So Harry smiles and waves and exchanges pleasantries, and Iain finds Lords Michael, Magnus and Morris, and gives Harry’s bona fides. Harry is with the King’s Insiders for the mêlée, while Rabbie and Montagu are with the Outsiders. And something petty in Harry is deeply pleased he’ll have the chance to knock Ufford around the head a few times.
Finally, night falls, and for the first time in what feels like months, he and Iain are alone. Or, they have the illusion of being alone, in the late-spring evening, thin walls of striped canvas keeping the rest of the world at bay for a few short hours. There’s a moment where they just look at each other, almost in disbelief, as the crickets begin to sing in the night. Then the moment breaks, and they come together.
The sex, the first sex, is hard and fast, nothing more than two people satisfying a burning need as quickly and as silently as they can. Harry wants to shout as he comes inside Iain, shooting into him, filling him, but instead he muffles his cry of pleasure into the soft skin of Iain’s neck.
The second time is slower, waking up after a post-coital doze to kiss and feel and stroke, to relearn each other’s bodies. Harry moves Iain’s hand down between his legs, asking a silent question. Iain just groans, soft and quiet, as he feels Harry’s hole beneath his fingers. He leans down and kisses Harry, and begins to open him up. And later, when Harry is almost bent in two, gasping, so full of Iain it hurts, Iain fucks him so calmly, so completely and methodically, continually pulling him back from orgasm, that it takes him an hour before Iain finally lets him come.
Harry can still feel it the next day, as he pours a bucket of water over himself and then dresses in his court clothes to see the Earl of Arundel and his ward. Alys isn’t in, but the Earl invites him to dinner. ‘And bring that squire of yours as well,’ the Earl says with a wink.
‘Alas, he’ll be too busy preparing for tomorrow,’ Harry demurs. He hasn’t told Iain about his plans, or about his fondness for Alys. He should, and he will eventually, but not now. He has a pretty good guess how Iain will react.
Harry has to win this tournament. And he can’t keep the focus he needs to win, if Iain is the throes of furious jealousy.
Harry knows it’s not a good thing that he does, to either Alys or Iain. But ultimately it’s not about them. It’s about survival for the people of Dartington. He will be truthful with both of them, but later. After the tournament.
Harry realises the Earl has asked him a question. ‘Hm?’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘He competing, your Scottish boy?’ the Earl says.
‘Yes,’ answers Harry.
‘Is he going to win the squires’?’
Harry smirks. ‘We’re both going to win.’ And then another plan, on the fly, forms in his head. ‘If you’re a betting man, I’d take note of that.’
The Earl grins. ‘I am, and I will. Half the profit to you if the pair of you pull it off. Never heard of a knight and his squire both topping the lists.’
Harry bows. ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ he says as he leaves.
Iain is polishing armour when he returns to their pavilion. The boy looks up and grins lasciviously at Harry’s court clothes. ‘I like you in hose,’ he says, and Harry can feel the blush rise to his cheeks.
‘I did something,’ Harry says. Iain raises an eyebrow at him. ‘You have to win the bohort,’ he continues. ‘At any cost. I’ve asked the Earl of Arundel to bet on us. If we both win, we’ll have enough to start rebuilding the manor.’
‘Harry,’ Iain breathes, warily. Burstwick is a smaller tournament than the southern ones of the winter, with many of the fashionable Home Counties knights not willing to make the trip. But in their place are tough Northern knights, experienced in real border warfare against the Scots and the Welsh.
‘We can do this, Iain,’ Harry says, with a confidence he doesn’t entirely feel. ‘I, I have a back-up plan too, but we can do this.’
Iain smiles up at him and runs a hand up his leg, appreciating the way the thin woollen knit clings to his muscles. Harry’s eyes flutter closed, but then he steps away as he feels a spark of interest in his groin.
‘Iain, no, I have to go to dinner with Arundel, I can’t,’ he stutters. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, leaning down to brush a kiss over Iain’s lips. As he does, his long-tailed liripipe comes unwrapped from around his shoulders and the soft wool falls across Iain’s face.
Iain wrinkles his nose and snorts in amusement as Harry flails. ‘Oh, fuck this,’ Harry grumbles, trying to right the ridiculous garment. ‘Fuck these clothes.’
‘I was trying,’ Iain mumbles, faux-grumpy, ‘but you stopped me.’ He flows to his feet with that easy grace of his, and with a few gestures manages to arrange the hood properly. Then he takes Harry by the shoulders and presses his lips to Harry’s, in a kiss that’s more than half smile. ‘Go and charm the Earl, Harry, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
Harry snorts in mock derision. ‘He wanted you to come too, by the way.’
‘No thank you,’ Iain says, his tone decisive.
Harry kisses the line of tension that’s appeared on Iain’s forehead. ‘I already sent him your regrets.’
Arundel’s supper is an awkward meeting of the two great factions at court, and they all react to it by drinking too much. Bar the King, still to arrive, nearly all the major nobles at the tournament are there: Percy, Morley, the Bohuns, John of Eltham, even Montagu. And goddamn Rabbie Ufford, who grins at Harry and lifts his glass to him in a mocking toast. Harry’s cheeks burn with fury but he doesn’t react, beyond a slight
