain get both Nomad and Numbles ready for a ride, the boy’s hands swift and sure.
Because his left leg still can’t bear his weight, Iain has to mount Numbles from the wrong side, which is also his blind side. Horse and boy are both deeply uncomfortable, Numbles trying to sidestep away from the mounting block and Iain hesitant to throw his wounded leg over the huge horse’s back when the horse won’t stop fidgeting.
Finally Harry sighs, returns Nomad to his stall, and swings nimbly up on Numbles’ back from the left side. He holds a hand out to Iain.
‘Oh no. I can do this myself. I’m not some damsel to ride pillion,’ Iain declares.
‘I don’t know, Iain,’ Harry grins, glancing down at the boy in his baggy, hand-me-down shirt and the pair of loose linen breeches they’d found to fit over the brace. ‘That long hair of yours, all we’d have to do is put you in a dress and you could sit on my lap. Whole county’d think I’d got myself a wife.’
Where did that come from? Harry thinks. He needs to wake up. Or at least his brain does. Because his loins woke up quick at the thought of a woman’s body nestling against his own, on the horse.
Iain narrows his eyes. ‘I’ll stab you, don’t think I won’t,’ he says.
‘Seriously, Iain,’ Harry sighs. ‘This is your first ride since your leg was broken, and you’re not that great on a horse anyway – no, don’t make that face – and if you ride in front of me I can keep you from falling if you lose your balance. A spill off Numbles would set your leg back by months, you contrary idiot.’
‘Ugh. Fine,’ Iain groans.
‘It wouldn’t kill you to accept help, you know,’ says Harry, extending his hand. ‘You don’t have to go through everything by yourself, like some great daft Scottish martyr.’
Iain swings up onto Numbles’ back, settling in front of Harry, his arse tucked against Harry’s thighs. ‘French,’ he says.
‘Hm?’ says Harry, taking the reins in one hand and settling his other one awkwardly around Iain’s waist.
‘I’m French, Harry,’ Iain corrects, softly. ‘The world cares about me because I’m French, not Scottish. But don’t …’ Iain sighs, and leans into Harry’s chest with his back. ‘Don’t tell anyone. It’ll just bring down danger upon you. And I don’t want to see what happened at Loch Doon repeated down here. Once is enough,’ he breathes. ‘Once was too much.’
Harry hugs Iain with the arm around his waist, and presses a brotherly kiss into his hair as a fierce feeling of protectiveness washes over him. ‘I won’t tell. I promise,’ Harry whispers into Iain’s hair. Then he smiles. ‘I’ll even trade you. I have a secret of my own to show you.’
Harry nudges Numbles into motion and they spend the morning winding gently, unhurriedly northwards through the lands of Dartington until they reach the forest. It’s a cool morning, the kind where Harry can feel winter waiting in the shadows, and it’s pleasant to have the big horse under his legs and Iain’s warm body against his chest. Iain sings softly, Gaelic work songs and old French melodies in time with Numbles’ hoof steps, and Harry rests his chin on Iain’s shoulder, profoundly content.
He holds Iain a little tighter as they make their way through the thick undergrowth of the woods and down the slope that leads to the hidden pond. It’s still early enough that a low mist sits on the water, cold silver lapping the roots of white birches. Harry can tell the moment Iain sees it: the boy gasps, the muscles in his torso growing taut under Harry’s hand.
‘This is where I go when I want to be alone,’ Harry says, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the peace of the morning. ‘I’ve never shown it to anyone.’
Iain half-turns to look at Harry, his expression awestruck. ‘Thank you,’ he breathes. ‘It’s …’
‘Yes,’ Harry says, looking into Iain’s pale eyes, profoundly moved by how much he understands, how he appreciates what this means to Harry. ‘I know.’
Harry realises that at some point he’s started rubbing little circles with his thumb against the silky, firm skin of Iain’s hip, and the other boy exhales and leans into him, shutting his eyes as their foreheads touch. They stay like that for one beautiful, suspended moment, breathing in sync, one with each other and the idyll around them, until a fat trout splashes out of the water and Iain startles, then giggles.
‘Here, get off first,’ Iain says, shoving at Harry.
Harry laughs too and slides off Numbles’ back, holding his hands out for Iain to come next. Iain hisses slightly as he hits the soft ground, and then limps over to look at the pond. ‘Next time we come here, let’s bring a hunting bow,’ he says, glancing back at Harry as he ties Numbles’ reins to a low branch. Iain’s mouth takes on a devilish smirk. ‘I grew up on a loch. I can catch our supper.’
Harry holds up the bag he’d slung over his shoulder. ‘Today, Annie has provided.’
They spread out their picnic on the great, flat, mossy rock that sticks out into the pond. The two of them fall into easy conversation as they break fast, Harry telling Iain of his childhood games of King Arthur and the Faerie Queen
