Iain makes a choking sound that’s half rueful laugh, and half the beginning of tears. When he continues, it’s in a whisper. ‘And the worst of it is, I feel like the foulest, most ungrateful bastard on earth.’
‘No, you’re not—’ Harry begins.
Iain’s head is tilted back, and Harry watches as a tear tracks down his cheek. ‘And the most hypocritical,’ Iain says, his voice going high with the struggle not to cry. ‘Because if all I get are crumbs, if I get less than the gnawed bones you toss to the dogs, I’ll take them.’ He sucks in a great ragged breath. ‘I’ll take them. Because it’s better than nothing, and I know too well what nothing tastes like.’
The pain in his face is like a spear piercing Harry’s heart. It feels as if the order of nature itself has been overturned. Iain is the strong one. He should never look like this. He should never hurt. And Harry has injured him, perhaps mortally, perhaps in a way that can never heal again.
Harry reaches out to him, his instincts overwhelming him with the need to wrap Iain up in his arms and keep him safe.
But Iain jerks away, his lips twisting. ‘No,’ he says, sharp and final. ‘Have enough respect to make it a clean kill. Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again.’
He stalks out into the winter night without another word.
Harry can only stare after him, the fear of being discovered replaced by terror at what he has broken.
Eight
January–February 1334: Drunken Angel
The tournament at Dunstable is two weeks away, and directly on the heels of Dunstable are competitions at Woodstock and Newmarket. With travel, Harry will be away from Dartington for over a month. He loves his lands, but the hall has begun to feel like a prison, a boiling cauldron about to blow its lid.
It will take a week to ride to Dunstable. For the week before that they’ll stay at Ordlington to practise with Rabbie and a couple of other West Country knights, shaking off the winter cobwebs and sharpening their steel against each other.
Iain was to come with him.
Harry thinks about leaving Iain behind, but the truth is, he needs a squire. He can’t handle preparing, packing and competing in three tournaments in a row without help. Someone has to put up the tent; take care of the horses. Someone has to pass him a new lance or a new sword if his breaks. Someone has to cook meals when he comes in from the field, battered and weary.
He can’t do it alone.
Not that Iain is anything more than a silent shadow at the moment.
Iain had vanished for a day and a night after their conversation in the stables. Then he had simply and suddenly reappeared in the hall at the end of supper one evening, dirty, bramble-scratched, and with leaves in his hair. He’d sat with Kit and Jed and not said a word.
Harry isn’t sure Iain has uttered a word to anyone since then. He does his chores with his usual skill, and shows up to meals, but it’s like a light has gone out. The body still moves, but the spirit – that indomitable, shining spirit, bright and clever – it’s gone.
Now Harry stands in the entrance to the stables and tells Iain what to pack for the journey, while Iain brushes Numbles down. They’ll need the cart; Numbles can pull it. Harry will ride Libby, and Nomad will walk behind the cart. There’s the tent and a cooking pot and tripod to go in; Harry’s old squire’s mail and Sir Simon’s newer armour. The plate. The repair kit. Swords and helmets and the practice jackets and blades. The good shield and the practice shield. Clothes, including one set of court clothes for Harry. Provisions. Soap. The four lances Harry has, plus coin to buy more. His banner. The travelling pallet, the one that rolls up small and is waxed against the ground’s dampness. The iron pegs, for tethering. Good oats for the horses. A snare for hunting. Rope.
Iain’s back is to Harry but every so often he makes a curt nod to show he’s listening. His eyes never leave the horse he’s working on.
‘Oh, and have Ralf down to check their shoes, especially Nomad’s,’ Harry adds. He notices that the dagger he gave Iain for Christmas is hanging from his belt, and the sight makes his heart constrict painfully.
Iain nods again, to show he understands about the blacksmith.
Harry sighs, and leans against the lintel. ‘You don’t have to come with me,’ he says.
Iain gives him a look that would scorch battlefields. His knuckles are white around the curry comb.
‘Fine, then,’ Harry says, retreating back into the courtyard.
They leave on 4 January for practice at Ordlington, and the tournaments thereafter. The whole estate comes out to see them off, all Harry’s loved ones hugging him and wishing him good luck, asking him to make them proud.
Iain gets a surprising number of hugs too, from Annie and the kitchen girls, a punch in the shoulder from Piers, a near-crushing embrace from Ralf. Jed approaches him and Harry expects them to embrace as well, but instead Iain smiles and presses a hand to his own chest, bowing. Jed’s face splits into a grin and he repeats the gesture, saying a short sentence in
