‘Exactly,’ Iain says.
Harry shakes his head and fidgets.
‘What now?’ Iain groans.
‘I … have had a lot of sex with a member of the French royal family,’ Harry says.
‘I wouldn’t say a lot of sex,’ grumbles Iain. ‘More like not enough.’ He grins, pressing his groin into Harry’s. ‘This member likes your member awfully much.’
‘I love you,’ Harry says.
Iain freezes at that, his eyes widening.
Harry begins to sob. ‘I loved you before and I love you now and I’m going to lose you.’
‘Wait, what?’ Iain says. ‘Where did that come from? I’m not going anywhere, Harry.’ He sits back on Harry’s thighs and starts rubbing his hands up and down Harry’s sides, as if calming a spooked horse.
Harry presses into the touch, desperate. ‘I should have told you earlier. I was so scared. Montagu … Montagu knows about us.’ Harry sighs. ‘I feel like the world is constantly stacking odds against us.’
‘I don’t care. We’ll beat them,’ Iain says, pressing his lips to Harry’s forehead, at the furrows of stress there. ‘I choose to be here with you, Harry. If it comes out publicly who I am, then I will have to go away for a while to take care of some things, but listen to me.’ He takes Harry’s face in his hands and holds him there, gazing into his eyes, deadly serious. ‘I will always come back to you. Always. Even if I have to drag myself out of the grave to do it.’
Harry squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Don’t joke about that.’
‘I know,’ Iain breathes, as he leans his forehead against Harry’s. ‘Ssh. Next month I’ll be eighteen. And after that we’ll start planting the bean fields, and worrying about the lambing. Then there’s the tournament in Burstwick. I’ll be with you, if you’ll have me.’
Harry shakes his head. ‘You’re ridiculous. Of course I’ll have you. You’re all I want. But you could have so much more, Iain.’
‘You stood by me when I had nothing,’ Iain says. Then he smirks. ‘Besides, my side of the family has a glorious tradition of doing stupid things for love.’
‘Only a prince would have the gall to throw everything away for another man,’ Harry says.
‘Or a pig-boy,’ Iain replies. ‘Wat nearly threw down his life for Peter.’
‘But those in the middle,’ Harry says, feeling tears begin to prick at his eyes again, ‘we can’t. We’re stuck with halls and responsibilities, and the need for heirs …’
Iain rolls onto his back and snuggles in close to Harry. ‘I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what to do.’ His voice, when he next speaks, is rough with emotion. ‘I never wanted to assert my claim to France, but I’d do it, if it meant we could be together.’ He snorts. ‘King of a country I don’t even remember. What a joke.’
‘You’re already king of a country,’ Harry says, tracing his finger down Iain’s face, those glorious cheekbones, that strong jaw. ‘A very small one, comprising a simple country knight, and his sword, and his heart.’
‘Mm,’ Iain says, leaning forwards to kiss Harry. ‘My lands are of surpassing beauty,’ he murmurs, running his fingers appreciatively down Harry’s body. His nails scratch through Harry’s pubic hair. ‘The fields golden, and the monuments—’ his hand circles Harry’s soft cock, which begins to plump under his touch— ‘impressive.’
Harry presses his eyes shut, and whispers, ‘Please.’
‘And when I am away from my country, which I love with all my heart,’ Iain says, throwing his leg over Harry so he can straddle him, ‘I am diminished, and sour, and must content myself with the work of mine own hands, which are cold comfort, compared to the warm embrace of my home.’
Nine
February–July 1334: Empire of the Senses
Harry shivers as Iain runs strong, rough hands up his chest. He shuts his eyes, giving in to the sensation. The night is silent but for the occasional low call of an owl, and the crackle-and-pop of campfires by the few remaining pavilions. But for Harry there is no world outside the striped canvas of their little tent, nobody exists except him and the man above him, straddling his thighs.
Iain’s lips ghost along his jaw, from chin to earlobe, and then he whispers, ‘Don’t suppose you brought that oil?’
Harry shakes his head. ‘I wasn’t … I thought I could …’ Then he opens his eyes and looks up at Iain. ‘I was an idiot who thought ignoring love could make it go away.’
Iain bites his neck, sending a jolt of pleasure straight down to Harry’s groin. ‘My idiot,’ Iain growls. ‘Crazy person befriending boys in cages.’
Then Iain’s weight is off Harry’s legs. Harry can hear him rustling in one of their travelling bags, hung from the tent’s wooden frame to keep dry. He wishes it were daylight, or they still had more than the small night-lamp lit, as even what he can see in the dark of Iain’s back and thighs is breathtaking.
Iain makes a small, happy noise in his throat and then suddenly he’s straddling Harry again, reaching for his right hand. ‘Luckily, I am a well-prepared squire and stable-hand, and brought oil for the tack.’ There’s the quiet pop of a cork unstoppered, and then Harry feels a cool wetness on his fingers, and the sharp, neutral smell of the liquid. He can hear the smile in Iain’s voice. ‘Among other things.’
Harry shudders, his desire vibrating through him like a plucked lute string. His fingers ghost up Iain’s inner thigh, over his balls, soft and heavy, and then around his cock, feeling it twitch and stiffen in his grip. Iain gasps, pushing his hips forwards slightly, trying to get Harry to begin fingering him. But Harry ignores him, and continues stroking him to hardness. He doesn’t even need to touch himself. The quiet noises coming out of Iain’s mouth, half impatient grumbles and half involuntary little whimpers and moans, already have Harry hard and leaking.
Finally Iain grabs Harry’s hand and places it where he
