The Last Knights of Cambria Book 5: Deaths of the Rose

Chapter 1: Do not try this at home

Look, I definitely wanted to become deeply embroiled in an epic conflict that would ultimately lead me to my death. Finding out I actually have magic powers, getting a dragon trapped in my skin ready to summon at will, actually dying, nearly dying several times, being kidnapped and held at sword point more times than I can count? Icing on the cake. I am having a fantastic time. But I think I should add a little disclaimer here, for the next portion of aforementioned fantastic life-affirming adventure that will definitely lead to my untimely death at the hand Henry V if he can manage it.
Everything you are about to read? Do not try any of it at home. The sword fights. The deals with mortal enemies. The getting trapped in ancient tunnels. None of it.
I say this with full authority. Considering I just made a last minute pact with my arch enemy, Henry V's chief sorcerer and constant companion, who also happens to be my arch nemesis, a very good looking fellow named Courtenay. See, an undead warrior was about to make a deal with Henry V for me to give up a magic ring I sort of happen to have and knew was forbidden magic and kept anyway. The reason I didn't want to give it up, is because the forbidden ring is a protection spell I rigged up to allow Henry V's son, Henry VI, to call on my aid. Yeah, if you know nothing about the War of the Roses or Henry VI, you probably are vaguely aware that he dies horribly.
So, I'm back in time, what am I supposed to do, not help him out? Anyway, despite the multiple attempts on my life and the lives of my friends, Courtenay, aforementioned really good looking sorcerer, is in favor helping the little eleven year old boy who is now the crown prince, because he's attached to the kid as well.
So, sine I'm being made to give up the ring, we did a spell that allows me to go to all of its different summons, all in rapid succession. So that I'm time traveling forward, completing whatever quest is needed, and then going back to my time maybe two minutes later. Which is good, because it means my friends and everyone else won't worry about me.
It's bad because I just used a whole lot magic, am exhausted, dropped in the middle of I don't know where, with arrows flying at my face.
"Timing, man," I mutter, raising a hand and letting blue light emanate from it. Dozens of arrows are immediately suspended mid air, cross bow bolts. But these aren't normal attackers. No, not at all.
"Ghosts, why'd it have to be ghosts?" I mutter. I'm really sick of these guys. They're not identical to the zombies I was fighting two days ago for reasons that currently aren't important, but close. They're an undead army with crazy high attack value and crazy high hit points, and I'm in some sort of a hallway in a castle I don't recognize.
I hop to my feet, spitting blood from my mouth as I use magic to suspend the arrows and hold the ghosts back.
I look over my shoulder for the first time to check who I'm defending.
A man and boy, both holding swords, both look wounded. The boy has dark hair, and though he's tall he's clearly several years my junior, twelve or thirteen at best. He supports the man who is clearly wounded, but still grasping a sword. The man has limp blond curls, and in a flash I recognize him as his brown eyes lock with mine.
Henry VI. I saw him not half an hour ago, age eleven, he's well past thirty now, severely injured, and if history is anything to go off of, ill. The boy supporting him is likely his son, Prince Edward? Must be, I can't do the mental math, but I think the ages fit.
"Go—do you have somewhere to hide?" I ask, gritting my teeth. I can't hold the ghosts back forever.
"Yes, we're trying to get in the keep," the boy says, taking the help, "They're outside—we were trying to lock them out. Here."
He throws me his sword. I catch it with magic, "What about you?"
"We'll be fine," he says, taking Henry's sword as the monarch slumps against him, his blood pooling on both of them.
"Go—I'll hold them off, can you take him?" I ask.
"Yes," the boy nods, not bothering to question who I am.
"Hurry," I say, turning back to the ghosts. It's taking all my strength to keep them back.
I wait till the sound of a door closing firmly. I hope they have aid where they're going. It seemed like they did. Also I am more than a little preoccupied.
I look over my shoulder, confirming that they're safe in whatever tower. Then I let loose the torrent of ghosts. They attack me from all sides, and one by one I start smashing them with magic. I draw a sword from one of them and start fighting with the sword the boy gave me, which is cool it's a nice sword I really like its hilt it's got great balance. However.
I'm fighting my way down a hall of innumerable enemies. I can't keep this up and I know it. And I would really like to know what is going on and who the enemy is? Who summoned these monsters? That's hard, the only time I've seen it done, a wizard did it. And that wore him out. I don't even know how to do it.
If Henry is an adult I'm assuming the War of the Roses in full swing. This is about to be grossly over simplified but I'll expand on it later because, eh, I'm dying right now so. Over simplified War of the Roses, based off of my reality alone, not this one. This is an alternate reality with dragons and magic, but so far as I've seen, things have gone largely the same. So, since Henry is in danger I'm going to assume the War of the Roses is in fact happening. So, what is the War of the Roses?
Henry VI is king of England because he inherited the crown from his father who got it from his father, who got it by stealing it from his cousin. You see, a couple of generations ago, Edward III had thirteen children, the majority of whom lived to adulthood, and had kids, so there is essentially a metric ton, of descendants of Edward III peppering English nobility at this point in time, all of them are third cousins and most can trace their way back to the king. Does that matter? No, that's literally how lineage works.
Point is a less senior cousin, Henry IV, took over from Richard II who was the first in line. Henry IV ruled, and then he gave the crown to his son, everyone's favorite fighting Englishman, Henry V.
So, his son Henry VI is king, for reasons mostly to do with him not being an over assertive, war hungry, velociraptor of a human being, and in fact being a bit sickly (more on that later) certain nobles wanted to overthrow him, primarily to do with greed power and money. Certain nobles were led primarily by one guy named Richard of York, who is a fourth or so cousin of Henry VI, and York thinks he should be king. We're gonna call him York for the foreseeable future.
York thinks he should be king, various power struggles and battles ensue, York gets killed but his eldest surviving son and drinking buddies take up the fight. It's so called the War of the Roses, because Yorkists were represented by the white rose, and Henry VI's faction, the Lancasters, by the red rose. They are so called Lancasters because that's the old family line essentially.
So, since my Henry VI is currently in trouble, and being attacked, I'm just comfortably blaming Yorkists. And we're not in Windsor Palace or any of the Welsh castles I know, but England and Wales are peppered with castles. If Prince Edward is really twelve to thirteen, then, this would be 1465-1466, which if memory serves, at that point the Yorks had control of the crown, and London, and Henry and family were hiding out in various Lancaster supporting houses across mostly the north of England. So that's what we're doing here I guess? And Yorks are trying to get them? Yeah, that tracks.
I fall into the rhythm of battle smoothly. I can hear the Duke of Conwy's voice in my head, as a knight of Wales he trained me in battle. Night after night he patiently practices with me on the sword. My epic magic fantasy adventure only started something like eighteen months ago. I'm far from an expert with a sword but experience is a fast teacher.
Steady your breathing. You're not afraid, because you have nothing to be afraid of. It is for your enemy to fear. One slow breath, then another. That's it. Feel the sword in your hands. The ground beneath your feet. And the weapons are a part of your arm. Smooth. Easy now. Lower your heart rate. Calm your mind. This is a game you are going to win. And you feel no pain.
"I feel no pain," I whisper, as the sword flows, easy, steady in my hands. The boy's sword suits me well, though I doubt it's his, it's not fine enough a weapon. That's all right. It's like my practice swords back in Wales. Just a hand and a half sword that I was leant to bang up in practice. Just a boy with a sword.
Don't hold your breath. You're not waiting for anything. Just keep fighting. When you stop, you die. And we don't die. Keep going. Don't waist your energy on magic. Save it, trip them, it's easy and quick to kill a man. Snap their necks. Use as little strength as possible. You will need it.
His voice is as calm and cool in my head as if we're on the lawn at Harlech Castle, midnight, and he's guiding my hands as I swing the sword. Then letting me try to attack him, and of course blocking me every single time.
I follow his lead, I slay as many ghosts as I can with the sword, resorting to magic only when I must.
The ghosts, however, are pouring in from somewhere. And so I fight towards their source, down this seemingly endless stone hallway.
As I fight, it gradually occurs to me why am I fighting alone? Where are the guards? Henry VI had, decent supporters for most of the War of the Roses, like he'd be surrounded by people someone normal owns this castle in theory since it's not a King's property? That I recognize? I don't know and I don't have time to think as much as I'd like to sort it out. I should have asked them the name of the castle. Not that I have the layouts of every castle in England and Wales memorized. That would be ridiculous. I'm just familiar with all the ones up to the 1600s because since Henry V started kidnapping me and my friends for weekend entertainment, I figured I should have that information.
I fight my way to the end of the hallway. I am bound to reach some sort of gate sometime, and sure enough. We're letting out into a courtyard, ghosts knights are pouring in from the darkness of the surrounding land. All glowing green, and generally evil, armed with swords and axes. The dead of battle, raised again? I don't know and I'm probably not going to find out tonight.
As I reach the courtyard, I realize that I'm no longer alone. A group of ghosts is fighting, hot and heavy, with a sorcerer, armed with twin blades. It's a man, in a dark green cloak, his eyes glow red as he chants incantations, slicing a sword in the air and dispelling several ghosts.
I move to fight back to back with him, breaking my way through the crowd so we can protect the other, and slowly drive the ghosts back out the gate. They keep coming, in droves, and there's no way I can keep this up, I doubt this sorcerer can either. We're both fighting like mad, moving in smooth tandem, wasting our breath on spells and little else.
Slowly, but surely, we press our way to the massive gate. Our eyes are glowing with magic, and I can feel blood running from them. I wasn't exactly well rested before this battle began, and now I've probably been fighting upwards of an hour, and that's probably being generous.
Hands trembling, I fight my way to the gate. I don't have the magic in me to draw it closed, just hauling it with my bare hands, feet slipping in the mud, as I desperately try to close it.
It doesn't work, more ghosts are cramming their way in. The sorcerer casts a spell at them, setting two a fire, as he moves to the other side of the gate. Blood is dripping from his mouth and nose, his eyes so hot red I can barely look into his face.
I force myself to keep going, step, upon step, each one seeming to draw me backward with the weight of the gate, and the ghosts clamoring on it outside. They're trying to drag it backward.
I give up, letting the dragon loose from my skin. It too is weak, but it sails readily free, glowing bright blue against the dark night, as it sets fire to the rest of the ghosts.
I collapse, unable to stand any longer, even as I try to cling to the gate.
The sorcerer finishes, dragging the gate closed with great effort, nearly tripping himself.
Then he hauls me to my feet and puts a knife to my throat.
That's nice. I wince gratefully as I feel the dragon return to my skin.
"Who are you?" He snarls, the red light fading from his eyes. He's maybe thirty? Older than I, a man. He has deep red-brown hair, and liver tinted eyes. The lights on the gate house doors throw odd shadows, but I can clearly make out a large, red birth mark across part of the left side of his face.
Is that significant? My mind is coming up blank. But then the Lancasters could have any number of supporters at this point including outlaws and rebels. There's no reason to recognize him on sight.
"I'm Gideon Saint, the third," I say, spitting blood so I can speak.
"That's the name of Wales' court wizard, try again," he says, knife pressed against my throat.
"I'm still alive?" I ask, surprised. And he knows who I am? Then why doesn't he recognize me? Well it's at least thirty years from now Gideon, you're forty something. Admittedly a sixteen year old is not going to look recognizably like one's forty year old self. Sure, after study maybe, but with a different hair cut, at the moment I'm grubby and covered in blood, in the dead of night not at all expecting it? Yeah, he gets a pass.
"Tell me, who you are, the truth this time," he snarls.
"I am Gideon Saint, I'm here in service of King Henry VI, the rightful king of England," I say, I'm too weak to do a truth spell or I would, "Ask him, he knows I'm here."
"Oh, I plan on it," he says, dryly, dropping me to the ground. I can barely stand. "Once you tell me what it is you think you're doing here?"
"I'm here to help King Henry, what are you doing here?" I ask, sitting up and trying to remain conscious. To be clear, he looks like a stock photo when googling 'peasant poacher'. He's in drab, mostly dark green and brown clothes, all simple, armed with a few weapons but nothing fine. His hair is practically short, and his skin, though fair, is lined from days in the sun.
My head is spinning. Why do I feel like I should know who he is? Why is he vaguely familiar? He's not past thirty, I wouldn't have met him, one of Henry's brothers? No, none of them had that birth mark.
"Interestingly enough the same thing, sir wizard," he says, pointing his dagger at me still, "I need a name. Or I'm throwing you outside that gate."
"You have the only name I can give you," I sigh, "What is yours?" If I know who he is I can maybe say something that might persuade him to believe me I know most of these people. "And what are you doing here? I ought to be suspicious of you I just found you here fighting with them. How do I know you didn't summon them?"
"Because we both know only a wizard's spell can command the dead," he says, "Which you are. The only reason you still live is you summoned a welsh dragon."
"Yes, and Wales is still a friend of Henry, aren't we?" I ask, "We help him and the Queen hide." So we still do that. "Tell me what is your name?"
"And what would you do with it? Sir Wizard?" He asks, "Another spell?"
"I'm not well enough to do a truth spell or I would. Give me something to call you or I'll think of something I think is fitting, or better yet we'll wait here till the royal guard comes and arrests us both, that'll be fun," I sigh, wiping blood from my face.
"You may address me as the Earl of Pembroke," he says, haughtily.
"Jasper?????" I ask, happily, trying to climb to my feet and failing, "Oh thank god, it's you."
Jasper Tudor. Aka the only major character to survive the War of the Roses, aka the last cool Tudor, aka, Henry VI's semi-legitimate half brother. In my world, after Henry V's death, Catherine of Valois, leaves Henry VI to be king on his own as a like, small child, and marries one of the castle knights, Owen Tudor. The product of that marriage is Jasper Tudor, who basically was Rambo through the War of the Roses, a competent military leader and unflinching supporter of his big brother the king. Solidly ten years Henry VI's junior, he'd be about thirty or so here, which fits. What I'm trying to figure out is how he exists? In this world, Henry V survived a lot longer than 36, at least ten or fifteen more years, and so his wife stayed married to him, so how did we get Jasper? Is he just Owen's kid with a different mother? Perhaps. Also, I realize that sounds like something that I don't need to worry about right now, but the thing is I can easily prove I know his brother. But if he's not the King's brother if he's just loyal then he's not going to be as easy to win over.
"Oh, good, the York spies know of me. I'm going to throw you out now," he says, about to pick me up by the back of the shirt.
"No! Don't open that gate—no—please take me to the king, or for god's sake let me rest someplace," I say, leaning away. I get why he doesn't trust me, I do, but it's not convenient at the moment. "I am Gideon Saint have you not met me?"
"They are getting desperate, I give them that. Goodbye," he says, hauling me up and to the gate.
"No—wait—stop—I knew your father, Owen Tudor. He fought at Agincourt," I say.
"Hm. That's nice for you, you probably enjoying know that, I hope you die," he's trying to unlatch the gate while holding me.
"No—Jasper, please—,"
"OPEN THE GATE!!"
We both look up. A man is mostly limping up the road. I can see horses and maybe a wagon in the distance, with lights. Some part of a party? Caught by the ghosts? The man is clearly hurt, and spent as we are. He has dark curly hair, and a cruel face, far too used to smiling. He's wearing much finer robes than either of us, though mostly dark blue. I see no rose in his button hole, which would be too easy I guess.
"Who are you?" Jasper asks, letting me go a little.
"I am Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, my party has been attacked on the road."
***Kill Bill Sirens****
What can I say about Warwick? Well, he started the War of the Roses. By being miserable. He was originally a knight of Henry VI. He stirred up dissent against Henry for reasons based in misogyny and boredom and ablism, and encouraged York to over throw him. And then after a while Warwick switched sides again back to Lancaster. Based off the fact that Jasper also looks like he has kill-bill sirens going off in his brain, I doubt this is after Warwick came back to the red roses. What Warwick did to the Lancaster family and this country, I assume he did for entertainment.
If a genie ever gives you three wishes, chose to punch this guy in the face three times. Seriously. Words cannot express what a toxic, miserable human being he is, but I'm certainly going to try. He's a manipulator, endangering his wife, at one point pregnant daughter, and countless others in his weird quest for power. He's known as the 'Kingmaker' far too cool a title for far too miserable of a human being.
"You—you're the Earl of Warwick, you haven't heard the news?" I ask, chewing on my fist.
"Heard what?" Warwick looks like he wonders why this filthy dying child is talking to him.
"The pox," Jasper says, without missing a beat, "Across the north of England."
"What are you talking about?" Warwick asks, "There is no—,"
"Then why does your face look like that?" I ask.
"The boy is right, you're not looking well yourself," Jasper nods.
"I don't know, who you are, but I and my men were attacked on the road, now I am here to request an audience with Queen Margret," Warwick snarls.
"I don't know who that is, do you know who that is?" Jasper asks me.
"No, not really," I say, shaking my head, "The pox has got him, clearly."
"Clearly. Hm, sadly we can't let you inside," Jasper shrugs, with no remorse.
"Who—what—over half my men are dead, you will let me in," Warwick shakes the gate.
"I'm not the gate keeper," Jasper shrugs.
"No, I'm not even from here," I say.
"So—we really don't have the authority to let you in," Jasper says.
"No, it's not even our castle," I say. We both have Welsh accents so that's almost believable.
"I don't know—who you are—wait—you're one of Tudor's boys aren't you? Tell me since when do bastards have the run of an English court?" Warwick snarls at Jasper.
"That name really isn't familiar. With you being so feverish we really can't be just letting you in even if you are claiming to be the Earl of—somewhere," Jasper says, waving a hand lightly.
"And we're not even the gate keepers, no, so we wouldn't even be having the keys," I say.
"Aye it's locked. Wait there. We'll look for someone," Jasper says, turning around and guiding me by the arm to the do the same.
"COME BACK HERE AT ONCE!! I DEMAND YOU LET ME. IN!!"
I laugh and Jasper has to cover his face.
"Could he have sent the ghosts? He's a Yorkist?" I ask, quickly.
"He's no wizard. And last I checked he's too damn proud to associate with a wizard. He's a middling sorcerer, at best," Jasper scoffs, leading me into the ward, I suppose? I look around. This castle is huge, as big as Windsor, easily. I can see the main keep, pale in the moonlight. A few fires still glow in the windows.
"What castle is this?" I ask, softly.
"Dover," Jasper says, going over to some barrels.
Dover? We're in Kent then, which is south of London. Oh, that would make sense. It's a port city, right across from Calais. It's a good strategy for Henry to hole up here, get support from the part of France he controls, and easy access to mount an attack on London.
"What are you—," I'm about to ask Jasper why he's wandered off, then I see the reason.
He reaches into a barrel and withdraws a little boy, maybe seven or eight, with messy brown hair and very sad brown eyes. Reader, meet Jasper Tudor's innocent little nephew, who, will, in my world, become Henry VII of England. How does that happen? Well, after Henry VI dies and the red roses lose, Jasper is still alive, with supporters, and a need for revenge. He puts his nephew on the throne of England, killing the last York King, Richard III, in a bloody battle at Bosworth field. Jasper wins in the end, the long game anyway.
"You all right?" Jasper asks, setting the boy on a barrel unceremoniously.
The boy nods, looking at me quickly.
"You did good, very good job," Jasper says, doing some sort of quick little secret handshake. The little boy smiles then. "That's my boy."
"Come on, we'll take you in, see if I get to kill you or throw you out there with your Yorks," Jasper grunts, to me, helping the boy off of the barrel and taking his hand firmly. The kid is little, so if he's that little. Damn I'm off with the dates but technically the dates could be off. Henry VII was born in 57, so if we're in 64 that puts him at barely seven. Okay that fits, and we could be sixty three, that would make Prince Edward ten to eleven, so he could be tall for his age, he was born if 53. Yeah that's making sense so the year is 1463 or 64. I jumped a solid thirty years in the future. Cool, cool, cool.
"Not my Yorks, and if you do throw me outside, can you throw me a different direction than Warwick? Thanks, I don't want to be around him it's bad enough being on the same island," I say.
"We'll see," Jasper says, he's still holding a knife on by the way. I'm now honored by that because he's, you know, Jasper Tudor, the 1400s answer to Solid Snake.
Jasper leads me into the keep. There, I find something of a peaceful bustle of activity. The castle residents are scurrying around cleaning up, mostly at the direction of a few knights.
"Eh, you're not dead, Tudor?" A slim man is holding a bloody sword. He's clearly fought, and is now helping direct the repairs.
"You're not dead?" Jasper laughs.
"I just asked you that!"
"No, like, I got seven reports you'd died, you bastard," Jasper scoffs, pushing me towards the stairs.
"Who's that?" The man asks, looking at me. He's a noble likely. Is Somerset still alive now? Suffolk? Butler is dead, right? I don't know and I wouldn't recognize him by this brief a conversation those guys are Red roses but even so.
"Prisoner, I was going to throw him outside, but he's a Welshman, and we bonded being miserable to Warwick together, which I think is beautiful," Jasper laughs, but he uses a much, much, much stronger word than 'miserable'.
"Oh, right, on your way then, let the Queen decide," the man says, not overly concerned.
"They upstairs?"
"Aye."
Jasper pushes me ahead of him, up the stairs of the keep. We're likely going up to the King's apartments.
"How do you know I'm a Welshman?" I ask.
"I spoke to you in Welsh and you answered? That'd do it," Jasper scoffs.
"Oh, that would do it," so I think my magic ring translates all languages for me, and me to them. Apparently, it does automatically. I can usually tell sort of when it is but not always.
"Move," Jasper says, pushing me a little.
"I am trying," I say, though he's as winded as I am. We're both still bleeding from the mouth and a bit from the eyes.
Jasper pauses, blessedly, I assume at the proper floor. He says nothing to me though, instead turning to the boy, "Wait here for me, all right Harri? Then I'll get you dinner."
"Yes, Uncle," the child says, quietly, sitting down on the steps. He's obedient as a collie pup, if a bit lonely. His name is Henry, but they're using the Welsh version of his name, at least between the two of them. I would guess he's speaking to him in Welsh as well.
"Here we are, let's see what they say," Jasper says, smirking a little like he thinks I won't pass the test.