The Scottish Boy

by Alex de Campi

Iain’s hands aren’t bound and Harry knows how snake-fast the boy is when he’s out to do damage. Harry’s heart skitters in his chest; every muscle in his body is tight with stress. ‘If you even think of harming her, Iain,’ Harry hisses. ‘I don’t believe in hurting women,’ Iain snarls back out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Unlike some.’

Oh, snap

‘Annie, don’t let Iain’s innocent act fool you. He’s not safe. He’s not getting used to us. He’s just waiting.’ ‘Hmph,’ Annie grunts, poking Harry in his stomach. ‘There’s good in that boy. You know I have the sense for these things and I can tell just by looking at him, Harry Lyon.

Annie knows shit Harry, believe the lady

He’ll surprise you.’ ‘And the thought of that keeps me awake at night,’ Harry says wearily.

Scary

‘This is us. It’s not very much. I was apprenticed at ten to a Wiltshire knight who had retired from service to the King and I always wondered why he would leave.’ Harry sighs. ‘And now I know. There’s no honour in fighting, is there?’

‘Why …’ He doesn’t have the courage, in the end, to say why did it happen? Help me understand. Give me a reason for the evil we did. He just lets his voice trail off into a whisper in the night. ‘Why?’

Ragret time

Then Iain’s hoarse whisper comes through the darkness again. ‘I remember you standing there, in the hall of my castle. You were taller than the others. I don’t remember much from that night, not much I want to recall, but I remember you. Your sword was clean.’

Aaaaaand I'm sobbing

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.

Still sobbing

The groan he gives once she hits her stride suggests he hasn’t fully taken into account the effect it’ll have on the cider still washing about in his skull. Harry silently prays Johann throws up over himself further down the road.

All my homies hate Johann

He never really needed to know the farmers’ names; his mother was the expert there. That’s Rufus, he knocked up the dark-haired scullery maid, you know, Mariah, the one who always puts too much pepper on everything? They’re marrying in the spring, we’ll send her fabric for a dress. Oh, and you remember Old Donald, if he ever has a nice word to say about anything you know it’s the End Times. Good with chickens, though. Hens’ll lay for him like nobody else.

Old Donald and the chicks

God gave him everything he prayed for, and only took the two people he loved most in the world in payment.

And he can’t complain, for he had never thought to ask the cost of his dreams. He is a knight, made so by a king who pitied him in his youth and loss. And he has a squire. A feral, murderous squire of nigh-insufferable temperament.

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. Perhaps Iain is a test. ...

Harry’s lips form the words of Sir Simon’s favourite passage from Luke: Verumtamen diligite inimicos vestros et benefacite et mutuum date nihil desperantes … Estote ergo misericordes sicut et Pater vester misericors est.

He knows that for too long he has placed faith in worldly men above faith in God, and for that he has been sent these trials. He will not fail God. More importantly, he will not fail Iain. Tomorrow, he will begin again.

‘How is he this morning?’ Harry asks. ‘He’s lovely! Ate half a roast chicken for dinner, and a goodly portion of roast parsnips and carrots. I think Katie’s sweet on him,’ Annie chirps. ‘God help us all,’ Harry moans.

Oh Harry ye of little faith

‘Because I had so much say in that,’ Iain hisses. Harry sits on his bed and hits his hands against his thighs in frustration. ‘I had about as much say in it as you did, Iain. This is neither of our first choice—’ The boy on the pallet snorts derisively. ‘—but the alternative is a lot worse, and for heavens’ sake, Iain, I’m tired. Can we just try to make the best of this?’ There’s no answer. Harry blows out the candles and says his prayers under his breath, adding an extra plea to the Virgin for patience.

The sores at his wrists and ankles from the ropes are healing – red, angry, crusty, but not infected, thank God. 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.

Gay shit

‘We’re going out today,’ Harry says, as he pulls the last item he needs out of a chest near the bed. He tosses a pair of his old woollen chausses at Iain’s head, along with braies and a breech belt. ‘Here. You’ll need these.’ ‘Why?’ Iain frowns at the bundle in his hands. ‘I distrust immediately any endeavour that requires hose.’

I agree Iain

‘Squire training. Day one,’ Harry says. ‘I need to see how well you can use a sword.’ Iain picks up one of the wooden swords and gives it a look like it’s personally insulted his family. Then he holds it up and raises an eyebrow at Harry. ‘I’m not a child, Harry,’ he grumbles.

Very few swordsmen actually want to hit the person they’re fighting. It’s something Harry’s learned in countless tournaments. They shut their eyes at the last moment, aim for the sword rather than the man, or wait too long for their opening. Iain has no such qualms. It’s exciting. Every swing, he’s aiming to kill. Harry’s sword is just an inconvenience to be batted away so he can continue to move his blade towards Harry’s body.

Ball of rage p4, murderous edition

‘Iain, listen,’ he says. ‘You’re good. You’re a natural, and you’ve clearly had some training. You could be great, though. And I’m selfish.’

‘Think how Montagu’s gang will feel when my Scottish squire wipes the floor with all of their English squires at the first tournament we roll up to.’ Iain doesn’t smile but his eyes glitter.

Shing sparkle sparkle

His next words are a whisper. ‘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.’

Ralf also knows shit, listen to the man, Harry

‘I’m going to kill you one day,’ Iain sighs, digging into his own food. ‘Well, if you could wait until the end of next tournament season I’d appreciate it,’ says Harry.

Considerate murder

Annie brings out summer pudding for dessert, with huge portions for Harry (it’s his favourite) and Iain (because his appetite remains a thing of joy and wonder to her).

Annie nudges him and jerks her chin towards Iain. Harry glances over. Iain is asleep, his head pillowed in his forearms, his lips messy and dark with berry juice.

Some real mimimimimi shit right here

Harry smiles. ‘You fell asleep after eating almost an entire summer pudding by yourself. Right on the table.’ The look of affront on Iain’s face is somehow the most adorable thing Harry has ever seen. ‘I … would never,’ the boy chokes. ‘You did,’ Harry grins.

‘If we hear howling, that’s my mother’s unquiet spirit come back to haunt me for a horrific lapse in table manners.’ Harry giggles. ‘Your mother would really come back to haunt you and not Montagu?’ ‘Without a doubt,’ Iain snorts. ‘In our family, murder and betrayal are commonplace. But lapses in etiquette? Unforgivable.’

Ok same

‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’ Iain says. ‘What else am I going to do?’ Harry replies. ‘It’s either that or chain you up in here all the time, and Iain—’ Harry gestures out the window to the brilliant August sunshine— ‘it’s too nice outside for that.’

Harry steals a couple of carrots for the horses and shoves a hunk of cheese and sausage into his mouth. Iain gets his cheeks pinched by Annie and his pockets stuffed with honey cakes by Katie and nearly manages to palm a knife before Harry hustles him out to the stables.

Iain’s face is aghast. He gestures at Numbles. ‘Are you having me on? Harry. That’s a plough-horse. Look at him. He misses the plough. Don’t do this to either of us.’ Numbles looks up, hay falling out of his mouth, and grunts like he’s been insulted. Iain flails angrily. ‘And he only has one eye.’ Numbles retaliates by butting his head into Iain’s chest, smearing his shirt and neck with copious amounts of green, hay-filled saliva.

Best horse

Numbles blows his lips at Iain. Iain frowns at him. ‘Not you too. It’s a conspiracy. You’re all conspiring against me and my dignity.’ Numbles coughs, spraying small flakes of hay all over Iain’s hair and face. ‘Plough-horse,’ Iain hisses.

Harry should feel sorry for Iain but instead he starts howling with mirth again. He gestures helplessly between horse and boy. ‘Look, Iain,’ he chokes out between ragged gasps of laughter, ‘you’re meant to be together. He’s a bitey bastard, too!’

Harry looks over at Iain and suddenly understands why Annie calls him the little lord; his face is transformed in happiness, eyes crinkling, dimples appearing in his cheeks. He’s incredibly, stunningly aristocratic when he’s not scowling or hiding behind his hair. Like how Harry pictured Sir Lancelot when he’d play King Arthur all alone down by the pond: his imaginary best friend, the exotic, dark-haired knight of the lake.

He pretty

‘It’s not that bad,’ Harry whispers to Iain. ‘It bloody well is,’ he hisses back. ‘Because you’re a Latin scholar on top of everything else,’ Harry replies. Iain crosses his arms and slumps in the pew. ‘Of course I understand Latin, Harry. Do I look like I was raised in a barn?’

The shade of it all

He’s a fast learner, and turns out to have a patience and tactical cunning that matches his ferocity. He’s still nowhere near an even match for Harry, and still doesn’t understand the concept of retreat, but Harry finds himself having to work for his wins a little more each day.

As Harry unlaces his shirt and pushes it down to his waist, he feels mildly guilty that he’s given Iain the heaviest harvest tool they have, when he already has to walk in leg irons. But an exhausted Iain is an Iain less likely to murder anyone.

How to keep your murderous dog from committing Crimes 101

Iain turns out to be the sort who gets freckles in the sun, and Harry watches them bloom over his shoulders and back as he works, first constellations of them, then galaxies, his skin getting not so much tanned as all his freckles merging together. Copper highlights appear in his dark hair, which Annie ties back for him in a twist so it stays out of his eyes as he works.

The boy hums, and slings a warm, solid arm around Harry’s waist. ‘Iain, what are you doing?’ Harry frowns. He’s had way too much to drink. All he wants is to lie back and go to sleep, with Iain curled up against his chest. There’s an alarm dimly ringing in the back of his mind telling him that would be a terrible idea. But Iain’s hair, now that it’s washed regularly, is so soft.

Oh yeah it's the soft hair that makes you want him, sure man

His knees and shoulders are a mess of dirt, blood and shredded clothing, but he is somehow still standing, glaring at all of them like a wet cat. Harry is sure the only thing keeping Iain on his feet right now is pure spite and suddenly he’s fiercely proud of this boy.

Iain shivers uncontrollably again and squeezes his eyes shut, fat tears dripping down his dirty cheeks. ‘I hate you,’ he whimpers, his voice reedy with pain. Harry keeps brushing through his hair. ‘I know,’ he replies.

‘Do. Not. Ever. Stab. My. Horse. Again,’ Harry growls, glaring at the wet, muddy boy. ‘I don’t mind you trying to escape, but think up better plans.’

‘Her name was Marguerite,’ Iain whispers, his voice raspy and faint. ‘Your mother?’ Harry says, scooting onto the floor and sitting near him. Iain nods, tears rolling down his face, as ugly sobs emerge from his mouth. 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.

Iain nods into Harry’s shoulder, trying to stifle his sobs. Harry smiles, and rubs circles on Iain’s back. ‘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.’

Rip dignity

‘So is that why your French is so good?’ ‘No,’ he says, poking Harry in the ribs. ‘It’s because in Scotland we believe in education, you great Sassenach idiot.’ Harry barks out a surprised laugh. ‘I missed you,’ he says, and the words are out of his mouth before he can think about them.

That Sunday, and every Sunday afterwards, a Mass is said for Lady Marguerite mac Maíl Coluim in Dartington Church. And occasional sighs are heard from the Lyon family pew as Sir Harry’s squire takes issue with matters of Latin pronunciation.

He adapts to the crutch quickly, and takes to hobbling around after Harry like a dark, murderous duckling as Harry goes about the business of the manor.

‘I don’t know, Iain,’ Harry grins, glancing down at the boy in his baggy, hand-me-down shirt and the pair of loose linen breeches they’d found to fit over the brace. ‘That long hair of yours, all we’d have to do is put you in a dress and you could sit on my lap. Whole county’d think I’d got myself a wife.’

Harry needs more Jesus

Dammit, Harry thinks. Damn his ingrained response to lying out on the rock. He grits his teeth and contemplates how he can shift away from Iain without waking him. He had told Iain about his imaginary adventures at the pond and he’d told Iain about the praying, but he hadn’t mentioned all the masturbating. Because that’s not really something you tell your friend. Oh, by the way, Iain, the moss grows so well on the rock because it’s regularly fertilised by my seed.

Yum yum semen moss

arguments from Iain that Harry translates. Tell her the King won’t care; he knows you are a country knight and he won’t be expecting you dressed up in fancy things. The only people who care are second-rate courtiers, because they have no confidence in their own status and find it only in putting others down. So wear your simple clothes, and be a country knight, and the people who are rude to you are people you don’t want to know. Plus, it’s near enough to Christmas that the King will lavish gifts on those in attendance on him. You’ll get a new set of clothes from him; if you’re lucky, a lot more.