‘Alys,’ Harry groans. This woman. She mixes him up so badly. Then he sags. ‘You’re right. It isn’t fair.’
‘I will think about it. There are considerations,’ she says, her chin high. Then, more quietly, she adds, ‘On both our sides, I’d hazard.’
She pats Harry’s arm. ‘I enjoyed our chat. Good luck tomorrow,’ she says. Then she beckons to her handmaiden, and they walk back towards Arundel’s tent, leaving a perplexed Harry in their wake.
The tournament begins well. Half the knights in the mêlée are sporting ferocious hangovers, courtesy of the Earl of Arundel, and Harry manages to hit Rabbie so hard he is unhorsed in the first moments. He’s carried out, unconscious, by his new squire. Harry is also ahead by several lances at the end of the initial day of jousting.
That afternoon, Iain destroys the competition in the bohort, making it to the finals. What he still lacks in technical finesse, he makes up for with speed and an absolute, unhesitating ferocity. It’s thrilling to watch, and Harry secretly thinks the squires’ foot-combats are more exciting than the knights’ mounted ones.
That opinion isn’t shared. The bohort is usually attended only by the knights whose squires compete, but Iain’s final match against Sir Hugh’s squire Rolly attracts a real crowd. Both squires are tired; both have been fighting in nearly constant bouts for the past three hours, and Harry knows exactly how heavy a broadsword feels at that point.
Harry also knows that this, in the finals, is when the fighting gets extremely tactical. You can’t waste strength because you don’t have it left to waste. If you overextend yourself early in a futile chase for a quick win, you’re then too tired to defend properly. This is the habit Harry fears Iain will lapse back into, and as the match begins, it’s exactly what Iain does. It’s a bad tactic, and it only works against bad fighters.
Rolly’s not a bad fighter. Harry has lost to Rolly in the past.
Harry’s heart is in his throat as he watches Iain rush Rolly, driving him back with a flurry of hard hits. Rolly parries them all, losing ground with it, and Harry shakes his head. Iain’s using too much force. He’s going for the kill with every hit, even the ones he knows Rolly will parry. He’s going to exhaust himself and all Rolly has to do is wait for him to slow. Iain still fails to see the point in tactical retreats, so when Rolly does strike, Iain has only his parry to save him.
Harry wants to glare at Iain, but he knows it’s useless at best and match-losingly distracting at worst.
Three body or head hits, that’s what they have to get. First to three wins.
‘Eesh,’ breathes a voice next to him, where there wasn’t one before. Harry glances over. The Earl of Arundel is leaning on the fence, his shoulder touching Harry’s, watching the match. ‘Protecting my investment,’ the Earl mutters. ‘Your boy going to pull through? And which one is he, again? The pants-shittingly terrifying one, or the one that—’
‘Hit,’ cries out the steward judging the match.
‘The terrifying one,’ Harry sighs.
‘The one that just got a strike against him,’ the Earl says.
‘He’ll come back from it,’ Harry says, but fear begins to eat at his stomach.
Iain doesn’t change his tactics in the next round. Harry wants to punch something, very possibly Iain. He can see the fatigue starting to sap Iain’s speed and strength. Rolly’s tiring too, but not as quickly as Iain. God damn it, Iain, Harry thinks. You’re better than this. I taught you better than this.
Iain disengages from one of Rolly’s parries and tries to trap Rolly’s blade, running up the inside of it. But Rolly must sense a weakness as he just smashes Iain’s blade down and, before Iain can get up his guard again, he scores a hard hit against the side of Iain’s helmet.
Iain staggers backwards.
After calling the hit, the steward asks Iain if he’s able to continue. Iain’s wavering on his feet, looking like he’s barely able to keep standing. He doesn’t respond. The steward repeats the question.
‘This isn’t good, Lyon,’ the Earl mumbles.
Iain puts his hand up, and nods. He will continue. He raises his sword, shakily.
There’s a collective exhale from the crowd and a smattering of applause.
Rolly shrugs and raises his sword. He knows it’s over. Everyone knows it’s over.
Everyone except Iain.
Rolly strides forwards, using Iain’s own tactics against him: rushing him, driving him back with hard blows that give him no time to recover. Iain, to his credit, actually retreats. Then Rolly brings his sword down in a high, overhead chop, and Harry can tell he’s put all his strength and momentum into it. It’s the kind of hit that breaks swords. And people.
But it doesn’t land.
There’s the thunderous crash of steel on steel, and then Rolly is stepping backwards, stumbling. Iain had not only parried the overhead hit with some unforeseen reserve of strength, he’d kicked Rolly in the stomach at the same time. Then, snake-quick, he steps forwards and thwacks Rolly hard on the right elbow with the flat of his sword. Rolly’s sword falls out of his grasp onto the ground at the same time as Iain’s first hit lands on his body.
The steward marks the hit. It’s customary to separate if both parties are armed, but if one has lost his weapon, the other squire is free to press his advantage. It’s not polite, it’s not chivalrous, but it’s also not against the rules. Somewhat like booting your opponent in the stomach.
Iain kicks Rolly’s sword away and keeps advancing. And Harry sees the moment Rolly realises he’s lost. To the squire’s credit, he doesn’t draw it out, or pretend he can make a comeback. He just sinks down on one knee in front of Iain and bows his head.
Iain gently touches his sword to Rolly’s right shoulder, twice. The steward calls the hits, and announces, ‘The winner, Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, squire
