‘And yet you are still my prisoner,’ Harry says.
‘Am I? Would you not let me go, if I asked?’ Iain says.
‘No,’ Harry breathes. ‘I cannot.’ He kisses Iain, and to his surprise Iain doesn’t pull away. His lips open for Harry, his tongue caresses Harry’s own. ‘Would you stay with me here, if I let you go?’ Harry asks, pulling away.
Iain looks at him, and those pale eyes widen as a long moment passes.
‘I belong elsewhere,’ Iain says at last, softly. ‘This is not my country, and I have only enemies here.’ He presses his lips into Harry’s neck, beneath his ear, and mumbles, ‘and my Sassenach idiot.’ His arms circle Harry, and hold him close. ‘I know that nobody here is my enemy. But I’m the blackest sort of bad luck, Harry. And I don’t want to bring that to your door.’
‘Please stay,’ Harry says. ‘Play at the charade of being my squire. Let me do my best to protect you. If you truly want to go, give me time to find a way.’
Iain’s eyes narrow. They’re tangled around each other again, faces close, staring into each other’s eyes. ‘They have something on you, don’t they.’ It’s not a question.
Harry exhales. ‘They have Dartington. If you vanish, I lose all of this.’
Iain goes limp against him. ‘And if I stay, you have no idea of the trouble I could bring here.’
Harry thinks of his strange conversation at Windsor with the Earl of Arundel. He leans his cheek against Iain’s.
‘I do,’ Harry sighs. ‘It’s already started.’
Seven
December 1333: Intimidation
The day starts out peacefully enough, once they drag themselves out of bed to face it. Peter is nowhere to be found, so Iain sets in on the stable chores while Harry catches up with the business of the manor.
It all goes to hell, though, shortly after dinner.
Peter comes tearing into the courtyard on his pony, hysterical, eyes streaked with tears. ‘They’re, they’re gonna burn Wat, on Dunwich Common,’ he gasps.
‘What?’ Harry says. Wat is their pig-boy. Not the brightest spark, but possibly the most cheerful boy in the county, and closer to Peter than any brother.
Peter collapses off the pony, and Harry catches him when his legs don’t. ‘Talk to me, Peter. What’s going on? Who’s trying to burn Wat?’
Peter blushes and wipes his nose with his shirtsleeve, strings of snot going everywhere.
Harry shakes him. ‘Talk to me,’ he hisses. Over Peter’s shoulder he can see Iain watching them from the doorway of the stables. He’s close enough to hear, and he’s standing like he knows there’s going to be a fight.
Peter’s lip quivers, and then a torrent of words come spilling out, interspersed with great, wet sobs.
‘His ma got that priest – snkkkkt – you know that awful one from Ordlington— to exorcise him but he said it’s no use, Wat has to burn, as an example,’ Peter chokes out.
‘Exorcise him?’ Annie says, striding out of the kitchen. ‘For what? Being possessed by a particularly soap-shy demon? Because the only sin that boy’s ever committed is slovenliness.’
Peter’s shaking his head, tears and snot scattering everywhere, and mumbles his answer so quietly as to be unintelligible.
‘What is it, Peter? Speak up,’ Harry says.
‘W-witchcraft,’ Peter mumbles a little louder. ‘And sodomy.’
‘Oh.’ Harry’s eyes widen as he realises what Peter isn’t saying. ‘You and he—’
Peter nods. ‘His ma wants him to – sob – marry and kept introducin’ him to girls while I was away, and then I came back and she caught us together and she and Wat had this big fight and – snukk – he said she couldn’t make him, and he wanted to stay with me, and then his ma called the priest, and Wat doesn’t have anyone to speak for him and he’s just the pig-boy and nobody cares—’
‘He has us,’ Iain declares, as he marches back into the stable and begins saddling the war-horses, Nomad and Numbles.
‘Wait here,’ Harry says to Peter, pulling him in for a hug. ‘We’re going to fix this.’
Kit and Piers come running out of the hall. Kit has his bow and Piers has a spear. ‘We’re coming too,’ Kit says.
‘Gonna need more horses,’ Peter sniffles, and shambles into the stables to help Iain.
Harry runs up to the solar and pulls his mail hauberk out of his travelling bags, yanking it over his head. He grabs his sword belt off the chest and his shield off the wall. There’s no time for the chausses, and probably no need. The point is a show of armed force.
After a second’s hesitation, he grabs his old broadsword and belt for Iain, and his spare coat of mail.
He runs out of the hall towards the stables. Five horses are lined up, four with riders: Kit, Piers, Peter and Iain. Iain is astride Numbles, and holds Nomad’s reins. Harry takes them and then tucks his left foot into Nomad’s stirrup, swinging up easily.
He passes the spare hauberk and weapons to Iain, who quickly wriggles into the mail and straps on the sword. Iain nods at Harry.
‘We’re ready, Peter. Take us to Wat,’ Harry says.
Peter spurs his pony and they ride off, out of Dartington, down the lanes and across the stream that marks the end of Harry’s estates, towards where the land gets low and miserable, and the hovels of those who couldn’t find work on decent land, or have been cast off it, are clustered. It’s a half-hour canter and a world away from Dartington proper.
In the middle of the scrubby common, there’s a pillar, and a slim figure writhing against the ropes that bind him to it. A few dozen villagers heap dry brush against its base. The crowd’s shouts and jeers echo across the heath to Harry and his men.
It’s late afternoon in December, when the colour leaches out of everything, even the sky. There is no green here, only browns and greys. Even the first lick of flame in the brush is colourless: a brightness, nothing more.
Harry
