Iain is shovelling horse manure.
His shirt’s down at his hips and he’s dirty, barefoot and stunningly beautiful. He’s singing softly to himself in French as he fills up a large bucket and prepares to carry it to the waste pile at the corner of the field.
Harry pictures Isabella, and how her servant lunged to pick up the Queen’s scarf before it could touch the unclean ground.
Before he can think about it, he has a hand on Iain’s arm and is relieving him of the stinking bucket.
‘I’ll do that for you,’ Harry says. ‘You don’t have to.’
Iain’s brow furrows. ‘Why? It’s my job.’ He reaches for the bucket, taking it back. ‘Besides, you’re wearing your nice clothes and it’s also my job to wash them.’
‘No. It’s— you shouldn’t,’ Harry stutters. ‘I’ll wash them from now on.’ He grabs for the bucket again. ‘Give me that. It’s beneath—’
Iain’s eyes widen in realisation, then a look of misery comes over his face. ‘Harry …’ he sighs, putting down the bucket.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says.
Iain looks up, his eyes icy. ‘Who?’
Harry groans. ‘Alys. I think Arundel worked it out. They didn’t tell me, so much as they gave me the ability to work it out for myself. God’s blood, Iain, I …’ He starts to sink down on one knee.
Iain looks around, panicked, and grabs Harry’s arm, pulling him up. ‘No, Harry. Get up. Harry, please. People are staring.’ He hauls Harry back on his feet then pulls him close, whispering in his ear. ‘You’ve stuck your dick in me. The only reason you should be on your knees in front of me is if we’re having sex. Just … ignore it, I beg you. Nothing’s changed. Nothing.’
‘But … why are you my squire?’ Harry says. ‘You could have run away, at Plymouth. Got a boat across the Channel. You’re cleaning horseshit, when you could …’ Harry gestures to the southeast, towards France.
Iain tilts his head and looks at Harry in profound annoyance. Then he sighs and gives Harry a shove. ‘If you’re too stupid to understand why, there’s no point in my telling you.’ Then he picks up the bucket again. ‘I’m going to dump our horseshit on the big manure mountain now, and when I come back, please have made up your mind whether you want to leave this afternoon, or tomorrow morning.’
He stomps off, muttering to himself in Gaelic.
‘Iain—’ Harry says.
He just grunts and makes a rude gesture at Harry, shit-pail clanging against his leg as he walks.
There’s such a press of people on the roads leaving the tournament that Harry decides to postpone their departure until the following day. The once vast and prosperous pavilion city is now a much diminished settlement, with only a score of tents left up. Iain disappears with Kit’s hunting bow and returns, bathed and bearing two fat trout, which they cook over a campfire.
Harry says little, and Iain as ever is content in silence.
Internally, though, Harry is overwhelmed by an avalanche of worry. As soon as he finds his footing on one subject, the floor is yanked from under him and there is suddenly further to fall, more to figure out. It was bad enough realising he is in love with his squire. In deciding that, amidst this world of murder, deceit and betrayal, he would no longer flagellate himself for a sin based in love.
But no. It can get worse.
He’s in love with a prince, a person who, when the natural order of things snaps back into place (which it will, it always does), will be so far above his station he might as well exist on the moon.
If Harry doesn’t foil Montagu’s plan, something terrible will happen to Iain, he’s sure of it. If he does foil Montagu’s plan, Iain will ascend back to his royal status. Whatever choice Harry makes, he’ll lose Iain. As much as he wants to believe the heartfelt words of the boy who got on one knee and pledged himself to Harry at Christmas, he knows that boy will grow up, and inherit a world that is so much bigger than Dartington.
Harry is twitchy and restless that night. About an hour after they’ve supposedly settled down to sleep, Iain decides he’s had enough. He sighs operatically and climbs on top of Harry, pinning him down everywhere but his chest, where he carefully avoids putting weight on Harry’s wounded ribs.
‘Stop it,’ Iain grumbles.
‘I can’t,’ Harry says. ‘God’s teeth, you’re a prince.’
Iain groans and flops down next to him. ‘Yes. Isabella’s my aunt, Edward’s my cousin. No, none of them have ever met me; if the French allowed the monarchy to pass down the female side I’d be first in line to be king, but they don’t, so I’m not. Instead I’m penniless, landless and the squire to a great Sassenach idiot who pays too much attention to heraldic bullshit.’
Then Iain gasps and sticks his face in Harry’s, grinning. ‘Harry. Can you imagine? Lord Morris would brick himself. I show up and give him my full lineage; find that in your book, Lord Magnus. The poor old bat would keel over.’
Harry snorts. ‘Iain, don’t abuse the heraldry clerks. Without them, English knighthood would fall apart.’
‘The first step in my war of vengeance,’ Iain hisses. ‘Actually, no,’ he adds, in a normal tone of voice. ‘They’re exempt from vengeance, for reasons of decent Latin.’
‘His wrath was mighty,
