There’s no word of, or from, Iain.
Harry almost drops out of the September tournaments. He thinks about them with every swing of his sickle in August, with every fistful of wheat he harvests. He’s lost his stomach for fighting.
But what other chance will he have to see Iain, beyond tiltyards and mêlée fields?
Once the wheat and beans are in, he packs up the cart and heads for Guildford. Kit and Piers go with him. Neither can squire worth a damn, and he hadn’t been planning on the company, but on the morning of departure Kit gets up in the cart’s seat next to Harry and takes Numbles’ reins from his hand without a word. Piers unhitches Nomad from the back of the cart and clambers up on the big destrier.
Guildford isn’t far. Three days’ travel, four if they go slow. And it is painfully slow. Post-harvest, the roads of the South are clogged with carts of grain going to mills, markets and ports; villagers returning from helping their families harvest; and travellers heading home for Michaelmas.
With the most important event of England’s year over, the mood is one of holiday both on the road and at the tournament. It’s another Dunstable, thousands of people crowding the grounds, the field fenced off for the knights’ pavilions a gay canvas city in its own right. This tournament is short, a two-day affair, before the entire circus begins all over again in Smithfield, just outside the City of London, in two further days. The Smithfield tournament will last the rest of the month, until Michaelmas.
Harry slumps in his seat and looks over the crowd. So many faces, and yet none are the right face. They find a decent spot towards the edge of the field, and Harry leaves Kit and Piers to set up the pavilion while he goes to check in with the heraldry clerks.
Lord Michael sees him approaching and waves him to the head of the queue. Harry smiles awkwardly at the knights and lords in line as he cuts in front of them. ‘Checking in, milord,’ Harry mumbles, once he reaches the clerks’ long oak table.
‘Morris already has your paper prepared, young man,’ Lord Michael says, his sharp eyes twinkling with amusement. Then he leans forwards and pats Harry’s hand, across the table, conspiratorially. ‘You could have told us, you know,’ Lord Michael whispers. ‘Poor Magnus almost had an attack of dyscrasia—’
‘Did not,’ grumbles Lord Magnus.
‘Yes you did, you liar, don’t try to blame it on bad eggs at breakfast—’
‘No, Michael, you’re the only bad egg here—’
‘Of course we knew,’ interjects Lord Morris, waving Harry’s paper. ‘Always so charming, and held himself so well.’
‘Not like some,’ mutters Lord Magnus, glaring at a minor knight sighing dramatically at the delay in the queue.
‘Looks like Lord Franklin is going into the final mêlée again, the one nobody watches,’ Lord Morris singsongs under his breath, noting down the name of the impatient knight. ‘You’d think he’d figure out why it keeps happening, but no.’
Harry edges over to Lord Morris and takes his stamped paper. ‘Um, is he competing?’
‘Franklin? Alas, yes,’ Lord Magnus sighs. ‘Overbearing in victory, petulant in defeat. The very model of the modern chevalier.’
‘No, Iain,’ Harry says. ‘Uh. I mean, Lord Iain. My former squire. The prince.’
Lord Magnus’s eyes crinkle in delight at Harry’s discomfort. ‘We shall see,’ he says. ‘We shall see. Next!’
Harry looks at his paper as he wanders the pavilion field. He’s not in the main mêlée, and he wonders if Iain is the reason he’s fallen out of favour between July and September. If he’s not in the opening mêlée, he’s not guaranteed a place in the joust – especially in a tournament this short. Once each knight from the Inside team of the main mêlée has jousted through each knight from the Outside team, the top few scorers joust through the top two knights from each of the other mêlées. Which means there’s now additional pressure on Harry to score high in his mêlée.
He sighs. At least if he’s in a later mêlée, he tells himself, he can sleep in a little tomorrow. (He won’t, but it’s a nice idea.)
He looks across the field until he spots Arundel’s red-and-gold lion banner, and then directs his feet there. The Earl – Richard – embraces Harry warmly, and tuts at the dark circles under his eyes. Harry bows to Alys, in periwinkle blue over a scarlet underdress, and presses the back of her hand to his lips.
Then Harry sinks onto a travelling chest with a sigh. He looks up at Arundel, then at Alys.
‘Richard knows, Harry,’ Alys whispers, coming to perch next to him. ‘Everything.’
Harry’s shoulders hunch down, as if the wires supporting him have been let go. He’s so damn tired of pretending to be fine. He glances around to check if any servants are within earshot, then whispers, ‘How is he?’
‘He scrubs up well,’ says Arundel, pouring them both a cup of wine. ‘Those legs in a pair of tight hose? Should be illegal. And there’s rampant speculation at court about whether he stuffs the front of his hose or he simply has the most enormous—’
‘Richard!’ Alys squawks and smacks Arundel in the arm, spilling his drink. ‘That’s not what Harry wants to hear.’
‘Well, he’s not sitting there pining for you, I’m sorry to say,’ Arundel says, shaking the spilled wine off his hand. ‘He’s not taken up with anyone that I know of, despite a lot of offers, but he’s been … quite busy with court politics.’
Harry closes his eyes. A long sigh escapes him, the last ghost of hope leaving his body. ‘What is he doing, then?’
‘Playing a dangerous game very well,’ Arundel says. He pulls over a bench and sits down. And a smile breaks across his face. Harry blinks. He thinks it’s the first genuine smile
