Mark plants himself in Iain’s path, raising his sword for a hell of a blow to the side of Iain’s helmet. Rolly crouches behind his own shield slightly in front of Mark and to his left, hoping to make Iain swing early, while denying him space to use his sword arm. The setup is fast, well co-ordinated, and comes together with all the elegance of a steel trap at the exact moment Iain can no longer dodge it.
Harry’s not breathing. Any moment now there’ll be the most horrific clash of steel.
‘No wonder Halidon Hill was a slaughter,’ mutters Sir Morien.
But they’d all assumed Iain was trying to hit Mark with his sword, like a normal person. Harry sees the shift just before it happens and he grabs the fence so hard he feels splinters jab into his fingers.
Iain is insane. It’s beautiful.
Iain leaps and twists, slamming into Mark at full speed like a battering ram, and almost casually back-handing Rolly in the neck with his blunt sword as he smashes his shield into Mark’s face. They go down in a heap, the three of them, and then it descends into a tavern brawl. Iain’s holding Mark down and punching him, and Rolly is thumping Iain, trying to make him let go, to make them separate enough that their swords will be useful. And then Iain starts laughing.
Because there, standing over them and shifting nervously from foot to foot, is little Eddie, with a wad of balled-up red cloth in his hands.
Tristan curses and throws his sword at Ibrahim, who smiles and shrugs, and goes to help Iain up. Iain’s face is bloody but he’s grinning with a savage glee.
Rabbie’s jaw drops open. ‘That cunning little bastard,’ he growls.
‘Pay up,’ says Harry.
The next morning, Iain is waiting at the field when Harry and the knights arrive. Nomad is brushed, bobbed and tacked up at his post, and Harry’s armour is laid out neatly on top of the cart. Harry’s chest feels too small to contain his heart at the sight, and he falls behind Sir Gervase for a moment, to twist his fingers around his sword belt and collect himself.
Iain’s hands are still rough when he puts the armour on Harry, but his touch is sure and efficient. Harry mutters a few instructions – the chausses a hole tighter; the greaves a little looser – but mostly leaves him to it.
Then Harry flips over both the shields and shows Iain how to look for damage. ‘You do this every night, after cleaning and polishing the armour,’ he explains. ‘The shields will wear over time, and if you see any of the cracks changing or increasing, it’s time to replace the shield. If you’re not sure, mark them with a bit of charcoal. It will all seem pointless until you see a shield fail at a tournament. The knight usually dies.’ He peers at the back of the practice shield he’d used yesterday, fingering a join in the wood. ‘This crack bothers me,’ he mutters. ‘I’d swear it’s bigger than it was before.’
Iain stands there, silent, his bright eyes taking it all in.
The knights fight a mounted mêlée that morning, three on three. Harry feels he does well. Sir Hugh is his favourite opponent. The older knight is slow but cunning, with a great tactical mind. The jousts after dinner are more intense, faster, more violent than the easy warmup of the day before. He gets knocked off his horse by Sir Morien, the other knight’s lance-tip swinging inwards at the last moment and catching on the edge of Harry’s shield where he is less able to absorb the blow. One moment he’s focused on his own lance and then bang, darkness, and he’s on the ground. Iain’s by his side in a moment, Nomad’s reins looped over his arm, pulling Harry up to his feet.
Sir Morien trots his horse up. ‘Sorry about that. Felt off target to me.’
‘No,’ says Harry, rubbing his backside. ‘It was a fair lance. I just didn’t catch it very well.’
He’s sharply pulled away from Sir Morien by Iain’s hands, which roam over him, checking for injuries. ‘Iain,’ he mutters, his throat suddenly thick. ‘We have to clear the field. I didn’t break anything, trust me.’ He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t push Iain’s hands away.
In the afternoon, the squires fight one on one, rotating around in short bouts with each of the others. Mark is sporting a black eye and a split cheek, and he clearly has it in for Iain. Iain loses his bout with Mark deliberately, slowly retreating and letting Mark show his bad habits, his favourite attacks. Harry isn’t sure whether the loss to Rolly is deliberate or not; Rolly is good, probably the best of the squires, and even though Iain is fast, Rolly doesn’t have to consciously think through tactics the way Iain still does. Ibrahim gives him a surprising amount of trouble, too – there’s not much power in him, but there’s a lot of speed, and Iain as always relies too much on his offence. Ibrahim’s a perfect opponent for Iain to have this early on; through sparring with the Cornish squire, Iain learns all the raggedy holes in his own technique. He simply out-reaches Eddie, who’s all defence, and runs over Tristan, who is more interested in making swords clash than in hitting his man.
Harry and the other knights applaud their squires, and Rabbie announces that the squires will fight mounted the next afternoon, so to have a horse ready.
Harry sits with Iain for a while as he cleans armour and tack, and checks the shield and everything else for signs of wear. He’s not sure Iain is listening – the man is still barely speaking, to him or anyone else – but he goes through Iain’s bouts, talking quietly about his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, what Iain did
