We’ll cut it tonight, Harry thinks. Down to a length of a couple of inches, so it sticks up like a crest and won’t tangle in anything. Nomad’s mane hasn’t been battle-short since last summer, but it’s time once again.
The Cornish squire, the one with the white patches on his skin, Ibrahim, saunters over to Nomad with a few spare pieces of ribbon. While Iain combs Nomad’s mane, the other squire starts to braid his tail. Iain stops working and walks over to watch. The other squire doesn’t say anything, just slows his braiding down enough so Iain can understand. He demonstrates to Iain how to loop and wrap the braid up to create a blunt bob that will protect the delicate cartilage of the horse’s tail, making it less likely to snag or be broken in battle. Then, before Iain can thank him or become embarrassed, the other squire turns and leaves.
Iain sits on the cart for the rest of the morning, his eyes never leaving Harry as he fights a mock mêlée. Then Harry moves up the field and Iain waits in position by the list as the knights break a few slow, warmup lances on each other. Well, everyone else is taking warmup runs. Harry is hitting at close to his tournament pace. He knows that his advice to Iain applies just as much to himself: play it slow, don’t let them know your real skill or speed. But he can feel Iain’s gaze burning into him as he jousts, and he wants to be worthy of it.
He wants Iain to be impressed with him above all other knights.
He shakes his head, and fights the urge to put it in the way of Rabbie’s mace. He’ll be riding up and asking for Iain’s favour next, to wear into battle. What a concept. His squire’s favour.
(It would be something pale blue, he thinks. A scrap of ribbon he could wear around his wrist, where nobody would know.)
He growls at his own folly and grabs a lance, turning Nomad to square up against Sir Malachi. He shuts everything out of his head but the feel of the horse beneath him, the thunder of the hooves, the jarring impact of the other knight’s lance on his shield. He prays the force of the blow is enough to knock the stupid out of him.
Both their lances shatter, and both of them manage to stay on their horses. There’s a light applause from the watching knights, the claps ringing like small bells as mailed hands are brought together.
When the knights finish and the squires remove their armour, Rabbie’s servants bring them small beer and bread and cold meats to eat, and the knights lean against the fence to watch their squires fight. They have the boys fight on foot the first day, in mail shirts and padded jackets and helmets, to make sure they’re safe. Most range in age from sixteen through to Rolly’s nineteen, but Sir Gervase’s squire is only fourteen and, though he’s come up like Harry from paging at a young age, nobody wants to see the lad hurt.
Rabbie throws a blue banner over the fence at one end of the mêlée enclosure and a red banner at the other, and sorts the squires into teams of three. The first team to seize the other team’s banner wins.
Iain’s team is Sir Gervase’s boy and Sir Malachi’s squire Ibrahim, and they’re against Rabbie’s squire Mark, Sir Hugh’s squire Rolly (who will be made knight this year, most likely) and Sir Morien’s squire Tristan.
Harry scratches the stubble on his cheek. It’s not a good matchup. The other team are all older, stronger, and have years more experience. Rolly, a big, strawberry-blond lad with a broken nose and freckles all over his face and arms, was Harry’s nemesis in the squire contests of past years. And Mark’s a sadistic, ruthless bastard. Iain’s the only one with any size and force on his team, and Harry had instructed him to lose. He knows how he’d turn the stakes and win using Iain’s team, but he’s not allowed to coach Iain. The squires have to learn on their own.
Harry feels Iain’s eyes on him. Harry very deliberately looks to Gervase’s little squire, who is all legs and arms like a young colt, and then to the red banner that is their team’s goal, then back to Iain.
Iain makes an infinitesimal nod of his head, and turns away.
‘We betting?’ says Rabbie.
‘Yes,’ says Harry.
‘Not going to enjoy taking your money, Harry, seeing as you’re already in hock to the Baron,’ Rabbie snorts. ‘But I’m going to do it anyway.’
As the teams of squires assemble at opposite ends of the enclosure, in front of the banners they are guarding, the knights and onlookers engage in a spirited exchange of odds.
Mark’s team is the favourite, three to one.
‘Make ready!’ yells Rabbie.
The squires shoulder their shields and raise their swords.
‘Go!’
Iain howls something blood-curdling in Gaelic and runs directly at his opponents, sword too high to parry, shield too low to block. Twelve stone of disorganised, suicidal Scottish fury, who thinks he can barrel through the other team straight to the red banner.
The knights leaning against the fence snort and shake their heads.
‘Oh, your Scotsman’s going to go down so hard,’ Sir Gervase gasps. ‘Odsbodkins, and then Eddie’s going to get walloped.’
Eddie, Sir Gervase’s little squire, follows Iain, as does Ibrahim. Their team looks a mess. Ibrahim comes in on the side, wanting to help Iain, but Eddie hangs back, fearful of getting involved in the messy encounter he can see playing out in front of him.
Rolly and Mark look at each other, grinning with bloodlust, and break into their own run, converging on Iain. Tristan looks to edge around the side, but is blocked by Ibrahim. They know each other well, and
