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

Chapter 6: I have the world's third worst sleepover

Gidoen
I pass out almost immediately on the floor of Courtenay's room, curled up under a stiff mattress wrapped up in a blanket. It's quiet at first, while Courtenay himself gets ready for bed, then Henry walks in, a wine glass in either hand, because he's not going to break the habit of a lifetime of talking about evil plans to Courtenay in the small hours of the night.
"Do you want me to go?" I ask, as this occurs, Henry kicking the door shut behind him and giving his paramour a glass of wine.
"Does it matter? Apparently, you're typically here," Henry sneers, which is accurate, so I go back to sleep to the sound of them discussing how well the other does and doesn't look after the day's events. Apparently this is soothing background noise at this point because I completely pass out to it.
I get in a lovely forty five minutes of sleep, or however long it takes for Henry and Courtenay to drink four glasses of wine and realize they still don't trust me, and decide to wake me up to make me swear on all that's holy that I'm telling the truth.
And that's the story of how my ex-celebrity-crush wakes me up at one am, by kicking me in the small of my back. Not a gentle pushing-you-with-a-foot-as-you're-sleeping-on-the-floor sort of kick, but instead a I-truly-don't-care-if-I-break-a-few-bones sort of kick.
"What?" Is how I choose to address King of England and France, Lord of Ireland and Wales, Henry the goddamn fifth, on probably his eighth glass of wine of the night, who is preparing to kick me again. I am wincing and cuddling up in a blanket for comfort. He is looking—surprisingly good though I'm sure that's been discussed—not at all tired nor red eyed from the wine. Granted, given his daily routine and body weight I'd assume he has more than a decent tolerance for alcohol.
"We need assurance you are telling the truth," Courtenay, refilling their cups of wine.
"I'll swear veracity on whatever you like on one condition," I mumble, lying back down face down on the ground and tugging the mattress back on top of me.
"What is that?" Henry asks, voice poisonous.
"I want something to eat now that I'm awake and you're going to keep me awake swearing things."
They apparently decide that that is justified. I doze off for that discussion, but I do know it ends with sending for food, because I'm woken by a swift kick in the back, again. And then general sound of our long suffering Owen Tudor delivering a plate of food to Courtenay at the door. He doesn't even question this. I really love him. This man was probably guarding the hall, he got woken up by the Archbishop to go and fetch a plate of food for the King and the Archbishop's adopted-trash-welsh-wizard-child. And he's not even surprised anymore. Not gonna ask what's going on, nothing. He's quit asking why and is gonna save all this for therapy. Therapy is the local pub where old dudes give free advice, not good advice, but it's free. And so far the advice is always 'let all that go, lad' and now Tudor is like a solid twelve years in to ridiculous shit, there's a permanent '0 days since our last nonsense' sign in his room, today ghosts attacked the palace and that's not even top ten weirdest things that have happened to him. He doesn't care; he's going back to bed to sleep well knowing life will never make sense.
"Thank you Tudor," Courtenay nods to him, getting the plate of food. Brief note on names, yes very brief because I am sleep deprived here. We're all calling him Tudor but that's not his last name in the sense that Saint is my last name. In this period there were no last names, Henry V, is Henry V. But before he became king he was Henry of Monmouth, because that's where he was born. That's how nobles are generally denoted. Lower ranking nobles, either did carry a family name, but it wasn't used the same, for example Courtenay is Richard Courtenay, but he's not Mr. Courtenay or anything like that and if he married and had children (ugh) then they wouldn't necessarily carry his name, or it might be added to their mother's titles. It's complicated. In other countries it works differently, like Fionn is Fionn MacCumhail because his father's name was Cumhail, and then in turn Oisin is Oisin MacFionn.
Anyway. Owen Tudor's name isn't even Owen Tudor, it's actually, get this, Owain ap Maredudd ap Tudur. The 'ap' just like 'mab' or 'Mac' means son of, so he came from those family lines of Maredudd and Tudur, or he said he did. Because he's a Welshman, it's not even known, in my world, how he made his way to court. Records are sketchy and due to his eventual marriage to Catherine of Valois after Henry's death, he became more prominent. Anyway, no real solid evidence. He's cited as anything from a serving boy, to a courtier, to a natural son of an ale house keeper, to one of Henry's squires.
That last one is most likely. Trusted servants, of no real family, often are ghosts in the footnotes of stories of kings. He likely is just a welsh boy, who wanted to be a knight, probably helped bear arms at Agincourt, Henry knighted him. And he's proven loyal so he's a trusted man at arms. Simple as that. Pretty common we only know of him because of his eventual relationship with Catherine.
Why the name change? Well, due to basically racism against the Welsh, it wouldn't do good to go by his less easy to pronounce name, much like immigrants did coming to America, it's common to shorten or make names easier for the dumb colonizers. So Owain simply becomes Owen. He might have been forced to do this when he started working at Windsor, or he may have just decided to.
Again, we know very little about him, other than his very private marriage to Catherine, but he remains a good dad to his sons, and loyal to Henry VI eventually dying in the War of the Roses. So he's a pretty solid guy. Escapes prison at one point funny story actually ask me later. No, it's fine Henry VI takes decent care of him and he's loyal to his kind of step son, so again we're gonna assume he's just a good fellow. His last words, before Yorkist sympathizers behead him, are rumored to be "you would cut off the head that once lay in Queen Catherine's lap?" Which is such an an interesting choice of last words, yes, reader, they beheaded him. Which is sad, I don't think he was a bad guy. Anyway. Needed to do a little biography on him as he brought me a midnight snack.
"Thank you, my lord," I say, eagerly accepting the plate.
"We could give it to him after," Henry says, tiredly.
"He looks hungry," Courtenay says, giving me a cup of water as well.
"Et verba loquor vera—everything I have told His Royal Majesty Henry and the Archbishop is true to the best of my knowledge and I really am trying to help them even though they're colonizers who enslave my people."
"I don't even think you're welsh," Courtenay says.
"Yes I am, I decided that I want to be," I say, happily eating.
"So it's all true?" Henry wants more reassurance.
"Yes. This is just how he is, his allegiance to you stands, your majesty," Courtenay sighs, also disappointed in me I guess.
"I am a knight of Cambria," I say, stubbornly.
"They knight twelve year olds in Wales?" Henry asks, dryly, very condescendingly for someone who was in fact knighted when he was between twelve and thirteen years. Richard II knighted him, not long after his father was exiled and Richard was overseeing his care. Point being, he was absolutely knighted at age twelve.
"I'm sixteen, or seventeen—I was sixteen when I was knighted. I don't know my proper age, your majesty, I was found someplace," I say.
"Hm, you look twelve. So it's a changeling then, Archbishop, that my Harry has befriended?" Henry asks, referring of course to me.
"I mean like—maybe, actually," I say, continuing eating, "Not one of the top five things I'm worried about, your majesty."
"What's the top thing?" Henry asks.
"Welsh independence." I say.
"Second thing?"
"You."
Henry smiles, "Clever child."
"He's human, your majesty, he was susceptible to the same magic I was in France," Courtenay says.
"Thank you, was that it?" I ask, cleaning the plate with my fingers.
"I thought you said you fed him?" Henry asks, giving me a pile of grapes they've apparently had all along.
"I did, he's a tall boy; he's probably growing and getting hungry at night I don't know," Courtenay reasons, shrugging.
"D'you think we should wake Harry up at night and feed him, then?" Henry asks, completely seriously, while about to put food in his mouth. He has to stop though because they both start laughing.
"No, I think this is about what we're going to get, you never know it might change," Courtenay says, trying to laugh.
"Thank you, I'm going back to sleep if you could just nudge me gently if you have any other questions? Thank you my lords," I say, crawling underneath the mattress again.
Naturally Henry kicks me with the exact same force he did previously, in under an hour when they've both thought of more loopholes I might be exploiting in swearing that I'm not up to no good. This happens two more times and I sincerely miss the cave. Not really. But there was the distinct lack of a boot colliding with my back at odd intervals.
When I do wake up come morning it's to the general commotion outside of the house waking up, the sunlight coming in, and the loving sensation of King Henry's boot colliding with my head.
"Ow! That hurt, d'you want me to help you or not?" I mumble, crawling out from under the mattress.
"I couldn't see your head, could I?" Henry says, with zero remorse. He's dressed for the day in another mostly black and deep red outfit, Courtenay is dressed similarly and is adjusting Henry's jacket.
"Yes, your Majesty," I say, rubbing my head.
Henry and Courtenay deliberate and I fall back asleep on top of the mattress. It does occur to me as I do that it's really, really horrible that at this point in my life I find their meaningless conversations about each other's clothes and hair, soothing enough to fall asleep to. But I still nod off.
Courtenay wakes me up by shaking my shoulder. Hm. So Henry hasn't had his soul surgically removed yet.
"Get up, there's breakfast you like food eh?" Courtenay asks, letting go as soon as he sees I'm up.
"Why do I feel so awful?" I mumble, pressing my fist to my mouth. My stomach is churning. I know I used magic a lot yesterday but why do I still feel miserable?
"You said that spirit trapped you, come here," Courtenay says, motioning to the rumpled bed. I crawl up, obediently, putting a hand through my hair.
Courtenay mutters a spell under his breath then presses his palm to my forehead.
"It's still in you somehow," he lowers his head, eyes flashing red, "It's—you're still tied where you were trapped. Some powerful spell freed you—it's—is it yours? Is it the one on Harry?"
"Shh, calm down. I offered him protection that's all. You've met him, he could probably use it," I say.
"You know something about him, don't you? Just like you knew about myself and the King," Courtenay frowns.
"I have reason to think he might wind up in danger and again you have met him, he's kind and he's gentle, yeah, I do also have reason to believe King Henry will be in danger, but he enjoys that I'm sure he can handle it. The ghosts were nearly upon the prince and he called upon me, that's all," I sigh, holding up a hand, "Hoc ego iurare verum."
"Yes, all right, I believe you," Courtenay says, softly, rocking back on his heels. His eyes have transformed back into their usual crystal blue, "Do you need to go back?"
"I'm not doing that. It's not that bad. It's just like—running on half power," I say.
"I've been there," Courtenay says, and I fully believe Henry has put him through everything thought of at this point. "Let me know if it gets worse. You don't do anyone any good dead."
"Aye, I figured," I smile a little.
"All right? I—accept your allegiance to our Prince. But. Why?" He frowns, "Not the first kind boy you're run across."
I look at him knowingly.
"Oh that bad?" He asks.
"It may not come to pass. But I'd sooner it didn't men like me—like maybe you—like the King. We're always going to end badly, aren't we? We wouldn't have it another way I've died by a Saxon arrow once and I will again in a minute. It's likely a virtue, to value learning, and compassion, and religion, and friendship, over swords and warfare and our witchcraft. I'm not saying the world does not need men like us. I'm saying we exist to protect men like him. I've seen things, and sometimes I'd like to stop what I see, maybe I can't. I don't know, but I have to try," I say.
Courtenay nods, a little, curling his fist as though envisioning the many demons that could come for our prince.
"I think you knew that too. In a way you're the same as me, but you know when you should have died, so you have some visions," I guess. If anything his might be more accurate, since he's seeing his own future. I'm seeing, or rather studying, a different past.
"With his father and I alive, I thought, perhaps," he says, softly.
"Maybe—that I don't know, maybe. But," I shrug a little.
"But let's not test it. Yes," he nods, standing up, "Yes. On which note I'm checking the enchantments. I sent my sorcerers out, but."
"And I would love to come with you and see how you do it, however," I say, standing as well and changing my shirt. The old one was pretty destroyed from the cave and all else yesterday.
"However, I'm not about to show you my enchantments you're still a Welshman, boy," Courtenay says, almost amused.
"Okay, didn't want to come anyway. I've got a Irish warrior to find. He summoned those ghosts and he's bound to be weak as I am right now," I say.
"Do you have a plan?" Courtenay asks.
"Start of one. I'll catch him or be back before nightfall," I say.
"Do you want aid of my sorcerers?" He asks, "One or more of them can go."
"No, I think this would be better alone. He's another wizard. And we've met, briefly, I might be able to talk with him," I say. I know Fionn said several times not to talk to him which means I really definitely want to talk with him as soon as I possibly can.
"Do I need to bind you to return by nightfall?" He asks.
"Look, my help is a gift. I can leave on a dragon right now and you people can deal with Ireland and rebellions and kings in mountains on your own all right? I'm not a hound, I don't function on leashes," I say, folding my arms.
Courtenay smiles his cigarette model smirk, "Of course I get a wizard who's a Welshman."
"Do you not deserve me?" I ask, hand to my chest.
"Likely I do at that. Just take care. If the illness worsens I may be able to abate it I do not know. You're the only wizard I've ever practiced with, and I've not tried to heal one," he says.
"It's fine, I'm just like I said, a bit weaker than I'd like. No, I'm going to find Oisin, take however long to gain his trust and persuade him you all are not the enemy. I'm saying with a great deal of love and affection meeting any of you will not help with that," I say, gesturing broadly.
"You could have a point," he says.
"Yeah, you all don't bleed innocence and maybe before I get back hide the rest of 'King Henry and Archbishop Courtenay's Evil Plan to Invade Ireland' notebooks or whatever you call them?" I ask.
"I did last night—I think. Fair point, yes, we might look the aggressors, generally," Courtenay says, adjusting his jacket.
"Yeah more than a bit. Anyway, I'm going to find Oisin, and try to reason with him he's the one who's planning to call the Fianna, I need him to halt that, then we find out what the actual threat to Ireland is," I say.
"Agreed. If you need assistance let me know, if all goes well then you might not be able to get back in, we're going to try to keep everyone here and not the Tower," he says.
"Why? Tower's easier to defend it's brilliant plus your magic base is there plus the moat—," I begin.
"Yes, I've heard this from the King, go tell it to our Queen apparently she's opposed because of one minor incident during a small uprising, where she had to hide in the Tower, while giving birth, and that was apparently not ideal, but I think she forgets we were not having a good time either."
"I truly doubt that. I firmly believe you and definitely the King were having a great time doing whatever involving swords and stabbing people," I say.
"Fine, but we didn't act like it. Around her. That she should have been aware of. Anyway, point is we're staying here— don't you have an Irishman to find?"
"Been nice doing business Archbishop," I say, waving at him as I go to leave.
"Yes, let's leave it another few months or better yet years next time eh?"
"Yeah, let's try."
I give it like, three months before the fate of England and territories are at stake and we're forced to team up again.
But now.
To find Oisin.
And I should take a moment here to address the fact that no, I haven't given a proper pronunciation of the word 'Oisin' despite saying it about fifty times by now. And there's a good reason for that.
I haven't got one.
The thing is, we're talking Ancient Celtic dialects here when we're talking about Fionn and Oisin and the like. Ergo, we don't actually know how it's pronounced we just know how their words changed over the years. Like, Othello was pronounced completely different in Shakespeare's day than it is in modern America. That's an example of a few hundred years, not a few thousand like we're talking.
Moreover, Ireland itself had many different dialects throughout, and the Gaelic people also carried this story to Scotland, where things would be pronounced different. Think of how an English person might pronounce something versus how an American from the Bronx would pronounce it, except ten fold, nobody wrote anything down, this is all word of mouth because colonization happened and any written records were destroyed.
All that's to say, Fionn is usually translated to be pronounced Finn, and that is fine if you want to pronounce it that way, that's the Angelicized version of the name.
Just like earlier, I mentioned Owain (Welsh) becomes Owen. It's angelicized. Owain is pronounced phonetically how we understand phonics, "Oh-wain".
Irish, really Celtic, has different sets of phonics. Again, it's a brain buster to try to find one standard pronunciation. And I am not a linguist.
So, for our purposes, you can pronounce Fionn as either "Finn" or "Fee-on" where the o isn't dropped. That's how I'm saying it and it's working, but again there's many different ways to do it, and I'm pretty sure the magic that's bringing me here gives me some sort of season pass on all the various dialects. Because Welsh is far from simple either. Finn or the more traditional Fionn means fair haired, it's not even clear if that's Fionn's name or just a nick name that he was given because of his white hair.
Oisin means 'little deer' and is still a name today, just like Fionn is. The best pronunciation I'm getting of Oisin, is "Ush-een" which yes doesn't look intuitive to English speakers but it uses a different phonetic system. So. Deal. I'm doing my best. Some people pronounce it "Oh-sheen' but that would imply a different set of accents and this should have an accent over the i. Typically it's "Uhsheen" very soft, try to have an Irish accent when you say it, that kind of helps.
But names are going to sound different in different accents, and it's frankly interesting to me, not only how they change but also how we interpret them. You may have noticed here, we use "Hal" and "Harry" as diminutives of Henry, when in modern day those aren't used much at all. Why? Well if you say "Henry" in an American accent it sounds like "Hen -ree" with hard sounds on both. In a British accent it sounds like "Hehn-ry" which if you slur it enough sounds close to "Harry" if that kind of makes sense? Similarly, Ned is used a shortening of Edward, which doesn't totally follow and several hundred years from now doesn't even make sense. People in Wales and England pronounce Gideon totally different than my teachers did growing up. Similarly Saint in our American English sounds like "Sayn-t-h" while in England it sounds more like "Sayn t" with a very a soft t. Going to sound different. That's not totally wrong but the point is if someone corrects you how their name is pronounced, that's what you go with. Again, I have some sort of magic because so far with what should be many different dialects between here and Wales, and many different choices of words and so on due to era, I haven't slipped up yet.
Well. Now that we know how to say his name. Off to find Oisin.