Harry sags against Libby’s shoulder. So much for making Dartington proud.
He feels more than sees Iain next to him, also gazing out over the sea of gaily striped tents. Iain leans in, bumping Harry’s shoulder with his own. ‘Lot of knights,’ Iain says.
Harry looks over, shocked. That’s more words than Iain’s said the entire journey. Iain catches his eye and smirks, bumping his shoulder again. ‘You’re better,’ he says.
‘I— I’m not—’ Harry stutters, but Iain just shoves past him.
‘Tent’s not going to set up itself,’ Iain mutters, beginning to unload the cart.
Harry grabs the pole and braces it as Iain hammers the iron pegs that will hold it in place. ‘This isn’t a tournament, it’s a party,’ Iain comments. ‘Most of these idiots are only here to be seen to be here.’
He stands up. ‘C’mon, Harry, how many do you recognise as serious competition? Which ones do you think practised all last week?’
Harry furrows his brow and looks out over the field again. The Bohuns, they can have good days and bad days. Arundel doesn’t joust, not really. Montagu doesn’t either. If that’s Henry de Beaumont’s flag he can see near the end, he’s fierce, but getting older. Morley’s there, and he’s a perennial champion, probably the best knight in the land. Some of Montagu’s Galloway gang is there: Colin Crocker and Billy Lang are solid but not great. Lord Waldegrave’s a joke, cruel and cretinous. Thomas Howland can impress—
A memory of Galloway flashes up in Harry’s mind: Howland cleaving a serving-maid’s head in. How she fell slowly to her knees on the flagstones as if in prayer, the wet grey mass of her brain shining with blood and fragments of skull in the torchlight. Harry shivers, and has to swallow down the bile that rises in his throat.
He turns his gaze towards other parts of the field, away from Montagu’s archipelago of sycophants, and focuses on cataloguing the heraldic devices of the knights attending.
Iain is right. Out of the whole field, there are maybe a dozen knights who are serious competition.
‘It’s still going to be tough,’ Harry says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
Iain’s watching him, and smiles when he sees Harry relax. ‘Everything worth doing is tough.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry mutters.
Iain shrugs and turns back to his work. ‘Some Sassenach idiot’s been giving me pep talks. Apparently they’re contagious.’
Harry snickers, and bumps his shoulder. ‘We should go and present our bona fides and see who’s actually signed up to compete.’
They finish with the tent and amble over to the check-in area set up at one end of the field, joining a queue of knights and squires in front of a long table, at which sit a trio of elderly men in the King’s scarlet-and-lions uniform. As they wait, Harry explains the process to Iain: these are the heraldry clerks, the Three Fates of knightly combat. The first writes down the name, lineage and coat of arms of the knight on a piece of paper; the second checks it against a large book listing the legitimate knights of England and stamps it good or denied; the third copies the name of the approved entrant onto the lists and tells the knight his schedule. Harry thinks sometimes that the book is just for show; the old clerks know every English knight on sight, and every single one knows them.
When Harry reaches the front, he gives his name, coat of arms and the date of his knighthood. The first clerk squints at him. ‘Ah, Sir Simon’s squire, got your belt young! Good lad you were, nice manners,’ he says. ‘And this is a new face,’ he continues, waving the feather end of his quill at Iain. ‘Scottish,’ he frowns. ‘Don’t get many of those.’ He turns to the second clerk. ‘Magnus, we have a listing for the Scottish quality?’
‘Michael, there is no Scottish quality,’ the second clerk grumbles.
Harry squeezes Iain’s arm and says, ‘Well, I assure you he is. Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, and I’d like him put down for the bohort.’
‘If we dealt on assurances, m’boy, I’d be assuring everyone I’m the Queen of Bohemia,’ mutters Magnus.
The third clerk leans over. ‘Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, of … ? You know the rules, Harry, if we wanted to see peasants fight, we’d hold our tournaments outside taverns. Speak up, boy. Who are your parents?’
Iain goes very still, and speaks quietly. ‘Maíl Coluim mac Lochlann, Laird of Galloway Forest. Of Castle Doon. Although I’m laird, now, technically.’
‘No mother?’ says Michael. ‘We can’t take him if he’s a bastard, Sir Harry.’
‘Perhaps the boy was born like Athena, right out of his father’s headache. But I doubt it,’ sighs Magnus. ‘Still, quite a sight, if he was.’
‘I’m not a bastard,’ Iain growls. ‘My mother was French, and is not in your book.’
‘Isn’t Lord of Galloway Forest enough?’ Harry groans.
The third clerk hums. ‘Balliol’s Lord of Galloway Forest now,’ says the man. ‘He won’t shut up about it. Personally I think the Scots’ll throw him out before the year’s done, just for the peace and quiet. Sign the boy up, Michael.’
Aside from being the final arbiters of England’s knightly worth, the clerks could also be the most wicked gossips in the land.
The third clerk hands them their stamped bona fides and says, ‘Sir Harry, you’re in the opening mêlée the day after tomorrow, on the outside, against the King’s Insiders. Congratulations. Is your coat of arms on your banner, and your banner on your pavilion?’
‘Yes, Lord Morris,’ Harry says, his heart loud in his chest. That’s far better positioning than he’d dare dream.
‘Good. There’ll be a man by in the morning with your jacket. Best of luck to you and the new squire,’ the clerk says, already turning to the next knight in line.
Rather than go back to the tent, Harry drags Iain to the market area outside the knights’ enclosure, babbling excitedly to him about how
