Captain Northumbria
Nope: the man on horseback was still there when Steve woke up, only now they were sitting by a fire, and Steve had never seen the night sky so black.
"I am ill inclined to understand why any fellow should make himself so gaudy," the stranger said, in an almost impenetrable accent and an odder still diction. "And then to arm himself not with sword nor spear not even a knife, but a shield only that invites offenses -- why, sirrah, 'tis certain there's a marvelous trick at play. What sayest thou?"
Hands and ankles tied -- wonderful. "I'm sorry," he tried. "There's some kind of misunderstanding. My name is Steve Rogers, and I need to be in New York."
"New?" The man scoffed. "North as it is, we are a long way from York. What business brings thee?"
"It's not business, it's a terrible mistake."
"I'll not say thee nay to that. Once more, sirrah, who art thou, and what?"
The man's sword rested too easily at his side. Steve knit his brow. "Who am I talking to?"
"The captain of this country, if I may make bold, by my father's title and my own deeds." He smiled crookedly. "Harry Percy, if I let thee live."
"Oh God," Steve mumbled, because he'd read his Shakespeare, and because Stark Industries had no business overseeing whatever that device they'd captured really did, and because immediately he had visions of Tony Stark and Hotspur literally butting heads before coming to terms with each other.