Alys hums, then shifts, so her back is against the tree. ‘Here is my proposal, Harry. First, I meet your boy—’
‘Iain, he’s called Iain,’ Harry says.
‘I meet Iain. We must explain this to him. If he agrees, and if he and I can get along, then you and I marry. My dowry severs your financial obligation to Montagu. Your boy goes to the King and swears fealty—’
‘Ah, that’s not likely to happen,’ says Harry.
‘Would he formally give up all claim to the French throne?’ Alys asks.
‘Yes, I believe he would,’ Harry says. ‘He doesn’t want to be king.’
‘That’s good,’ Alys breathes. Then she whispers in Harry’s ear, and he can hear the smile in her voice. ‘He’s terrifying.’
Harry melts a little. ‘I know,’ he says.
‘We need to let people know who he is,’ Alys says. ‘If he’s a secret, he’s a pawn. If he is known, then he is a considerably more powerful piece in the chessboard. And with me, you get Arundel, and his protection, as he won’t let anything happen to his beloved ward.’
‘You don’t mind if we continue to … ?’ Harry says.
‘Believe me, it would ease my anxieties greatly if you and he go at it like the clappers,’ Alys snorts. ‘Then I know you’re getting what you need from someone safe, who’s not me. That you’re not going to bring me home and then try to “change my mind” about sex.’
Alys looks at Harry, and raises an eyebrow at the grin on his face. ‘What?’ she asks.
‘It’s just …’ Harry begins. ‘When I was a child, I’d go to this pond and lie on a rock and dream of my future, of having a staunch knight as my best friend, and a noble lady to love with all my heart. And now I find myself a man, a warrior I love with all my heart, and a noble lady as my best friend.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is. Not how I expected my life to go.’
‘No. Nor mine,’ sighs Alys. ‘Yet here we are.’
Harry walks Alys and her handmaiden back to Arundel’s tent, with a promise that he will speak to Iain, and arrange a time for them to meet after the next day’s jousting.
Except Iain isn’t at Harry’s pavilion.
Harry strides back to Morley’s tent, where the party is still in full force. He looks among the squires and servants milling at its margins for the familiar broad shoulders, the dark mop of hair. But Iain’s not there, either.
He tries to calm his rising panic as he criss-crosses the pavilion field, looking for his squire. Iain wouldn’t have run, would he? Their horses are still tied up. Nothing is missing from the tent. If Iain were really escaping he would have grabbed Libby, who’s fastest, along with provisions and weapons.
Or maybe he slipped away on foot, Harry’s terror whispers. He could disappear into the tourney crowds, slipping north for the Scottish border, never to return.
Harry clutches his chest and has to grab a nearby tent’s guy rope for support. He can’t breathe. Iain’s gone. There is no forgiveness. It’s like a vice is crushing his chest. He wants to sink to the ground and curl up, but he can’t. They can’t see him like this: their champion, scared into paralysis by misplacing his squire. Nobody will help him then, if they see how weak he truly is.
Harry pulls himself up by sheer force of will alone, and reaches for the next tent rope. He’ll get to his own damn tent and curl up there, even if he has to do it by lurching from rope to rope like a drunk. Drunkenness is, after all, excusable in a knight.
And that’s when he hears it: a low moan from the other side of the canvas. From inside the tent whose support he’s clinging to for dear life.
Harry’s heart turns to lead in his chest.
He knows that moan.
He’s caused it, so many times, in so many different ways.
Harry lurches towards the tent’s entrance and throws it open.
He thought the worst thing that could happen to him was Iain leaving.
He was wrong.
Things can always be worse.
It’s Sir Hugh’s tent, Sir Hugh who is still at Morley’s party. And his squire, Rolly, the big sandy blond, is on his knees, Iain’s cock in his mouth. Iain has one hand around a jug of wine, and the other fisted in Rolly’s hair as he fucks into the boy’s mouth. He’s wearing the blue shirt Annie made him. The one that brings out his eyes.
Harry must make some sort of noise, as when his gaze rakes up Iain’s body, he finds the boy’s pale eyes, half-lidded with lust and debauchery, looking at him in unfocused amusement. Iain thrusts a few more times into Rolly’s mouth and then comes, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.
Harry is frozen in place, unable to move, hating his own cowardice, hating Iain’s stupid pride. Hating how hard he is from watching someone else defile the man he loves.
He watches as Iain reaches down and drags Rolly up, a grotesque parody of his action after their bout in Burstwick. He kisses the other boy, slow and filthy in the way only Iain can kiss, and then he looks over Rolly’s shoulder at Harry. ‘Go finish your celebrations with Lady de Morton,’ Iain slurs. ‘And leave me to finish mine.’ Rolly tenses, becoming aware of Harry, and Harry watches the muscles of Iain’s arms flex, restraining the other boy, reassuring him.
Harry is over there at the speed of thought, grabbing Rolly and shoving him away from Iain. Rolly is drunk too, babbling apologies, then falling inelegantly on his backside. Harry yanks Iain by the hair. ‘Fuck you,’ he hisses. ‘You have no idea what is going on.’
‘And whose fault is that?’ Iain growls back.
Harry slaps him across the cheek, so hard it makes his hand sting. Words, hateful words, tumble out of his mouth. ‘You savage little Scottish cur, you
