The Scottish Boy

by Alex de Campi

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.

Speak up, boy. Who are your parents?’ Iain goes very still, and speaks quietly. ‘Maíl Coluim mac Lochlann, Laird of Galloway Forest. Of Castle Doon. Although I’m laird, now, technically.’ ‘No mother?’ says Michael. ‘We can’t take him if he’s a bastard, Sir Harry.’ ‘Perhaps the boy was born like Athena, right out of his father’s headache. But I doubt it,’ sighs Magnus. ‘Still, quite a sight, if he was.’ ‘I’m not a bastard,’ Iain growls. ‘My mother was French, and is not in your book.’

‘Who was Isabella’s target?’ Harry asks. ‘Her older sister, Philip’s first child,’ Alys says. ‘The favourite. Betrothed to the Holy Roman Emperor, but in love, they say, with a Scottish lord. He was also at the Tour de Nesle that fateful night. The scandal was enough for His Imperial Majesty to break off the betrothal. Philip was furious. He did everything but disinherit her. Within the letter of the law, she was still legally a princess of France, but in spirit? She was cut off. Financially. Socially. She had been as headstrong and wilful as her father, and he ruined her for it.’

Harry has a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach. He manages to choke out, ‘What happened to her?’ Alys smiles. ‘She vanished. Probably for the best. Think what would have happened if she had married and produced an heir. The boy would have a stronger claim to the throne of France than either King Edward or Philip of Valois. Imagine the trouble, my God.’

‘I love you,’ Harry says. Iain freezes at that, his eyes widening. Harry begins to sob. ‘I loved you before and I love you now and I’m going to lose you.’ ‘Wait, what?’ Iain says. ‘Where did that come from? I’m not going anywhere, Harry.’

‘You stood by me when I had nothing,’ Iain says. Then he smirks. ‘Besides, my side of the family has a glorious tradition of doing stupid things for love.’ ‘Only a prince would have the gall to throw everything away for another man,’ Harry says.

‘Iain,’ he says softly. ‘If you’re in heaven, I cannot let you go. I keep seeing you, trying to put you back in the world by sheer force of desire. I saw you in the Black Knight, and I feel like every step I make in this palace I am walking in your footprints. If you really are here, please know that I still love you more than anything in the world, and would make any sacrifice to have you with me again.’ He shuts his eyes. ‘And if you are but a spirit, protecting me, thank you for that. I have needed it. I have always needed you.’

‘Are you worried the King overheard your prayer?’ the aide asks. ‘No. I prayed in English,’ Harry says. ‘Pfft,’ the aide snorts. ‘Then God did not hear it either, for He does not speak the vulgar tongue.’

Iain’s body is thick and strong under Harry’s arms and Harry shakes, years of terror and grief and exhaustion falling off him like a cocoon of ashes.