Both boys strip down in front of their tent. They hang their shirts off the guy-ropes so the rain washes the mud off, and they do the best to rub the dirt off their skin. Harry has to avert his eyes, because Iain’s body glistening with rain, his muscles heaving from their workout, is more than he can bear. He notes from the corner of his eyes that Iain looks away too, and feels a petty thrill of victory at that.
But there’s nowhere to hide once they’re in the tent.
And there’s nothing to do but sit and wait out the rain. They finish off the last of the food from the journey, old bread and hard cheese, and then swaddle themselves up in their cloaks for a snooze. It’s still early morning; the call of sleep is strong.
Harry wakes up a short while later to another rhythm underneath the beating of the rain on the tent canvas. He and Iain have homed in on each other in sleep again, and are lying back to back, sharing warmth.
And Iain is pleasuring himself, as silently as he can.
Harry grips the waxed canvas of the pallet, and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s all he can hear now, the soft sound of Iain’s hand over his cock. And he wants, God how he wants, to turn around and bracket Iain’s hips with his thighs, and say no, let me, and pull Iain’s broad back into his chest and reach down between his legs, and kiss his neck and run the fingers of his other hand over Iain’s nipples, already hard in the cold air, and Iain would arch against him, making those pretty sounds that he only makes for Harry—
He swears under his breath and sticks his hand down his front. His own cock is thick, twitching, demanding attention.
Iain stills at the motion. Then, as Harry starts moving his own hand, the tension bleeds out of Iain’s back and he resumes his own attentions. It feels as if there’s nothing else in existence but them, their little pavilion with its jolly white and blue stripes marking the entirety of the world; the warm, solid weight of Iain against his back is his Adam, promised to him in Eden.
And if, as they both reach their climax, the fingers of their free hands entwine, that’s nobody’s business but their own.
Sir Morien sticks his head in later, around noon, and asks if they play chess. When the answer comes in the affirmative, he invites them to his and Sir Malachi’s tent, where Sir Hugh is apparently engaged in fleecing them of their worldly possessions one game at a time. They pass a pleasant afternoon lounging in the Cornish brothers’ pavilion with the other knights and squires of the West Country, playing games and telling stories. Iain and Harry prove to be a formidable team at the chessboard, the squire’s daring balanced by the knight’s careful strategising.
The rain tails off by supper, and the morning of the tournament’s opening dawns sunny and clear. The ground is still soft but there’s little other evidence of the previous day’s downpour. Iain dresses Harry in his armour and the new, green-and-gold aketon that marks his mêlée team, then leads him out on Nomad to the main enclosure. As well as the destrier’s reins, Iain carries an extra sword, shield and helmet. Though the mêlée is fought with blunted weapons, swords still break or get knocked out of hands. The stamped bona fides are tucked in Iain’s belt, next to his dagger. Like Harry, Iain is in a mail hauberk. Over it, he wears Harry’s old surcoat. It marks him out as Harry’s squire. The sight of Iain, in his coat of arms – the Lyon star and hawks – thrills Harry more than it should.
They both halt, awestruck, as they reach the enclosure. Hastily constructed benches, their wood still green, have been built up all around the competition area. On and around them, over a thousand people are assembled to watch, with more streaming in by the moment. The far benches, across from the entrance, are the purview of the nobility. Harry can see Alys and her friends seated near Queen Philippa. Arundel and Montagu are nowhere to be seen among the spectators, which suggests they must be competing. Sir Gervase waves from a nearby bench and Harry grins, returning his salute. Sir Morien calls out too, wishing Harry bon courage et bonne chance.
Iain shows Harry’s bona fides to the steward at the entrance – it’s ceremonial, of course, but still required – and then Harry rides to the end of the enclosure where the other eleven Outsiders, in green, await him. Iain lines up behind him, along the fence with the other squires.
Harry squints against the morning sun. He can see the King, tall and fair and bearded, at the other end, with the Insiders. The short knight must be Arundel; he can hear Montagu and Rabbie; and there’s Waldegrave, old Burstbelly himself. The Bohun brothers will be trouble, though.
On his side they have Sir Hugh and Sir Malachi, and their captain is Sir Robert Morley, who Harry remembers as the champion of the great tournament in Stepney. Harry gains an immediate respect for the Norfolk knight, who minces no words, giving them each an opponent according to their ability. Morley himself will encounter the King; they are the oldest of friends and sparring partners, so he can put on a good show without actually risking injury to the monarch.
The herald steps out and announces each knight, which is the knight’s cue to ride out and salute the Queen before returning to their lines. A few knights then approach wives or lovers,
