Iain continues his work, silent.
Harry sighs. ‘You’re doing well, Iain. I want you to know that.’ He hops off the cart and heads towards the hall for supper. ‘Be here at Lauds with both Nomad and Numbles ready to go. I’ll teach you how to fight on horseback.’
Harry isn’t sure, but he thinks he hears Iain grunt his assent as he walks away.
Iain arrives at the makeshift tiltyard, squinty and sleep-rumpled, as the last bell of Lauds rings across the frost-limned fields.
Harry has never wanted so badly to kiss someone in his life.
For that’s how Iain should be woken up, pressed against the trunk of an apple tree, kissed and felt up until he begins to smile, until he squirms and grumbles Lyon, no, that spot is ticklish, until his fingers weave into Harry’s hair to kiss him back.
Instead Harry puts a practice sword in his hand and tells him to get on his horse.
‘In the middle of a mêlée you’re a lot less mobile than you think on horseback,’ Harry says. ‘On the one hand, that’s good for you, because your fighting style doesn’t really encompass retreat. On the other, the lack of mobility means that you can’t pull the sort of stunt you did the first day. It’s solid technical fundamentals that will make you win on horseback, and your ability to cope with the horse, who is going to do things you don’t expect.’
Iain nods. He looks much more awake now, and Harry realises that Iain isn’t just humouring him out of some perverse sense of duty. He wants this; he enjoys it.
They don’t have a lot of time before breakfast, but there in the half-light of dawn Harry shows Iain the basics of mounted combat: left to left encounters, when shields clash and you swing across your horse to hit your opponent (or, why bad knights’ war-horses are often missing their left ear), and right to right, where it’s sword against sword. Then there’s how tactics change based on the distance between the horses. Harry talks him through other sorts of weapons: spears, crushing weapons like maces and axes. And last, he shows him some quick argybargy with the horses, how to shove or turn an opponent’s horse with your horse’s shoulder.
As they walk back to the hall afterwards, Harry claps Iain on the shoulder without thinking.
Iain puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder too, and squeezes once, before releasing it. It’s their first real touch since Christmas.
Iain doesn’t do well at his first mounted mêlée. He doesn’t do badly, but his score is at the bottom end of the squires’ group. He’s furious with himself, hissing in Gaelic like a wet cat as he slides off Numbles and strips off his shield and mail next to the cart.
‘Hey,’ Harry says.
Iain ignores him.
‘Hey!’ Harry repeats, more sharply. He grabs Iain’s shoulders and slams him against the cart. ‘No,’ he says.
Iain’s eyes are wild, and Harry braces himself, half-convinced Iain is going to swing at him.
‘Do better tomorrow,’ Harry says, stepping back.
And Iain does.
Both of them get through the week, improving every day, not in a straight line but there is forward progress. Iain survives his first afternoon jousting, which ends up being more of a lesson in how to fall off a horse. His second, he and Rolly break lances on each other and the two of them grin and whoop like they’ve just inherited the world. Harry spends a lot of time with Sir Hugh and Sir Morien, the three of them drilling hard on combinations that have Rabbie rolling his eyes with boredom and Iain watching every move they make.
Harry still reviews the lessons of each day’s combat as Iain attends to his chores, and Iain still doesn’t say a word. There’s a discomfort between them yet, as they learn to navigate around each other all over again, but Harry is incredibly grateful for Iain’s presence. It’s easier. Less lonely. Even though Iain talks little, he’s there, loving the thing that Harry loves, next to him, with him.
Then, four days after Epiphany, they start the journey to the great tournament at Dunstable.
Where he and Iain will live in a small tent together, sharing a travelling pallet at night, for a whole week.
Harry shuts his eyes and prays to Agnes, patron saint of chastity.
The road to Dunstable is packed with knights and nobles, peasants and gawkers and merchants, all streaming towards the week-long festival celebrating the victory over the Scots the summer before. Harry is glad he travelled up with the other knights from Ordlington, not just because of the way people move aside when they see six armed knights moving along the road in formation. No. Iain’s still wearing his Scottish clothes, and he’s getting more than a few sharp looks from passers-by. And, memorably, an apple core flung at his head.
They reach the festival lands after six long days on the road. Servants in the King’s colours direct them around a copse towards a pasture adjacent to the tourney field, where they’re to put up their tents.
As their party rounds the stand of oaks, Harry gasps.
There are over a hundred knights already encamped, their multicoloured banners glistening in the breeze above bright pavilions so densely packed it’s like a field of canvas flowers.
The biggest tournament Harry had competed in before this was London, three years ago, and had numbered maybe eighty knights. He slides off Libby, in shock, and just stands, looking over the vast array of tents.
He’d had delusions of winning this tournament, his first as a full, belted knight. But with a
