To see—
He watches as Iain pales, his luminescent blue eyes widening in horror. That Harry of all people should think this of him.
Harry wants to take the words back, catch them and stuff them into his mouth and swallow them down like a handful of wasps.
But he can’t.
He knows he deserves the punch that Iain lands on his stomach, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. He stumbles across the tent, backwards, trying to catch his breath, and his foot connects with something metal that falls over with a klank.
Harry glances down. It’s Sir Hugh’s practice kit, neatly piled. Padded jackets, plain helmets, blunted swords. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Iain advancing on him, fists balled, murder in his eyes.
Harry flings a padded jacket at him. Iain catches it, and the helmet that comes after it.
‘Outside. Now,’ Harry barks, grabbing a helmet of his own. ‘We finish this.’
In retrospect, the middle of the pavilion field, in the narrow areas between tents, wasn’t the smartest place for them to take out their anger on each other. But both he and Iain are beyond good sense. There is only the bottomless fury that comes from a betrayal of love.
Neither of them holds back. Harry knew it was going to be that sort of fight, from the moment he slapped Iain, from when Iain slammed his fist into Harry’s stomach with the full power of his muscular frame. Harry honestly doesn’t know what’s going to happen when one of them wins, whether it will really settle anything at all. Because part of him still wants to knock Iain’s sword out of his hand, shove him down, and grind on him until he comes.
That quickly gets ruled out as a possibility. It’s between Vespers and Compline, when everyone is drifting back to their tents for the night, and the sound of clashing blades rings loud in the calm of twilight. They draw a crowd. Two young men in peak physical condition, expert swordsmen, who know each other’s every weakness and ruthlessly exploit them. The fighting is savage, fast, and beautiful. Swords move almost swifter than the eye can see, and blows are landed with feet and fists as often as with blunted steel.
Harry hears snatches of talk from the crowd, wondering who they are, what they’re fighting about. If this is an entertainment that the King has organised. Then he hears Edward’s rich tones in response: ‘Nothing to do with us, I’m afraid.’
The King is in the crowd. Marvellous, Harry thinks. The King is watching him have a very public, armed spat with his lover. So much for his grand hopes for a triumphant Nottingham tournament.
Harry’s momentary distraction is enough for Iain to wind his leg behind Harry’s and knock him to the ground. He hits the grass and rolls, kicking out at Iain to keep him away, then springs back to his feet. He’s winded, though, and Iain can see it. Iain doesn’t let him regain his breath, relentlessly pushing his advantage and landing blows where he can to Harry’s chest, repeatedly punching the air out of him.
Somewhere in that assault, Harry loses heart for the fight.
He’s tired of everything. The politics. The drama. The way he has lied to and failed the people he loves, Iain foremost among them.
Iain whacks him in the head with his blade, and Harry sinks to his knees, discarding his sword and his helmet. You can kill a man with a blunted sword easily enough, if that man’s not wearing a helmet.
He hears the susurration of voices through the crowd as they realise who he is.
Harry bows his head and spreads his arms. If this is the end, let it come.
Whoever follows after him will probably do a better job anyway.
But the blow never comes.
Iain just grunts and shoves the point of his sword into the ground, in front of Harry, then walks away.
Harry watches Iain pace within the circle of onlookers like a wolf in a cage. He’s still wearing his helmet. Alys is right, Harry thinks idly. Iain is terrifying when he’s like this.
A woman’s voice rings out from behind them. ‘Who is this knight of England who defeats our young champion?’
Iain whirls, and rips off his helmet. Harry gasps, because he’s never seen that much hate on his face. ‘I am no knight of England,’ Iain hisses.
Harry glances over his shoulder at the plump blonde woman who had asked the question. At the rich embroidery of her azure clothing; at the thin gold circlet she wears. His heart sinks. Things, apparently, are not yet done getting worse.
Another voice from the crowd yells, ‘Have some respect for the Dowager Queen Isabella!’
Iain’s lips twist into a mocking smile as he strides towards Isabella. ‘Never. She is not my queen,’ he snarls. Harry hears the sound of two dozen swords being drawn out of scabbards as Iain looms over the Queen Mother. ‘Do you know who I am, ma tante? All your schemes lie in dust, and I am living proof.’
Isabella screams, goes white, and falls backwards in a dead faint.
The crowd dissolves into uproar. Harry is on his feet, making his way to Iain, the instinct in him screaming protect protect protect, but others are closer, and they have weapons drawn, weapons that are battlefield-sharp, and Iain raises his blunt sword and—
‘Seonaidh mac Maíl Coluim, Lord of Galloway Forest,’ comes the Earl of Arundel’s voice, cutting loud across the pandemonium. ‘Son of Marguerite of France, herself eldest child of King Philip the Fair.’
That shuts almost everyone up. Someone from the crowd yells, ‘A pretender!’ but the person is quickly shushed.
Arundel continues, pushing his way through the stunned circle of courtiers towards Iain, standing defiant in its centre. ‘A full-blooded prince of
