Iain looks down at his still-braced leg, then raises an eyebrow at Harry. ‘Rabbie will presumably be at Windsor too?’
Harry nods.
Iain hums. ‘Then if killing Rabbie is off the table as far as entertaining myself while you’re gone is concerned, I promise I’ll be a good boy and return your manor to you in the same condition you left it.’ Then he smirks. ‘Maybe even better condition.’
Harry snorts and punches him in the shoulder, and just like that, the lingering strangeness between them is broken. Iain grabs at the ticklish part of Harry’s side and Harry yelps, whacking him in the head. Iain swears, drops Numbles’ reins and makes a grab for Harry’s hair.
A short while later, Ralf is driving his cart down the lane from forge to manor when he turns a corner and is presented with a most unusual sight. The young lord of the manor has his dark-haired friend in a headlock as they ride down the lane abreast on two huge roan horses, Harry howling with laughter and squirming as the Scottish boy tickles him and tries to writhe out of his grasp, cursing him out as a great Sassenach idiot.
Both pause their high jinks to wave and smile at Ralf as they pass, and the blacksmith just shakes his head fondly, his big shoulders quivering in amusement. ‘Harry, don’t you dare pull that boy off his horse and injure his leg again,’ Ralf calls out to them.
‘Thank you,’ yells Iain, exasperated and somewhat breathless. Then there’s a squawk and an ‘och, ye bastard, I’ll get you for that’.
As the days count down to his departure, Harry watches the Windsor Cart (as it becomes known) grow higher and higher with packages. His armour and Sir Simon’s plate, surcoat and sword and shield, in case there’s a tournament. Changes of clothes. Extra food for the journey. His one court-acceptable outfit. Peter’s things. Kit’s things. And then finally it’s the night before he’s due to set off.
He’s never been so nervous. Iain will take over the stables while Peter’s gone – easy enough, there’ll only be Numbles and a couple of ponies to look after – and continue to help out Annie whenever she needs it. Annie keeps reassuring him everything will be fine; they coped when he was in Scotland and they’ll cope now. Harry can’t help but fret.
And now instead of sleeping ahead of their dawn start, he’s stalking back and forth in the solar after supper, wearing a hole in the floorboards, trying to work out what he’s forgotten.
‘If you don’t stop that pacing,’ Iain finally snaps from his pallet, ‘I am going to tackle you and tie you to the bed.’ Iain is ready for sleep: stripped down to his braies, sprawled on his back, head pillowed on an arm.
Harry stops and stares at Iain. ‘You should sleep in my bed while I’m gone,’ he says.
‘What?’ Iain says, sitting up.
‘It’s much more comfortable than your pallet. And bigger. It’ll be better for your leg, and someone might as well sleep in it,’ Harry says.
‘Ugh. No,’ Iain says, flapping a hand and lying back down.
‘Because you enjoy discomfort?’ Harry says.
‘No,’ Iain sighs.
‘Why, then? It’s a good bed,’ Harry huffs.
‘Because I said so,’ Iain grumbles.
‘That’s not a reason,’ Harry says, crossing his arms. ‘Why not?’
Iain snorts and squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Because, Harry, if you absolutely need to know, I feel like a cat in heat right now and as soon as you leave I’m going to defile myself every single night and probably go and fertilise the moss on your stone too, and spilling all over your nice bed is definitely bad manners.’
‘Iain, you’re disgusting,’ Harry frowns.
Iain opens one eye and glares at him. ‘And you do not know when to drop a subject, Harry.’
Harry sits down on the edge of his bed. Then something occurs to him. ‘Wait, have you not been pleasuring yourself because I’ve been in the room?’
‘Uh, yes?’ Iain says, and even in the candlelight Harry can see the blush colouring his cheeks.
‘You’re such an idiot,’ Harry says, shaking his head. ‘Iain, I don’t care. Have at it.’
Iain shifts nervously. ‘It’s just … I never hear you doing it, so I didn’t think I should …’
‘Yes. Well,’ Harry says, staring at his feet. ‘For a long while I was too worried about someone stabbing me in my sleep to think about getting off.’
‘And now?’ Iain whispers.
Harry closes his eyes and tips his head back. ‘If I don’t find a girl to mess around with up at Windsor I think I’m going to die.’
Iain makes a sound like a low moan. ‘You ever done it? All the way?’ he asks, his voice soft in the night.
‘No,’ Harry says. ‘Not much chance. There was a serving-girl at Sir Simon’s and I thought we might, I mean, we were going to, but …’ Harry gestures, not wanting to talk aloud about July, and the loved ones it harvested from him. ‘Have you?’ he asks.
‘I’ve messed around with village girls up in Scotland, but I’ve never done everything. Getting one pregnant would be, um, very bad,’ Iain says, tracing a finger up and down his own thigh. ‘But boys. I’ve been … all the way. With. Uh. Boys,’ he whispers.
‘Isn’t that a sin?’ Harry whispers back.
‘Yes,’ Iain breathes.
He looks up at Harry, pale and beautiful in the moonlight. And Harry shifts because his braies are getting uncomfortable. In fact, this entire conversation isn’t helping with his libido problem.
Harry unlaces his braies and shimmies out of them. And puts a hand around
