Iain steps up and grabs Katie, spinning her, as her song finishes. She squeals, and he takes her hands, very formal, and bows to her. She curtseys in return, giggling.
Father Francis gets up, unsteady. Harry points towards the hall’s back door. ‘Out there, about ten feet in front of you and then to the right,’ he says, giving the directions to the privy.
The priest sneers at him, then toddles towards the door, walking like a man at sea.
Iain begins singing again, a French dancing song. He walks Katie through the steps at half-time. Harry recognises some of them; they’re very similar to those of his dance with Alys at Windsor. As Katie becomes more sure-footed, Iain takes her through the steps faster, until they’re dancing in time with the song, Katie laughing all the while. He then passes her off to Kit, and grabs Annie, who shouts and squirms to get out of his hold, loudly complaining that she is not the dancing kind.
The Bishop’s eyes are keen as he leans forwards, watching the motley dancers. There’s a flicker of sadness in his face, of something very dear laid aside out of necessity.
‘A bishop does not dance?’ Harry guesses.
‘I used to love the carolle,’ the Bishop sighs. Then, after a moment, ‘Your man dances it well.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Harry says. ‘The only dancing I do involves a broadsword.’
There’s the most almighty shout and bang from outside the hall, and all noise inside ceases.
The next sound they hear is Father Francis’s triumphant cry: ‘I have him! I have the criminal! I knew they were lying!’
Both Rabbie’s and the Bishop’s heads whip round to look at Harry. Harry raises his hands, helpless. ‘I have no idea what he’s talking about—’
Just then, Father Francis comes in, robes open, hose around his ankles, his holy acorn bobbing for everyone to see (Annie places her hand over Katie’s eyes). He’s clutching a struggling, furious Piers in his arms. Piers is wearing a raggedy, rust-coloured shirt such as Wat would wear, and has helpfully rolled around in the dirt to approximate Wat’s usual state of cleanliness.
‘Can’t a man take a shit in peace?’ yells Piers.
Kit is biting his fist to keep from laughing.
‘If you’re going to drag me off the jakes you could at least wipe me arse for me first!’ Piers howls at Father Francis.
Kit loses the fight. He tips his head back and roars with amusement, banging his hand on the table.
Harry exhales. ‘Father Francis, would you mind letting go of my messenger boy, Piers?’
Piers’s father, a tall farmer named Jasper, stands up. ‘Boy, what have you done with that priest?’ he growls.
‘Nothing, Pa! I was just sittin’ there having a crap and he sticks his head in an’ starts yellin’ at me about fuckin’ other men and God’s judgement!’ Piers yells back, gesturing.
Father Francis squints down at Piers, then realises he’s looking at the boy’s bare arse, blushes, and dumps him on the ground.
‘Ow,’ Piers says.
‘You’re not the pig-boy,’ mumbles Father Francis.
Jasper turns his hawklike stare on the priest. ‘If you laid a hand on my boy, priest or no, I’ll skin you alive, sure as they skinned Saint Bartholomew.’
‘He’s drunk!’ yells Kit, helping Piers to his feet and seeing the way Father Francis’s eyes can barely focus. ‘Bloody grockle can’t handle his cider.’
‘S’ no excuse,’ snarls Jasper.
‘Uh,’ Harry says, turning to Rabbie and the Bishop, and waving his arm in Father Francis’s general direction. Rabbie looks furious, while the Bishop has a high, patchy blush colouring his cheeks. Harry can’t decide if it’s rage, or embarrassment, or both. ‘Perhaps that’s enough amusement for tonight. It looks like we did find a fool, after all.’
‘Sober him up,’ the Bishop says, his voice steely.
‘Iain? Jed?’ Harry calls.
‘Horse trough?’ Jed says. Iain nods. They pick up the struggling priest and carry him out. A short while later there’s a loud splash and a howl of agony.
‘Ooh,’ Harry says, feigning concern. ‘Hope the top of that trough wasn’t frozen over.’ He indicates the stairs. ‘Shall we go up to bed?’
The Bishop sighs, and nods. Rabbie narrows his eyes at Harry.
‘I’m sure you’ll find someone to hang, Rabbie,’ Harry commiserates.
He spends an uncomfortable night sharing his bed with the Bishop and Rabbie, both of whom really do snore, while Father Francis sleeps off Annie’s scrumpy downstairs in the hall with the servants.
The holy visitors are up and out of their hair by shortly after dawn.
Harry doesn’t see Iain for the next few days. It’s barely a week until Christmas, and there’s plenty to do around the manor ahead of the holiday feast. It’s just a busy time, he tells himself. It’s safer this way, he also tells himself, still afraid that they’ve made it onto some list, that one of the many relatives and friends streaming into the hall for the holidays is reporting back on him to Rabbie. That Father Francis has more fanatics like him, watching from hedgerows and through keyholes, bigots who believe that the climb to heaven is best achieved by stepping on the backs of fellow sinners.
The rational part of him knows it’s paranoia. That nobody has ever seen him and Iain together like that. But he feels like the whole world can read in his face what he wants from Iain, if they just look. It’s so overwhelming, he can’t believe it doesn’t shine out of him like some terrible beacon of sin. How his hands ache to run down Iain’s sides, to grasp his hips, feel the smooth curve of his backside. How his lips tingle, hungry for a kiss. How other parts of him want even more forbidden things.
The simple lust Harry feels is not the worst of it. The fire that Iain ignites in him is unbearable up close, but it dies down with distance, as an iron’s attraction to a magnet waxes then wanes.
