Harry is both at a loss, and pathetically glad for Iain’s absence, as he hurries to put on his armour for his own bout. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he had seen Iain. He’s pretty sure it would have been something foolish.
It takes a solid whack on his shield-edge from one of the opposing knights for him to stop glancing at the stands during his own mêlée. The fighting is … the fighting is great, once he gets his head into it. All twenty-four knights on the field are there because they’re good, not because of who they know. There’s none of the easy unhorsings of the opening mêlée. It’s a slow grind against men, veterans, who have done this for real, with sharpened swords, in battles against the Welsh and the Scots, and against each other on Isabella and Mortimer’s long ride across England to dethrone Edward’s father.
Harry holds his own. He earns the respect of the knights he’s fighting with. If he’s not doing it for them, but for a pair of pale eyes that he hopes is watching, well … the result is the same, in the end.
He rides out of it a respectable second, behind Sir Brian, so he qualifies for the next day’s jousting. Which means if he places well in the joust, he’ll be invited to the celebratory supper with the King. Iain will be there, if he’s anywhere.
There are friendly faces all around him, and invitations to dine – Sir Brian; Sirs Malachi and Morien, up from Cornwall; even jolly Sir Gervase. Sir Hugh hails him from afar, but … Harry pretends not to see. Fond as he is of Sir Hugh, he can’t be in the same tent as Rolly right now. Or indeed ever again. Harry hands over Nomad to Piers and stands still as Kit fumbles his armour off. Then he nods, leaves them money for dinner, and says he’ll be back later. He ignores their concerned looks.
And as he walks out of the stifling, overcrowded pavilion field, he starts to notice who isn’t there: Montagu. Rabbie. Percy. Several of Montagu’s lot are in attendance: Colin Crocker and Odo Waldegrave competed in the opening mêlée. Harry has glimpsed a few others, too, from the Galloway Dozen – the knights who rode without honour into Scotland to murder a king’s daughter and put her son in a cage.
And for the thousandth time that day, he wonders what Iain is doing. If he’s well.
Harry finds a small chapel on the outskirts of town. He doesn’t have much to say to God right now, other than please keep Iain safe from harm. But the cool solitude and the smell of the candles and incense make him feel better. He stays through None, past Vespers. Then he walks back to his pavilion through the September twilight. He notices absently that he’s hungry, but it’s not important.
Nothing is important any more.
The next day, Harry rides to the tiltyard. Part of him is looking forward to the thrill; the thundering hooves and jarring impact of the joust. Part of him is afraid that not even breaking lances at a gallop will be able to make him feel anything.
Apparently being completely numb makes him better at jousting. He unhorses both Sir Brian and Robert Morley, and breaks his lance every time against his other half-dozen opponents. There is no joy in victory. He takes no pleasure in the shouts of his name from the thousand onlookers.
There’s one opponent left: Colin Crocker. Then he’s done. Then he can go back to his pavilion. He readies his lance and waits for the steward’s hand to drop.
Rather than starting the first pass, the steward becomes distracted by the sounds of a kerfuffle over by the entrance to the tiltyard, behind Harry. His peripheral vision is limited by his helmet, but he can see the steward nod. The man’s hand then closes into a fist, and he bends his elbow, pulling that fist down to chest level.
It’s a postponement.
Harry raises his lance. He’s confused, and wants to turn Nomad to see what’s going on, but once he does he’ll have to circle round again to get in position.
‘Change in order,’ the steward calls. ‘Sir Harry Lyon of Dartington, to tilt second.’
Well, Harry has to turn Nomad now, because he needs to go back to the waiting area. He’s annoyed, because this is his last run. Why can’t he just tilt against Crocker, make his three passes, then go home? Why does he have to delay for some oversleeping nobleman who missed his earlier slot and is demanding the right to catch up? (He knows why: precedence. Because he can win all the tournaments in England, but he’s still nothing more than a minor country lord.)
It’s hard to communicate a truly effective glare through the narrow eye slits of a helmet, but Harry is making his best effort as he turns to face the newcomer.
The intruder knight is all in new armour, the most modern style, with almost no mail visible under bright, shining plate. His shield is also new, so new it’s still blank. The only colour is his lance: red as blood. He’s big. And eerily calm as he rides past Harry without a glance. His dark brown destrier is of the finest quality, the horse’s coat brushed and oiled to almost a mirror shine, caparisoned in white.
Harry’s heart twists within him as he realises who the knight must be. It’s too late, though. The knight is already past him. He’d spent so much time checking out the man’s fancy plate armour and horse that he’d never thought to look him in the eyes.
But he knows Iain. He knows how Iain moves. He taught Iain how to joust.
And he would bet the entirety of his already-damned soul that this shining knight is the man he loves.
It’s a wonderful piece of showmanship,
