Kit hugs Iain, slaps himself on the forehead, runs into the hall, and comes running back with a compact hunting bow which he thrusts into Iain’s hands with a quiver of arrows. Iain also smacks Kit on the head, then collars him with an arm and hugs him again.
Once they’re far enough from Dartington that the children and younger servants have stopped jogging alongside the cart, Harry exhales.
He presses his outside leg against Libby, angling her in so she walks close to the cart. ‘I know this is obvious,’ he says, ‘but Ordlington won’t be any fun for you.’
Iain gives him his best no shit look. He’s dressed defiantly, in his Scottish-style blue shirt, no breeches, barefoot, and his cloak slung over his shoulder in the Highland manner. His dagger sits at his hip.
Harry prays inwardly for patience. ‘You’ll practise against the other squires in the afternoons, when we’re done. Mostly swordplay, but usually we’ll get you all up on horses for a turn at jousting,’ he says.
Iain stares ahead at the road.
‘I want you to lose your practice bouts,’ Harry says.
That gets Iain’s attention. His brow furrows.
‘Look,’ Harry explains. ‘This isn’t just practice. This is the beginning of the season, and you have to think of it as such. Lose. Lose now, when it doesn’t matter, while learning the weaknesses of the squires you’re fighting. A knight is never so sloppy as when he thinks he’s got an easy win.’
The annoyance in Iain’s expression fades, replaced with a cold calculation.
‘It’s up to you,’ Harry continues. ‘I haven’t even asked if you want to fight in the bohort, the squires’ competition. Do you?’
Iain nods.
‘Mm,’ Harry says. ‘Then lead the other squires to believe you’re not a threat. They’ll look down on you anyway, because you’re Scottish, so use their bias against them. And don’t rise to their bait.’
The horses’ hooves clop against the packed dirt and stone of the road, and the cart’s wheels creak.
‘If you find you’re not getting enough real practice, let me know,’ Harry says. ‘We can go out before dawn and I’ll beat you up a bit.’
Iain glares at him.
Harry smirks. ‘I’ve been holding back.’
It’s true. In their occasional sparring at Dartington, Iain’s technique has improved immeasurably from the vicious, fast mess it had been in October. But Harry has years of practice on him, and the sort of quiet calculation in the midst of clashing steel that wins out over Iain’s hot passion every time.
They cross the moor in silence and arrive at Ordlington as the sun is setting. The party there turns out to be six knights plus their squires. Rabbie and Harry, plus Sir Morien and Sir Malachi, brothers of Moorish descent from Cornwall; a wiry Dorset knight named Sir Hugh who had been a close friend of Sir Simon; and another Devon knight, Sir Gervase. Ordlington is far bigger than Harry’s estate, the hall itself rich with tapestries and teeming with well-ordered servants. Rabbie welcomes them and waves Harry in for supper while Iain and one of Rabbie’s stable-boys put the horses away for the night.
Harry is at Rabbie’s table at supper with the rest of the knights. Iain, when he comes in from the stables, is directed to the next table down, with the squires. The other squires greet him in a friendly enough way, and Harry sees Iain introduce himself with a quiet murmur. Then Mark, Rabbie’s squire, nudges one of the others and whispers in his ear. The boy’s eyes widen, and he looks over at Iain. Mark snickers.
Iain appears not to notice, but at this point Harry knows Iain’s body language as well as his own. So he catches the almost imperceptible tension in Iain’s shoulders. There’s another whisper from Mark, a look of surprise and disgust from Sir Hugh’s squire Rolly. Iain sighs, and shifts away from the group, isolating himself. It makes Harry irrationally angry. Iain is better than the lot of them. Smarter, funnier, probably a more skilled fighter, certainly more learned. He shouldn’t be treated like a stray dog, to be mocked.
‘I can’t believe you really brought him,’ Rabbie says, elbowing Harry and gazing over at Iain.
‘Lord Montagu said make him my squire, so I made him my squire,’ Harry mumbles.
‘Harry,’ Rabbie snorts. ‘That was code for lock him up and toss the key down the nearest well.’
‘Well, nobody told me that,’ Harry grumbles, crossing his arms.
‘You have,’ Sir Gervase says from across the table with a bemused grin, ‘a Scottish squire.’
‘Yes,’ Harry sighs, reaching for a leg of chicken.
‘What a novelty,’ the man gasps. ‘Is he any good? Can he speak French? Does he speak at all? How did you acquire him?’
Harry stuffs some chicken in his mouth. ‘Yes; yes, also English, Gaelic and Latin; he only speaks to people he likes; and he came in a box.’
‘A box!’ Sir Gervase guffaws. He seems a good sort; not the sharpest of blades but there’s no real malice to him. ‘A box. Did you get him for Christmas?’
Harry shakes his head. ‘No. Midsummer.’
Rabbie clears his throat, pointedly. That’s enough.
Sir Hugh refills Harry’s glass with wine. ‘I am sorry about Sir Simon,’ he says quietly.
‘I am too,’ says Harry. ‘He was a great teacher, and a good man.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Sir Hugh. ‘There aren’t enough of those.’
Harry glances over to check on Iain. The other five squires are thick in conversation already. Harry can hear them working through mutual acquaintances and past competitions. To one side, Iain eats silently, hunched over his food. One of the Cornish brothers’ squires, a slim black man with curious white patches to his skin, says something to Iain, attempts to draw him in. But Iain just shakes his head and returns to his food. He has nobody in common with them.
He has, indeed, nobody but Harry.
The next morning, they’re awake at Lauds to draw the carts up to a large, flat pasture that will serve as the training field. There’s a
