The Last Knights of Cambria Book 4: Secrets of the Mountain

Chapter 4: Windsor Revisted

Gideon
I fall to the floor of Windsor castle, painfully, the hot magic draining through me. That took most of my strength, I'm incredibly weak. But the spell held true. I'm not a ghost. I'm really here. The dragon crawls around my neck excitedly.
And five ghost huntsmen are shooting arrows at my face.
I leap to my feet, raising a hand as blue magic explodes from my fingers. The ghosts dissolve.
"So good to be home," I grin.
"It worked!" Prince Harry, one day Henry VI, but at the moment an eleven year old with fairy blonde hair and big button brown eyes. He's grown a bit in the past few months but not much, and isn't even up to my shoulder. He's cowering behind a bible and jumps up at the sight of me. "You came!"
"You called. Don't cut it so close next time, mate," I laugh, as he runs to my arms, I pick him up easily and spin him a little as he clings to my neck.
"I live for danger," he says, and we both laugh.
"What's going on?" I ask, setting him down and checking him for injury. Nothing, the boy is unscathed, blessedly. He holds his bible in one hand a tiny knife in the other. This precious child.
"Ghost soldier things are attacking the castle, so father is having fun at least. I was supposed to hide up here but they keep following me so I got scared, I am sorry—,"
"You are not sorry you were about to die that's what this is for!" I say, holding up the ring, "Come on, where are you supposed to hide?"
"The main tower—come, I'll show you," he says, "The others are supposed to be there my father and the Archbishop are fighting the ghost monsters. I do think they're having fun though I worry—perhaps you should go to them?"
"No, I agree they're probably having fun, come on," I say, starting towards the main tower. I've spent a few good nights being chased around the castle, well enough to know the general lay out. And to know when something is off. "Something is wrong—run, now—," I push him ahead of me just in time as an arrow sings past us, grazing my arm. I waste a moment looking over my shoulder to see a few ghost warriors opening fire on us. I use energy I don't have to explode them with magic, faltering in my step. The teleportation here did me in. I can taste blood in my mouth. I am not up for a chase right now.
"This way!" Harry grabs my arm and tugs me down another hallway. I force myself to run. I can't fight these things right now. Or I can't keep it up. I block another arrow as we duck down a stairwell.
Together we bolt down a hall, only to see a set of ghosts coming towards us. We turn back and run the opposite direction, rounding a corner and running directly into the Archbishop Courtenay. How do I describe the Archbishop? Gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. I wouldn't lie to you this man perpetually looks like the escapee from a modeling photo shoot. No matter what he's going through. Now, he's tried to kill King Elis, and me, and most of my friends, but he's a loyal friend to the English Crown and he and I are in something of a mutual respect phase of our enemies to father-son relationship.
At the moment he's dressed in deep red, looks lightly like he's been in a fight, and over all is just so tired. Like a teacher on the second to last day of term who figures if he doesn't question anything maybe everyone will just leave.
"Oh, good, Gideon's involved now. Get in hiding," Courtenay says, not even surprised I'm here; there's zero surprise he found an obviously ragged Welsh wizard just running through the palace.
"We're trying! There's more that way," Harry sighs.
"Go, your father is blocking the east doors—go, I'll handle them," Courtenay says, taking one look at me and seeing how obviously spent I am.
Harry and I need no second bidding. We keep running the hallway, rounding another corner and then nearly into a set of ghosts. I dispel them and we go on, ducking up a set of stairs and into a hoard of ghost warriors, this group is fighting a set of knights, and none other than everybody's favorite Warlike Harry. Henry V. Longsword in hand, dark hair sweaty and sticking to his ruddy face, rivers of sweat running into the crater like scar on his right cheek, he looks ever the warlord king. Dressed in a doublet similarly to Courtenay's and no coronet it was clearly an ordinary day plotting war crimes here at Windsor.
I raise a hand, using the last of my strength to dispel the ghosts. I lean against the wall, exhausted, trying to drag energy back into my body. I'm loathe to take it from the knights, but I'm sure Henry is already sharing his energy with Courtenay. And he has need of it. We're not out of the woods yet.
"There's more," a knight says, catching his breath though and glancing at me.
"Hold them off as long as you can," Henry says, taking his son and I both by the back of the neck and shoving us down the stairs. He's still holding his sword so that goes into my neck as well, but he manages.
"Father, they're all in the south corridor I couldn't get by," Harry says, as his father pushes us out of the stairs well.
"Do I get an explanation as to why you're here, Saint?" Henry growls, letting me go to stand shakily under my own power.
"Oh you do, and it's a good one too, you're going to like it, your majesty," I say, not bowing because I'll fall but I duck my head respectfully.
"I'd better," Henry snarls, as we all three go down the next hall.
"Father he's helping! I invited him!" Harry sighs, as his father just bodily propels him into a closet.
"Stay—," Henry says, standing in front of it. He looks at me. We both heard footsteps.
I raise my hands, wearily. He holds up his sword.
They appear at both ends of the hall. We move to fight back to back, fluidly, I dispel them with magic then draw Henry's off-hand and start to use that while I recover from the magic use.
"Don't suppose you know what's going on?" Henry snarls.
"An idea—," I mutter, "But it's not my fault or Wales' fault in a lot of senses it's your fault, sort of. Long story. Let's stick with not dying for now, eh?"
"I'll hold you to that long story," Henry mutters, just narrowly stopping a ghost warrior from impaling me, "Why aren't you using magic?"
"Dying?" I say, spitting out blood.
"Get rid of them," He says, grabbing my arm, "Use my strength, I'm fitter than you."
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"I'll manage, yes, I'd like my children to live through the night," he snarls.
I don't need more bidding, drawing on his energy. He's stronger than I, he's well rested and fed, and despite his age, in his early forties he's not considered young by any means, he's a professional soldier and a strong man. I don't sap his strength. I don't need to, he's fit enough to that I can I just skim the surface, using his power to keep me awake as I draw magic to blast through the rest of the ghosts.
We both stagger, from the force of it. I'm spitting up blood, but he regains his footing easily and goes to fetch the prince.
Prince Harry is wincing and holding up his bible in front of him, it takes him a moment to realize it's his father fetching him not a ghost.
"Oh—oh father, you're well, good!" Harry says trying to disguise that his defense mechanism was holding up his book.
"We'll talk about this later, come on, we're leaving now,—TUDOR," Henry turns to call to a knight who was running down the opposite hall, "Get the other children and take them all to the Tower."
"Your Majesty," the knight nods, hurrying to obey. Owen Tudor, a Welshman interestingly enough, one of Henry's usual men at arms who will carry over to Henry VI's reign.
"But—the Tower? What about you?" Prince Harry asks.
"Whatever it is—has—infested Windsor and the tower is easier to guard, now," Henry breaths heavily. That took a lot out of both of us.
"West wing is nearly empty," Courtenay limps up. He looks nearly as bad as I feel.
"Finish the enchantments I'm sending the children to the Tower, and I'm questioning this," Henry says, shaking me by the back of my shirt.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Courtenay turns to hurry back the way he came.
"Speak," Henry says, giving me another shake, this time by the back of the neck.
"Why do you always do that really—? Okay, okay excessively condensed story for sake of time, an ancient warrior is sending ghosts after you and the kids, I know 'cause I got kidnapped to kind of stop me from helping you, but I got out," I say.
"That was condensed, let's see why I should believe you," Henry says, "Oh. Yes. No reason whatsoever."
"Father, he's our friend, he's helping us!" His son pleads, taking my hand delicately, "Look he's hurt! Let him come to the Tower I want him to protect us. I'm scared."
"I will not let anything harm you," Henry says, almost fiercely as we progress to the doors of the palace, I keep looking for more ghosts but Courtenay's magic is holding. Thank god. I'm weak at the knees I need proper food and sleep and I know I'm not going to get it.
"But—," Prince Harry cuts himself off, tears welling in his big brown eyes.
"You'll go and take care of your brothers and sister," King Henry says, as we step outside. It's mid afternoon, the sun is not shining, but then this is England, the clouds are building the sky and it smells like rain. After a week nearly, trapped in that cave, I'm ready to cry with joy at being outside.
"Who's coming?" Prince Harry asks, stopping by his father's side, little hand pressed against mine in comfort. There's sure enough a procession of carriages coming up the drive. Here at Windsor everything is slightly in an uproar, but recall there's no cell phones or telephones or anything, any visitor would still be showing up.
"Someone who's about to be sent away," King Henry says, dryly. Blood is dripping down his face from his forehead, he's still got his sword in his left hand, right is on his son's neck like he thinks the boy might bolt. He's in house clothes, while he usually dresses simply when at home it's clear he didn't plan on doing this. And he and I rather look like victims in a disaster movie. I'm cut and bleeding, completely spent, my clothes torn and filthy from the cave, I can barely stand and that's obvious. I'm sure I'm swaying. Henry's been giving Courtenay power probably all afternoon, and now me, so he's fairly spent himself. We don't look ready to receive guests and Henry looks reasonably annoyed that he's being seen in such a state off the battlefield.
The first carriage pulls up. A couple of servants scurry out to get it ready, like, admirably ignoring this weird little welcome party standing on the steps which includes the actual King who looks like he's the final girl at the end of horror flick.
They open the carriage doors, it's very dramatic, "Good as Hell" should be playing. Like, it's very official for this very unofficial welcome party.
"That's my mother," Prince Harry says.
His father, with no gratitude whatsoever, "Thank you, Harry."
Catherine of Valois. I really didn't know she was still alive. It's very significant she hasn't shown up till now. She and Henry V both die at age thirty six, but since they're a good fourteen years apart in age, this happens about fourteen years apart. But she's not even thirty six yet. And she's clearly still alive, if absent from court. Given court, I don't blame her.
Catherine is small, average height for the time, but small compared to her warlord husband. Dark hair neatly pulled back and piled high and tight to her head. Soft smooth, pale skin, with thin lips and deep brown eyes. She's delicate, lovely. England's rose.
The only thing chroniclers will remember about her is that she is lovely. No hint of the real woman, who married at nineteen to her thirty three year old husband. Only to be whisked back to England. Crowned in February, and falling pregnant with her first child about that time. Henry would leave when she was five months pregnant, his first child well on the way and he returned happily to campaign. Cathrine, alone in a foreign country, with likely only a few trusted servants who were her friends, to give birth in the cold of her first English winter, to the precious baby that would become Henry VI. Two months later she would leave her infant to go see her husband in France. It's unknown what was said or what she thought, but it's easy to surmise it was something to do with 'are you not going to come home and see your kid?'. In my reality he never did, never meeting his son and dying on campaign the following August. She returned to England and soon retired from public life completely, leaving Henry VI when he was three years old to the care of relatives. Not a lot of non tragic ways to spin that tale. We don't have a lot of record, but suffice to say it can't have been a great time for her. And Henry's not necessarily a cruel man, but he's not a romantic. And his much younger bride was a way to get the French crown, and get him heirs. She would have known that; however few could be prepared for him.
Of course, in this reality they're both alive, him much longer than he should be. And Catherine still appears to want to absent herself from public life. I don't necessarily blame her. She's every bit the part of the Queen though. Her cheeks are fresh and a bit flushed but not unhealthy, and her neckline is a bit lower than the ones I've seen in Wales. She's wearing a deep red dress, that shows up bright against her pale skin, tight bodice as is the style of the day, with a long flowing train. No hat, those were the custom but she does have her hair done up. She wears a fairly simple silver necklace and I see some rings on her fingers. No rubies. I glance at Henry's hands for the comparison. Nothing matching. In this time period wedding rings didn't match and the men certainly didn't wear them. Henry usually wears a ruby nearly identical to Courtenay's but he'll take it off when in battle or the like. He has it on now, but it wasn't supposed to be a battle today.
Catherine smiles kindly to the servants and thanks the man who helps her down, then she looks at her husband and child who are staring at her, in obvious confusion.
"What are you doing here?" Henry asks, shaking his head a little, "It's not—are you all right?"
"I'm well," she smiles at him with no real affection, then looks at her son.
"Lady mother, it's not a good time," Prince Harry bows quickly to his mother.
"Harry, pet, what is going on? Who is this?" She asks, beckoning the child forward. He obeys, if very slowly, reluctant to leave my and his father's side.
"Oh, that's a friend of mine," Harry says, going to her. She inspects the cherubic child's face, cupping it in her hands and wiping some of my or his father's blood from his cheek.
"That is the Archbishop's apprentice—you can go to the Tower with the children," Henry says, recovering himself a bit more from the shock of seeing his actual wife.
"What are you talking about?" She asks, not even like, surprised to see him like this, she's not really surprised her husband is standing there clearly come from a fight with a sword in his hand. "Harry, come, have you missed me?"
"Yes, Lady mother, as father said, it is not a good time," Harry says, hugging her quickly and hanging his head a little.
"You need to go, not you," Henry grabs my arm to stop me from casually going over to stand by the Prince who is with his mother.
"Don't you think we should do this inside?" Catherine asks, very calmly.
"No, not at all," Henry says.
As if to illustrate his point, the castle doors open behind us. Courtenay walks out. He'd probably look better if he'd gotten hit by a train and dragged behind it for ten miles. He still looks glorious, but he's clearly not doing well.
"Ghosts are gone," He says, not opening his eyes which are nearly crusted shut in blood. He walks directly into Henry's back, and puts his face on Henry's shoulder. This would be weird. But Henry does not react at all this to chain of events, nor does little Harry, nor do I. Which in retrospect, makes it look much weirder that we all don't acknowledge that it just happened.
Courtenay steps back, realizing Henry is spent too, and comes over to grab my shoulder, swaying as he stands. So he and Henry are both holding either of my shoulders, like disappointed parents at a PTA meeting.
"What? Useless," Courtenay mutters, realizing I'm as exhausted as he is.
"No, I've got you," I say, stopping him from moving away as I drain the knights and Catherine's servants of just a little strength to keep us both awake.
Behind us, the rest of the knights file out, that includes a small procession of people bearing the rest of the royal children. Two nursemaids carry the two youngest, as they are flanked by knights. Then a very over worked, very under appreciated Owen Tudor carries the two middle boys, one under either arm as they both fight him. Tudor looks up, very clearly sees what is going on, that is the Queen standing there questioning why we're all like this, and then this dude, who will always have my respect, chooses to look away and act like he didn't see the King and Queen having the most awkward exchange of glances, and the court sorcerer and wizard kind of hugging each other. He just looks straight ahead. He has his orders to take the kids to the Tower, and he's gonna do that, and if he doesn't look around or see anything he doesn't have to stop. Simplify his life. This is a man who has survived years of petty complicated court drama by simply looking ahead, and acting like he has no idea what's going on.
"Tudor, stop taking those children right now," Catherine says. He stops dead in his tracks.
"Your Majesty," he bows slightly while holding the children, but does not actually move. The children, at the sound of their mother's voice, stop acting like Henry's mean little spawn and start impersonating normal children.
"Did you just say the ghosts are all gone?" Henry asks Courtenay, quietly.
"Not coming back, might not stop bleeding from my eyes, fixed enchantments, could be dying," Courtenay gets out, past blood draining from his mouth.
"Everyone inside," Henry says, looking at us all disdainfully despite the entire scene being equally chaotic including him, "Now."