The Last Knights of Cambria Book 1: Echoes of Gideon

Chapter 9: Only the truly terrible live to old age

The Duchess of Conwy isn't due till Friday. Unfortunately, I make a regular appearance home Friday afternoons since I'm not supposed to be at the museum. That should, however, give me plenty of time to get back to Harlech, since I can just say I'm going to go to my room to watch a movie and likely they'll have a game on. I don't know what game, I don't follow sports. I devoted the space in my brain that most people use for understanding organized sports, to understanding lines of succession in War of the Roses. Makes way more interesting conversation at parties. Just kidding. I've never been to a party or had a conversation. But I am still happy with the decision and the use of my grey cells.
So, after a morning of watching the longbowmen practice, and riding, I head on back to America. The longbowmen are usually averse to spectators, but once my enthusiasm for weapons became known, they let me watch, while I kind of bounce up and down in excitement. Gareth has helped me to draw a longbow, since I'm so happy about it.
"Lean into her, let your body help you draw it, there, three fingers," they wear three fingered gloves, and practice drawing even with multiple arrows notched. The bow is incredibly tight and I cannot draw it on my own, but Gareth takes a moment to show me because I'm vibrating with excitement watching them.
I have use of a small bay pony, whom I'm calling Bill. I'm not a good rider, but it's an old pony and I practice on cool enough mornings, just around outside the castle walls. Today we go all the way down to the ocean, the horse likes to run in the waves and surf cools us both. I like to get away from the castle for a minute and be on my own and think. I can practice using magic to splash the water, or just enjoy the quiet of the waves.
That done, and smelling more than a bit of horse and sweat, I reluctantly go to make my showing in New York. Perhaps I can say I'm going to help out the museum and just cut out again? I should probably take a shower. Even so.
I last disappeared at the bus stop, so I reappear there and jog home. I've taken to trying to walk or jog the ramparts in mail, just to get ready for war. Dancer laughs at me because I cry sometimes when I run, but I don't care. When we're under attack I'll be wearing at least a mail shirt if not some plate, and I need to get used to it. Mail won't protect me from an arrow, only plate can do that, but plate is harder to move in, and it can at least block indirect sword blows, which is something. I need to save my strength for magic but we also don't need me to die.
Anyway, the summer heat in New York is sweltering compared to Wales, but I still fall into an easy stride as I jog back. I'm wearing a simple shirt, but I'll still try to change it before I get seen. That and the pants, but I'm not even staying that long and they're just black, so it's fine.
When I get to the town house, the screen door is open, and so I pocket my key.
No television blaring, I stop dead in my tracks. My mother and father. You know, those divorced people. Are here. Together. My books, half my notes, and my laptop and phone are sitting on the kitchen table.
"Where have you been?" My father asks, folding his arms.
"I decline to answer until I speak with an attorney," I say, stepping backward.
"I called the museum. Apparently you haven't been there all summer," my mother says, tears welling in her eyes, "And I just talked to your father, and you haven't been going to him for visitation."
"So, where exactly have you been?" my father asks.
I curse quietly under my breath, in Welsh which makes it worse and also surprises me. I've been spending too much time around Dancer, apparently. I'm picking up his unique and inappropriate vocabulary.
"Where did you get those clothes?" My mother asks, starting to cry.
"Who have you been seeing?" My father asks, "Answer us, right now. You're always talking about your—history stuff. What's wrong with your voice?"
"I ah—I quit at the museum and I thought you'd be mad," I say, twisting my hands as I feel my breath rising in my throat.
"We are," my father says, "That is all you want to do, talk about history, we get you that job why would you throw it away? What is wrong with you?"
"I've—I've just been going to the library, or sitting in my room reading. That's all," I say.
"I haven't done your laundry in weeks—have you been doing it while I'm at work? And what about that friend you've been seeing—?"
"I made him up—I just go and read, it's—I couldn't handle being at the museum I'm sorry," I say, feeling tears on my cheeks.
"He needs to go back to the doctor," my mother says, "He can't—Gideon, you can't just spend your whole life sitting in your room."
"Well, he can't with out all this. We're clearing everything out, now," my father says, picking up the laptop and books and shoving them in the trash. No. My Monmouth's Kings of England—I have notes all over it—and my DVD of the Hollow Crown—.
"Pwrs," I snarl, yeah have spent too much time around Dancer and his special vocabulary. That wasn't complimentary, but thankfully it wasn't in English. I dive to rescue my things from the trash can and he pushes me easily to the floor. I raise a hand, anger bubbling in my chest, but of course magic won't come to my fingers. I leap up, quicker than I would have once, and try to tug the trash bag from his hands.
"Give that to me," I say, trying to take it.
"You need to watch your mouth. You have so much time on your hands? Get a job, get him a job online," my father walks away with the trash bag, and my mother takes my arm.
"Gideon look at me—look in my eyes—,"
"Why do you even have me?" I cry, my eyes of course not on her, "You don't even want me around!"
"Stop that crying, you're pathetic. When are you going to act like a man? You can lie to me and your mother? You can get a job, start help paying bills, you pay for that computer then you can spend time on it—," my father goes back to the stairs.
"No! I need all that I really need all that I'm doing something—," he's carrying down my cork boards, "I'm really busy —I really need that—,"
"You need to learn to live in the real world."
"Maybe I'm not supposed to be in the real world or I wouldn't be like this," I say, trying to take it from him, hard. He settles for smacking me in the face with the edge of cork board. My mother runs to me, as I sink to the gritty linoleum, tears running I down my face.
"You learn to shut that smart mouth."
"Eric—," my mother cries, hands on my shoulders. I jerk away.
"You called me to help you deal with him, this is it. This is me dealing with him what do you want to do here? Feeling sorry for him got him where he is."
"Why do you even have me?" I sob, crumpled to the floor, "I should just leave. Tell me why I shouldn't leave."
"Gideon, don't—we'll—we'll see that therapist again."
"Not on my dime you're not," my father walks past back up the stairs, "I paid for enough of that crap, didn't do him any good— look at him."
"I was just reading, I was just reading, I just want to be alone and read," I sniffle, tears running down my face, as I sit crumped on the floor, "Why do you have me?"
"Stop crying, you brought this on yourself," my father says, coming back down, "Now get up to your room, see how you like now, huh?"
"Why did you want me?" I whisper, rocking back and forth. No, my favorite book. No. And all my research. I needed that.
"Shh, just—Gideon—," my mother tries to touch me. I jerk away again, this time slamming my head into the wall to get the words he spoke from echoing inside it. It works in that the pain takes away the edge and the hollow words bouncing around in my brain.
"No—answer me, why did you want me? Someone else probably would want me to stay," I say, hugging myself sobbing, "Someone else could have adopted me. So why did you? You don't want me here. Why?"
"Because when they gave you to us, they didn't tell us you were gonna be autistic," my father says, voice almost tired in indifference, "Because nobody would have wanted you then if they knew you were going to be like this."
"I always wanted you, Gideon, don't say that," my mother says, "Please let me hug you."
"No. I will leave. And I will never come back. There's no real reason to grow old," I say, quietly.
"Don't talk like that."
"Ignore him. Go see your room, go see how you like spending all your time there now."
"We wanted a little boy—I wouldn't ever give you up," my mother says.
"Well maybe somebody else would actually like me," I say, voice shaking.
"We like you, or we wouldn't be trying to help you," my mother says.
"I don't get better. I don't change," I say.
"See? Because you're stubborn. You want to sit in a room for the rest of your life living off welfare?"
"No, I want to save Wales," I say, quietly, hand going to the ring around my neck. Just get out of here. Go. Let them call the cops. Let them look all night.
"What?" my mother asks.
"His stupid history—books—crap," my father waves a hand.
I walk up the stairs away from them hands shaking. Even if I know they're from malice his words echo in my head.
Nobody would want you.
Because you're autistic.
Nobody wants you like this.
Why don't you act normal?
Why don't you like girls?
Why can't you be like everyone else when your brain was literally hardwired different? Just change everything about you. Maybe we'll love you.
I go into my room and slam the door. I take the necklace off and slide the ring onto my finger without a second thought.
And then I'm home. I fall back to the floor of my room, weeping bitterly. I slam myself into the stone wall till I can feel blood on my back. I haven't done that since I was little. Well. Since the last time they cleared out my room and told me to go forth and be normal.
There's clothes for tonight laid out. I scrub my face with a hand, trying to get most of the tears off. I doubt if it fully works. Then I get changed hastily and head downstairs. The rest of the royals and staff necessary will gather outside to see visitors. I don't want to talk to anyone, but I also want to gravitate towards wherever my friends are. I hang back at the edge of the group, looking at twilight coming over the mountains. I force myself to take a shuddering breath, I'm safe here. Here I'm safe. In not the real world. Ever, safe, in my own kingdom. Once it was only in the trappings of my own mind that kings and knights and tales of great battles could comfort me. Now it's tangible, physical, a real place I can be safe.
"You all right, boy?" So apparently my introvert friends were also hanging back. The Duke, in a hooded cloak to block any lingering sun, moves to stand beside me, examining my face with his pale pale blue eyes.
"Ah—," I consider lying, "My father, I tried going home. Not in a good mood, not the worst. He hadn't been drinking much." It would have been more than the smack if he had. As it is I can feel blood on my lips but nothing more.
"Ah, I see. Gareth, stand with the boy, change of plan for the evening, you're responding to 'Jac' as I have something I need to do," the Duke says, tugging Gareth over.
"What? Why?" Gareth sighs, but not surprised.
"I'm going to kill someone, it's fine, just stay," the duke says, pushing him a bit closer to me.
"It's fine, you don't have to—kill my dad 'cause he's an idiot," I almost laugh.
"I'm not going to. I'm going to punch him like he did you, but that will instantly kill him—,"
"Do you even know where his father lives?" Gareth asks, tired but not tired enough that he's going to stop him.
"No, but I'm not busy—,"
"Yes, you are. Now, Gideon do you want us to kill someone for you? I mean, we will definitely, but we're having dinner first," Gareth says.
"No, seriously, it's fine, I'm not going back there. My mistake," I lie. I already know I will go back. I can't do that to her. I don't know why. I shouldn't go back. They don't deserve me.
I've always known I was adopted. Always. I look nothing like my parents. I have darker skin and darker hair than they do. I'm nothing like them. But the story was always that they wanted me. But they've never acted like it. And ever since I was little, I wondered if I could have had other parents, who didn't blame their divorce on my diagnosis. Who liked listening to the things I read about.
"It's hard for him, that's all, you're a lot. He tries," my mother would tell me, when my father would storm off and leave.
Because it was my fault. My fault. My fault always. He told me straight up that if they'd gotten a different kid then things probably could have worked out. But they didn't. They got me. I was the bad draw.
I look up as the stars start to come out and almost smile. I never want to grow old.
"Gideon, you can cut out if you want. I think we all should, I have plans," the Duke says.
"You are not punching my father, I'm not telling you where he lives," I say, shaking my head.
"No, you're right he's not, that would be ridiculous. We would never do that. Such that someone would find out," Gareth says.
"Seriously, it's fine, I'm fine, I'm not going back there," I say. But I am. Of course I am.
"See that you don't. We like you in one piece," the duke grunts.
I rub my face, trying to get the last of the tears off. Hopefully, a squire boy looking like he's been smacked in the face isn't too out of place.
"What is the matter with you? Seriously? You already look upset. What am I supposed to do, keep my clever sarcastic remarks to myself?" Dancer hisses, poking me in the back. That hurts, but I don't show it.
"Something stops you from making sarcastic remarks?" I ask.
"It can be redirected," Dancer mutters.
"It can?" The Duke and Gareth ask, in unison.
"I'm not very good company tonight, Dance," I say, shrugging a little.
"You never are, the bar is low Gideon, but sometimes I like a reaction to the brilliant things I say," Dancer says.
There are carriages coming, bringing the nobles who were coming for dinner. The King just walks over to our group, takes the Duke's arm, and starts physically towing his much larger brother where he wants him. And, because of their polar opposite fashion sense, this looks like a small dying butterfly towing a sad black lab by the collar.
The Duke mutters something about getting to bring Gareth wherever they're going, but Gareth avoids going, instead standing behind Dancer and I.
"What is wrong with you? More than usual?" Dancer asks.
"Nothing," I say, folding my arms. As a side note, the clothes the King had sent for me are really nice. They're very soft, and a very dark green, and I do honestly like them. Also, all of my clothes were a solid color and Dancer's were coordinating colors of black and grey which means my standing theory has been wrong. The King is NOT color blind this is how he chooses to dress, fully aware of what colors are. Good for him.
The guests are getting out of the carriages now. The king essentially pushes his older brother into position near a woman whom a couple of the knights have just helped down. The woman is in a fine dress, she looks probably close to the duke's age, and is carrying a toddler, maybe two years old, who is clearly not related to either of them. Both the duke and duchess are quite pale, the Duke because he never goes outside but still, and the child is even deeper complexioned than I am. Clearly content in her arms, but even with a darker skinned father, there's little chance it's her kid.
"So—that is not their kid," Dancer voices it.
"Ah—oh, this is coming back to me now," Gareth says.
"What?" I ask.
"Okay, so like maybe a year ago at some holiday thing? The Duke and I were standing in the shadows in the corner talking about caltrops and how many we had and how many we should have, and some woman—apparently his wife—walked up and started talking to us really randomly about taking in some baby and we kind of said 'good for you' then left," Gareth says. Caltrops are spikes throw into the road to lodge in enemy boots, or disturb horses, or the like. Modern versions still exist today for puncturing tires.
"So that would be his wife, yeah, so when this letter came you both absolutely should have known what she was talking about?" Dancer asks.
" 'Oh look at me. I'm Dancer, I can pay attention to conversations as they happen to me. I'm a Welsh national hero because I can retain basic information and function in social situations'," Gareth imitates Dancer's particular accent, which, while Welsh, sounds southern or something.
Dancer laughs cursing him under his breath, but he does crack a smile so he's not actually cross.
We are ushered inside, as essentially servants we are at the far end of the table in the great hall. Now, our kind is servants, as none of us are of noble birth. However, it's not uncommon for monarchy to bestow titles and or positions upon favorites in order to elevate them. This remains frowned upon and usually doesn't have a good end for monarch or favorite. No, it's usually easier and more advisable for King Elis to do what he is doing, which is let us just generally hang about with the vague generic excuses of being nice to us as we work here.
Now, some kings and queens have better luck than others with elevating favorites, though some of that is down to charisma of the actual monarch, or the status of the favorite to begin with. For example, Henry VI had reasonable success with giving his half-brothers and step father titles and important jobs, but he was relatively conservative about it, and kept them enough by the wayside his supporters didn't get jealous, and of course his opposition in the War of the Roses were never gonna like them anyway. Similarly, his father, our Henry V, never faced any backlash really for giving Courtenay or a few other friends high positions, but most of that is down to his natural charm and popularity, his nobles weren't really finding reasons to hate him. Also he had several brothers and cousins as close friends so giving them titles and the like made sense. People like Elizabeth I, Richard II, and Edward II, generally faced unnecessary ridicule for any favorites they kept about, even simply as emotional support, bit more due to their perception and the political climate, than their choices of favorites.
That said, most all monarchs have at least one favorite we knew about, and probably more, the Dancers of the world, who are just childhood friends or long time servants who are a good listening ear. Everyone needs someone to vent to now and then, who won't tell a soul and has nothing to gain. Even a King or Queen.
Favorites themselves pretty much have a thankless job. In situations such as these, you're spending most of your time waiting till the monarch needs you so you can be an emotional support human, or run an an important message or do some task, or the like. And if you're unlucky you can wind up being un-alived by jealous nobles, like Edward II and King John II of France found out the hard way, it's not beyond angry nobles to take things out on your best friend who was really only doing your bidding to begin with.
So, why do it?
Well, as a general rule, I personally think it's genuine affection. Romantic or otherwise, you'd have to really like someone to be willing to hang out your whole life and potentially die just to help them out. I mean, it's lonely at the top, once you've bonded to a monarch in that position, you feel a bit protective of them once you realize you are their only friend.
Many favorites go through a lot, such as being banished twice and coming back twice, in the case of Piers Gaveston to remain close to their monarch, in his case Edward II. Like, he was not getting paid enough to do that. Both times he was banished he had a job or rather livelihood. He did not need to return to a country where people were plotting his death. There was affection there.
Favorites don't really stand to gain a lot. Those that get titles, then come under the scrutiny of everyone, and those who don't just have to maintain a secret friendship. It's not necessarily fun, and I'm sure there are some favorites who think they're going to win the game of thrones, like Elizabeth I's favorite who wound up turning against her, but for the most part it's a pretty thankless task that you probably aren't even able to talk about, and as general rule, you'd have to really love someone to you know, go invade France with them, come back from exile three times, be the least popular person in court, use a secret passage to access their bedroom, the list goes on. As a general rule, favorites couldn't do what they're doing if they didn't have real devotion to their monarch, platonic or otherwise.
Now, some favorites are like the duke, technically sort of a relative who just wound up being closer to monarch and got a couple of choice political positions. Henry V and his brothers and cousins had this going on, they were all in his inner circle, but related enough for it to be excusable that Henry V gave them important jobs and the like. Henry VI and the Duke of Exeter, and Richard III the Duke of Buckingham, both were technically a cousin-ish four times removed who wound up being more of a foster brother who wound up being a best friend. These guys don't even get lumped in as favorites always, even though the monarch's preference is generally obvious and that's clearly the monarch's battle buddy or whatever phrase you want to use.
Some favorites are lower nobles, like Robert de Vere, a land holder and noble, but not really royalty, who was a close friend of Richard II. He was married to Richard's first cousin, who was slightly more like a sister to Richard. So anyway he was effectively Richard's brother in law so they got on, though interestingly when Robert cheated on his wife, Richard would side with his cousin and not attempt to protect Robert. Win for feminism? Similarly, Richard Courtenay who is Henry V's plus one, he's a minor noble and had some high positions, but just wound up staying around like a lot. Prior(?) or concurrently to Courtenay Henry V had Scrope, another minor noble who wound up betraying him and Henry had him executed, but Henry as a crown prince palled around with Scrope a lot, according to some reports taking him back to his bedroom. Yeah. Anyway, these are more traditional 'favorites' who usually get remembered as being that, because they get enough attention to be remembered, but they don't have a solid reason for being there. Even Courtenay is left off the list of 'favorites' though because he slimly qualified for his jobs and Henry kept him out of the limelight (he did the jobs really well). Scrope shows up a little more with Henry, showing up in the play, but not a lot. Edward III's Count of Sailsbury, same thing, Edward gave him titles but that was so that he had an excuse to hang around, they did a lot together, but again out of the limelight enough that nobody got offended.
Some favorites are literally nobody, just a long time servant or tutor that sticks around forever. They might not even wind up in history books, Aimee Gaveston, adopted daughter of yes, Edward II's favorite Piers Gaveston, just sort of wound up being around Windsor palace her whole life, she shows up in records Edward III's court, and being a lady in waiting. We know little about her because, basically she was a servant or serving class, but I'd count her in with the favorites because she definitely stuck around the nobles a really long time, her whole life, when she could have married and left. These serving class favorites, like Aimee, actually have the better lot, because like our Dancer they're being employed, and if the King is smart, like Elis is, then they get to remain mostly in the shadows, only showing up here and there at a social function or other for fun and mostly remaining behind the scenes. Same with me, I'm technically nobody, even though I do provide a service. I'm basically a body guard at this point.
It's generally speculated that favorites have romantic relationships with their monarch, I'm going to posit that that's not always true. Sure sometimes it definitely is, Edward II due to some letters and some of his movements, it's more likely he had romantic attachments to Gaveston not just platonic. But that's not the rule. Everyone needs friends, even a King or Queen, and I genuinely do believe that a lot of these people, this was just their closest friend. Aimee Gaveston was basically like an older sister to Edward III, due to age difference, and then she was friends with his wife, Robert de Vere probably was just Richard II's friend he didn't have many, and he was legally like a brother in law so it made sense they'd have hung out since Richard was super close to Robert's wife, Richard's cousin and surrogate sister. But anyway, with plenty of favorites we have no real reason to believe it's anything but platonic.
It's a debate for another time if spending most of your life invading places with someone and in some cases being buried with them means you're in love with them, but what is love but not choosing someone over everyone else? Whether it was romantic or sexual or not, is largely going to be lost to history, or frankly nobody's business. And for the most part we're never really going to know. Of course we all can have our own theories, but I'm more of the opinion, especially after being King Elis' court, that yeah the monarch could very well be having these people hang out because they're lonely and want some one to talk to at the end of the day who isn't trying to get political favors. And in a lot of monarchs cases, such as Edward III with Sailsbury, much of his family had died, Sailsbury and Aimee were the closest people he had to family, we all kind of want that, that's who he had left of his family so it makes sense he'd keep them around. Similarly Henry V as crown prince, I mean it makes sense he had a few close school friends as it were. Just because these guys live in the limelight, doesn't mean they aren't typically people with relatively typical friendships. Or trying to be. Especially our teenage/young adult monarchs, it makes sense they'd have some closer young friends to drink with or do your taxes with.
All that's to say, Dancer and I and Gareth hang at the outskirts of the party. Dancer's excuse for being here? He's the scribe/historian they let him out for a bit, nobles don't really seem to notice, a couple of them nod to him. Gareth is known to be the king's natural (natural means illegitimate, recall) brother, but he's also one of the chief bowmen so that's a generic excuse, since the King isn't talking to him and he appears to be here for the food, no one cares. I'm technically the duke's squire, now squires don't always come to these things and usually get sent to eat with the other serving people, but I could be from some minor family, or age wise I could be the Duke's natural son so he's keeping me around, again since nobody is talking to me it doesn't really matter. It would be no great scandal if I were his or Gareth's bastard who is now allowed to hang about, nor would it be uncommon. Sure 'natural' children couldn't inherit anything, but it wasn't strictly some great scandal either. In this time period, it wasn't a black mark on the father's record or anything it's a thing that's kind of expected to happen.
Plenty of monarchs and nobles had natural children that they essentially kept around, and as a rule they were fine with that. Edward III had a natural older brother who helped him take the crown, and John of Gaunt had many illegitimate children who really just hung about and didn't do a lot besides helping their legitimate sibling overthrow the monarchy (Henry IV). Henry IV had a couple, not very long lived, but no hard feelings from what we can tell. Even everybody's favorite, the Black Prince, father of Richard II, at least one natural son, Roger, prior to his marriage, who wound up becoming a knight and helping his little brother, who was King of England. In conclusion, while the illegitimate kid can't inherit or claim titles, they usually didn't have a bad lot and in the case of the crown princes and kings, usually got some sort of salary. In fact, it's more odd to find a noble male in his late twenties to thirties who doesn't have a natural child someplace, even if said child died in infancy or the like. It was incredibly atypical that Henry V didn't have his first child till marriage in his thirties. Most kings had natural children prior to marriage, ones like Edward III being the exception because he married as a teenager. The same pretty much goes for any noble men, who would well be able to afford to support a second family. That said, Gareth isn't even on anyone's real radar with no titles people wouldn't overly care if he was married or no. So it's probably generally assumed I and and or Dancer belong to either the Duke or Gareth, but nobody's going to care beyond idle gossip which I'm sure they've made up their minds about anyway.
The Duchess of Conwy has servants take the baby, and she and the Queen fall into deep discussion while the brothers do their most convincing impressions of normal people. These are not convincing. There's several other families of nobles that ignore us generally, which means Dancer can make snide remarks about their clothes or what he thinks they're talking about, while Gareth and I try to keep straight faces. We are not good at this.
Despite my day, they do have me laughing after a little while. Gareth coaxes me into a discussion about longbows, he's less knowledgeable about other weapons but he knows I like talking about weapons so I wind up spending most of dinner asking him about the pros and cons of different arrow materials, something he his happy to elaborate on with little encouragement. It's also a safe enough topic if we're overheard. Again, a squire asking him these things is pretty standard stuff and won't hint that I'm more important at court.
The Duke of Conwy somehow senses a discussion of weapons that he's not been invited to, and rapidly escapes the others to come and join us.
"If we keep firing arrows at them that's basically giving them back free arrows, the trick is to run them out of arrows," I say.
"Anything that breaks on impact can't punch through mail," Gareth says, "Let alone plate. We've tried this before."
"Aye but what if we did something to the shaft? Such that only you could notch it?" The duke asks, shrugging, "Something that it's useless to them."
"Ah, you could have something there, I don't know," Gareth says, rubbing his face.
"Load the tips with lime, if the tip is solid but the sides are fragile then the sides shatter on impact, you've still got a spear it can still punch through armor," Dancer says.
"He's got an idea—can we do that? Do you have lime?" I ask, hopefully.
"Plenty, also I can get more," the duke says, nodding.
"Like, a soft casing after the arrow head?" Gareth asks, frowning, "What would crumble on impact?"
"Not crumble, but softer metal is going to tear open if it rips through armor," the duke says, tapping his fingers on his right palm for emphasis.
"Well, at least you're all easy to find, Gideon, which one of them happened to you?" The king asks, coming up and latching onto the Duke's arm with the basic manner of an overworked executive fetching a naughty Labrador at a dog park.
"Oh, it's nothing, I'm fine, your grace," I say.
"We're trying to find who did it so I can hit them," the duke says.
"Excellent do that—outside, come, yes all of them can come Jac, the other guests are leaving and apparently your wife is used to us."
"She is?" Gareth asks.
"We're not even used to us," Dancer says.
The King leads us outside, to inner courtyard. The queen and duchess are already chatting.
"The duchess has information for us," the queen says, as Dancer and Gareth and I try to leave, "That's why you're all here."
The Duchess is a slim woman, not that short, about my height, her hair is shorter than the queens but more intricately braided, and she wears fine jewelry. Yes she has two eyes.
"I've had reports of King Henry's spies as far north as Conwy and as far south as Dyffd," the duchess says, glancing at us a little but not commenting. She'll know Dancer and Gareth, and I'm sure they've said I'm the duke's squire. Again, she probably thinks that means natural son, but she also probably doesn't overly care. The majority of noble women would be happy enough to keep their husband someplace else, not in their home and bed which increases their odds of dying in child birth. It's a fine enough deal for her, she gets the title and to essentially run the dukedom, and have whatever companions she chooses.
"So, he is planning to march an army across Wales," the duke says.
"Possibly—again I don't know if they were spies, but they were Englishmen, inquiring about best times to ford rivers, how passable roads are in winter, that type of thing," the duchess says.
"Even if he marches for Cheshire he'd have to cross the Snowdonia, he knows it," the duke says, shaking his head, "That gives us ample warning."
"He doesn't care about warning. He'd burn down the north, slow as he pleased, for the fun of it," I speak up, they all look at me but the Queen nods that I go on, "Catching his spies—is most likely his design. He wants us to think he's coming by land."
"We've done this though, if he comes by sea he must sale past the entire coast of Wales," Gareth says.
"And he doesn't care. We wouldn't have caught his spies if he didn't want us to know he was coming," I say.
"Gideon's right," the Queen says, "If we know something it's because he wants us to. If spies are asking about coming up, around Snowdonia, from the south that means he means to go north."
"Then what does this tell us?" The King asks, "It doesn't make sense, why tip his hand that's coming at all? He's promised peace with me—no I don't believe him, but if you're correct and he meant for me to get whispers of spies—that only gives me time to muster an army."
"Because it's a game," the Queen says, looking at me, I nod a little, "It's a game to him; he wants us ready to play. He wants to confuse us and he wants us on edge, and he wants to crush us anyway."
"But that doesn't get him his goal which is Wales, we know King Henry loves nothing more than to win," the Duchess says.
"He thinks he's going to win," the queen says, softly.
"He marched his army, through all of France, on the exact same roads exact same march as his great grandfather Edward III did, because it was an impossible march, tactically it should never have worked, Cressy and Poitiers were both massive risks, so was Agincourt. None of those things should have worked but they did. Because he made them so because beyond winning, he loves to have a show. It's a game, he wrote the rules, now we have to play it, but the deck is stacked and he's letting us watch him stack it," I say, rubbing the back of my neck, chewing on my lip as I think.
"It doesn't make any sense to let me muster an army to oppose him, sail around the north of England, attack in one go, even let me try to ambush him on the road as he crosses the mountains why give me ample warning?—it's a question you three I'm not arguing tell me why am I getting time to raise an army?" The King asks, mostly looking at me and the Duke but also his wife.
The duke looks up, he was staring off in thought as well, "So we're all in one place."
"What?" The duchess asks, frowning.
"It's a party. This is his invitation," I say.
"He's loosed his hounds, drive us all out of the bush so he can shoot us, one by one," the duke says, glancing around at us, "That's why."
I nod that I concur when he looks at me.
"Okay, is there not a scenario in which we're not damned if we  do and damned if we don't?" The King sighs.
"I mean, you could offer peace negotiations, but that's basically asking him not to do what we all know he's definitely going to do," the queen says, "Also he'll do it anyway."
"The Scots defeated Edward I and II through guerrilla warfare, if they wanted a castle the Scots burned it, took to their land which they knew, attacked the war caravans on the road. They fight like men we fight like animals. Longbow lines in the trees before they can put up shields. We pick them off, we burn their supplies," I say, shaking my head.
"Yes, that worked but Scotland fell, to this man," the queen says, "He used France to help him attack, he had naval support they had nowhere to run."
"He's got time and money on his side, even if we burn crops before he can get to them we starve our own people as well as his, and has all of France for supplies as well as the rest of Briton. He's got all the time and all the money in the world right now," Gareth says.
"The boy is right. We're not building up an army and putting it where he wants," the duchess says, "Let me muster an army. I and the other counties—we have our own armies. He wants one war. We'll give him a hundred. Harlech is deep, as you yourself said he must sail completely around the coast to attack by sea, or march across all of Wales. You have months before he could bring you down."
"And the more country side he burns the less likely people will be side with him, let him show his true colors," the King says.
"We don't need an army here, we can defend this garrison with limited forces," the queen says.
"Let every one be ready to fight and resist should he come their way—it's better than amassing an army one spot for him to cut through," duke shrugs.
"So, we're doing the warfare equivalent of 'everybody hide someplace different father can't be cross with all of us at once if we're in different cupboards?," the king asks, rubbing his face.
"It worked then," Gareth scoffs.
"Do you have another option?" The duchess asks.
"No, that's why I hate it," the king sighs, coughing.
"Okay, let's all agree as a pact that should anyone we— maybe are used to— gets captured and he tries to hold for ransom we don't want to be ransomed we're happy to die for Wales keep fighting?" The duke says.
"No," Dancer says.
"Oh absolutely, I'm going to not live anyway," the king says.
"Nobody wants me back," Gareth says.
"You don't have to ransom me, it's fine, if I've been captured I have the situation under control," the duchess says.
"If I die I expect all of you to run yourselves on your swords at my funeral, out of respect—Jac you're not supposed to agree with that it's a joke. No. You avenge my death," the king says, pushing his brother.
"Bold of you to assume I'll let you die," Dancer says, smiling thinly.
"That's it then?" The duchess asks, "We ready our armies, and wait for him to make the first move?"
"It's all we can do. If he marches through Wales, we make it as hard as we can, every step," the queen says, "It's better than leaving the countryside to burn and massing our forces here."
"Agreed," the duke says, shrugging, "We can hold out at Harlech for a time. Wales won't fall without a fight."
"I mean, I'd sooner we didn't fall, but," the king coughs, fist to his chest.
"We won't fall," the queen says, strongly, "So long as we're alive, we keep fighting."
"We know Henry's strengths, that means we also know his weaknesses," I say.
They look at me.
"He never thinks he'll lose, and he must win. So. We let him think he's winning."
"You're saying we lay a trap," the king says.
"I'm saying he's not used to fighting against long bows. And he's won enough battles to be cocky," I say. He's stubborn enough to ride in armor in the heat, while already suffering a fever. He thinks he's invincible. "He's closest confidant is Courtenay, but Courtenay's not strong enough to get the crown if Henry falls, and I don't even know if he'd want it. But the other nobles, and Henry's brothers, aren't going to listen to him like Henry does. He's powerless without his king. And the brothers are managing France they care for that and maybe Scotland but not Wales. And if Henry dies his what—ten year old is on the throne?" A ten year old I'd lay money cares little for war. Henry VI isn't stupid and put to it he's not bad in battle, but at the moment he's ten. He's got no Margret of Anjou to protect him and I'm willing to bet that even being raised by his warlike father isn't changing him that much. He's still a child king who will grow to be a man who founds colleges instead of invading countries, who refuses to display heads on the sides of roads. He's not something for us to fear, and I'll take him over his father any day of the week.
"You're suggesting we kill the king? And what? We could never take the British empire," the duke says. Oh, good, Henry's branded himself as an empire that's not great.
"No, but if Henry dies we let England burn itself to the ground. They are only allied as they are because Henry lives, his son is a child, his brothers aren't much younger than him—and they have France to keep. He dies, England falls into chaos, they'll forget about us," Henry VI quit the Hundred Years' War once, he will again. I'm willing to lay money on it. He might keep France in this timeline but I'll stake my life that he'll not care about a war his father barely started with Wales. And he'll be busy. The only reason the War of the Roses hasn't kicked off yet is Henry V lives, and that will be plenty of entertainment for the rest of the island for some time.
"I'm not condoning any plan to assassinate the King of England," The king says.
"You don't have to El, it's completely fine we won't talk about it again it just might happen," the duke says, patting me on the top of my head.
"He wouldn't be easy to get to," the queen says, shaking her head, "He's their king. Kings do not ride into battle. Edward III let his own son nearly die at Poitiers rather than risk himself riding into battle."
"Ah, but he is not Edward, Edward also lived to old age," Henry didn't, "Henry already walked into battle at Agincourt, he dragged his own brother to safety and fought over his injured brother, wielding an axe. He won his scars on St. Crispin's day. This is a man who thinks he can survive anything, let's make sure he doesn't this time," I say, "I'm not saying go out of our way, but if he's on Welsh soil? We cut off the lion's head."
"Absolutely, I'll do it personally you can execute me later and say I wasn't supposed to it's completely all right," the duke says.
"It's better him than our own people," the queen says, looking at the king.
"Fine, if he invades personally we do what we can take him down. But only if he sets food on Welsh soil. This plan could backfire and we have all of England, and Henry's three brothers could be down on our heads, burning this country to the ground for spite," the king says.
"That or Henry burns it down for entertainment," the duchess says, gently.
"Or glory," I say.
"Real glory is not in battle, child. It is in your land and those you love. Real men know that," the duchess says, kindly.
I nod my head in acceptance, "I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend." Tolkien, Lord of the Rings. I once had a map of all of middle earth on my bedroom wall. I would map out imaginary battles. Defeat orcs time and again. Perhaps standing here for the first time I see the quotes true meaning. We are keeping Wales safe. Not waging war for sport. Yet my own casual regard for my mortality leaves me ready to die by a Saxon arrow.
"That's good," the queen says.
"I stole it from someone smarter than I," I say, smiling a little.
"We will not let Wales fall," the duke says, hand on his brother's shoulder as the king coughs. "Not while there is strength left in us."
"We should rest. We'll speak more before you leave, Duchess, but you've had a long journey," the king says, nodding at all of us that we should go.
I retreat to my tower, but am loath to return back to the real world. The other world. The world I came from. I wish to stay away the night at least, and at this point I care very little for their worry, but some part of me wants to know. I can't cut all ties. I want my books back. All my books are there, and some useful research.
I change out of my good clothes, put on a pair of plain trousers and a balled up t-shirt that I left here, and slip off the ring.
I'm back in my bedroom. Of course it's the middle of the night, eleven thirty. I sigh, going over to turn on a lamp. My cork boards gone. All my notes. My paper. Everything. My bedroom simply has a bare mattress on the bed, a table with a lamp, that's all. I feel anger building in my chest again, but no magic to let it out.
My clothes are all a mess in the closet. I always have things neat, and in order of color. They went through my clothes? And did not find my little 'I ran away' note? Like, besides me being mad, damn is that ineffective searching. I had that under the pillow, it was easy.
"Hey," Mariah knocks on the door.
"Hey," I say, quietly, sitting down on the bed.
"I was able to get these," she says, sitting down next to me. She has my battered copy of Monmouth, as well as one of my books on Henry V, and my set of Lord of the Rings. "Before the trash came. I'm sorry."
"They're the worst," I say.
"Yeah. Bit of a shouting match—all evening actually. When I got back and saw your stuff in the trash I asked where you were and we went up here and they thought you were in here but you weren't. I had words, with my dad," she says.
"I'm sorry," I sigh. I didn't mean to get her in trouble, "Why are they so awful? Why are people so awful?"
"I don't know. I think I'm trying to figure it out. But. I'm not gonna ask, where you've been going, or who you've been seeing. Because. Whatever. But—I'm moving in. With Doug. He's got a place starting this weekend and, I'm going," she says, fiddling with her nose ring and then just rubbing her face.
"Good for you," I say, nodding, "Give my regards to Doug."
"I will. Look, I know they took your phone and stuff. And I know you're probably about to go off to whoever you've been staying with. But if that turns out not all right?" She holds up a burner phone, "Call me. Okay? I know we're not really family or anything. But it's somewhere safe to crash, right? There's a lot of bad people, out there, in the world Gideon. And most of them want to kill you, and sell your organs."
I laugh.
"Okay?" She asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.
"Okay. I'll be okay. It's just—friends from the museum," I say, "Look if I really and truly disappear at this point, I got killed by a ghost like I've always wanted, okay?"
"Try to avoid that? A little bit? I don't know if life—gets better, for people like us. But I figure it has to, at some point. Not everyone is always going to be bad," she says, giving me a squeeze. She smells like stale cigarettes.
"I'm sorry," I say, hugging her, "I didn't mean to get you in anything. I'm just—having fun."
"Good. Take care of yourself, Gideon. No one else is going to, you're the best, and if someone else doesn't see that, they don't deserve you," she says, hugging me back, firmly.
"You going over to Doug?" I ask, wiping tears from my face.
"Yeah, you want to come?"
"No," I smile, "I've got somewhere I need to be."