The Scottish Boy

by Alex de Campi

When a man has had great wounds done to him, the urge to wound in return is an unbearable thing.

Harry stands and holds his sword in trembling hands and prays they don’t notice he hasn’t killed anyone yet. The cries of the dying, their terror and the piss and shit that flows out of them,

Harry can see dark, bloody scratches down Montagu’s cheek and neck from the boy. And something small and nasty in Harry thinks good for you to the Scottish boy. Good for you.

Harry looks down, ashamed. He hates what they’ve done, the ceaseless cruelty of it, but he can’t fault Montagu’s operational logic. He never can. Everything Montagu says makes perfect, terrible sense.

his mouth isn’t forced into the rictus caused by the tight fabric it’s revealed to be strangely delicate. Everything about his features is refined, more an expensive, pedigreed hunting dog than a feral wolf.

The next morning, Montagu, Ufford and the rest of the Galloway Dozen break south, direct to Carlisle, leaving Harry at a small crossroads with Montagu’s man-at-arms, a hired local guide and a boy in a cage.

‘Of course I can fucking swim, you great Sassenach idiot. I grew up in a tower in the middle of a loch.’

Harry goes to sleep full of a strange happiness, lulled into dream’s embrace by the sounds of soft, emphatic Gaelic cursing.

As she and Katie leave, Annie whispers to Harry, ‘He seems sweet. Are you sure he needs to be chained up like that? He won’t run, will he?’ ‘He fucking will,’ groans Harry.

I don’t remember much from that night, not much I want to recall, but I remember you. Your sword was clean.’ Harry shuts his eyes and buries his face into his pillow, tries to stem the flood of tears threatening to burst out of him. He doesn’t understand why it means so much to him that Iain knows, that Iain realises he didn’t participate in the slaughter, but it does. It does.

Harry lies there and tries to glimpse the divine reason for Sir Simon’s death. For his mother’s. Because the alternative thought – that God doesn’t have a plan, that all this random pain and cruelty is merely the purposeless lurching of the human animal as it comes howling into the world and then goes screaming out of it – is unbearable.

The brutality visited on the Scottish boy’s body by Montagu’s men sickens Harry, and he’s seized with the urge to brush the ratty hair out of Iain’s eyes and tell him he’ll never be hurt like that again.

when, about half an hour later, he manages a perfect disengage and stabs Harry hard enough in the bicep to make him yelp, Harry swears that Iain grins under his helmet.

‘He’s determined to hate you.’ ‘I know,’ Harry breathes. ‘And he’s furious with himself that he’s failing,’ the blacksmith continues. Harry looks at Ralf in amazement. Ralf smiles and pats him on the back. ‘I must get back to my forge. Keep trying, Harry. The best steel is strong and takes much effort to shape, but with patience, it can become something beautiful.’

‘Poor lamb must be exhausted,’ Annie whispers. Harry looks down at Iain, at how peaceful he looks in sleep, long lashes fanned down over sharp cheekbones, and realises he’s exhausted too. He hasn’t stopped since … since before his mother died.

He’s incredibly, stunningly aristocratic when he’s not scowling or hiding behind his hair.

Harry also notices the carrots and apples that Iain sneaks Numbles when the boy thinks nobody is watching.

Harry sleeps in Star’s stall that night, curled up against the horse’s neck, trying to soothe her, to let her know as she passes from this earth that she is loved, that she won’t die alone.

After four days of fasting, Iain at least begins to eat, mechanically, what Annie puts in front of him. But he still won’t speak. Harry can’t stand this oppressive misery. Can’t stand to think that Iain’s ferocious spirit has finally been broken.

Harry realises it’s the first time he’s seen him cry, really cry out loud. Harry flaps his arms awkwardly. ‘Please don’t stab me,’ he says. Then he reaches in, very slowly, and hugs Iain.

‘It’s raining so loud, nobody can hear you cry,’ he says. ‘You can,’ Iain snuffles. ‘Iain, I saw Numbles drop you into a drainage ditch like you were yesterday’s night soil,’ Harry smiles. ‘Your dignity is long gone with me.’

Iain sings softly, Gaelic work songs and old French melodies in time with Numbles’ hoof steps, and Harry rests his chin on Iain’s shoulder, profoundly content.

They’ve stopped touching each other, and Harry never realised how tactile their friendship was until it ceased.

‘I can’t believe I lost my virginity to you. You bit me.’

He becomes lost around Iain. It’s like the boy bewitches him. There are no boundaries; everything is possible, everything is permitted.

He still doesn’t know the reason for the game between Montagu and Arundel, nor where he or Iain fits on their chessboard. But to admit that, Harry feels, would be fatal. So he must continue to play, though he knows neither the rules nor the stakes.

When they turn in to the gates of the manor, the entire population of the hall is waiting in the courtyard to welcome their lord home. In all the sea of smiling faces, Harry searches restlessly for only one. But it’s not there.

Harry’s breath fails him. Iain’s hair has been cut. His face is exposed to view, no longer hidden behind dark, matted locks. Harry’s heart fails him next, skittering strangely in his chest. Iain is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Iain fingers the shiny pink-and-white scars on Harry’s forearm, the scars he made. Then he kisses the mark, gently, apologetically. ‘No,’ Harry says, pulling his arm away. ‘I love this scar. The first … the first thing I knew about you was this, that you were so fierce, that nothing could break you. I thought, what I would give to be that strong.’

If he handles the situation correctly, and remains calm, then with luck the Bishop will begin to tire of Father Francis’s accusations and a rift between the two men can be opened. The trick will be feeding Father Francis’s suspicions, while making him look increasingly foolish in front of the Bishop.

bigots who believe that the climb to heaven is best achieved by stepping on the backs of fellow sinners.

he wants to revel in it as much as he can, worship it as often as he can, because like all men he knows that paradise exists only to be taken away.

another part of him is broken open, revealed to the sunshine that Iain pours into him.

Iain’s watching him, and smiles when he sees Harry relax. ‘Everything worth doing is tough.’

He’s become aware over the past two weeks just how silent Iain is with everyone else. Everyone except him. And it feels like a gift, to have that intelligence, that quiet, sly wit, as his and only his.

They strip their shirts down to the waist and grab weapons from where they hang in the tent before riding the horses over to the practice areas. Iain sees that they’re the only ones out there practising and glares at Harry, muttering crazy person.

The sight of Iain, in his coat of arms – the Lyon star and hawks – thrills Harry more than it should.

King claps him on the back, and tells him with a grin that his squire’s flying attack is the best thing he’s seen in ages.

The rational part of his brain screams that they can’t do this. That he has duties. But his heart whispers, find a way.

‘I don’t care. We’ll beat them,’ Iain says, pressing his lips to Harry’s forehead, at the furrows of stress there. ‘I choose to be here with you, Harry. If it comes out publicly who I am, then I will have to go away for a while to take care of some things, but listen to me.’ He takes Harry’s face in his hands and holds him there, gazing into his eyes, deadly serious. ‘I will always come back to you. Always. Even if I have to drag myself out of the grave to do it.’

if this is the act that will send him to Hell, then he is willing to burn.

They almost come to believe that the incident with Rabbie will pass, when late into the night on the eve of Iain’s birthday, the screaming begins. Their home is on fire. It’s fitting, in a way. You burn a pig-boy for loving his friend by piling up hawthorn around him and throwing torches into it. You burn a lord for loving his friend by setting his manor alight.

‘Annie, Iain and I are …’ Annie pinches his arm. ‘I know,’ she whispers. ‘Would that we all could find someone who looks at us the way you two look at each other.’

Iain holds Harry close against the coming dawn, and whispers in his ear, ‘You will survive this.’

How do you put into words something so all-encompassing? ‘It’s a fire, always burning, threatening to consume me whole. It’s terrifying, flying over an abyss, knowing your wings will fail. It’s the best feeling in the world.’ ‘Sounds like a tremendous amount of bother,’ Alys sighs. ‘It is,’ Harry says. ‘He’s worth it.’

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.

Suddenly the ache inside him of Iain’s absence is so great, he nearly drops to his knees, unable to stand the hurt of all that empty space echoing inside him.

‘We ride north the day after tomorrow, against the Scots. If you are well enough, will you join us?’ Harry doesn’t even have to think it over. He knows with Iain gone, he isn’t living any more. He’s merely existing. And fighting makes the time pass. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Harry says.

Harry vacillates between believing Iain will appear at any moment, all brooding pale eyes and quicksilver grin, and knowing in his heart that Iain will never return. Eventually, for his sanity, he has to let go of his hope. Even though it feels like he is killing something inside him.

He breaks down when Alys suggests they call the child Iain, if it’s a boy. Through his sobs, he apologises to her for the man he’s become. Alys just hugs him and tells him it will stop hurting one day. Harry doesn’t admit to her that is what he fears most. The hurt is all he has left. Once it’s gone, he won’t feel anything at all.