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

Chapter 4: No rest for the wicked or the Welsh wizards who just want to nap

We make our way back to the keep. It's late and I'm barely able to walk and see properly. Jasper and I have yet to stop bleeding from our eyes or mouths. By now, word of the second battle has spread and the knights are doubling their patrols. Between us, we stagger into the keep and up the stairs, half leaning on each other, pausing every few steps.
Thankfully, Jasper has a good bearing because I have no idea where we're going. He leads us just back up to the King's rooms, which is where we came from.
Poor little Harri, I'd nearly forgotten about him. The boy is curled up on the stairs where we left him, eyes closed, cuddled up in his long cloak.
"Harri, I'm back," Jasper says, gently shaking the boy's shoulder as he kneels in front of him.
"Uncle," Harri mumbles, reaching out a hand.
"I've got to go talk to the Queen, do you want to go to bed?" Jasper asks.
The boy shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Jasper's neck. Jasper rises, with strength I didn't know he had in him, cradling the sleepy child in his arms. I know I couldn't lift more than my sword right now, I can barely put my feet in front of the other. But Jasper, rises, securely clutching the boy in his arms like it's as natural as breathing to him now. Blood drips from his eyes onto the child's hair. It is a matter of form to them. How often has Jasper return to the boy, half dead from fighting, only to pick him up and keep walking? Too many times, neither of them note the ritual. They don't even know where the boy is going to put his head down for the night, likely his uncles' shoulder.
Little is known historically about what exactly befell Jasper and Henry VII on the road on their many months on the run, but there are tales of Jasper sneaking into a castle just to join a fight, and on another occasion sneaking out of a York held castle in disguise as a servant. In essence, shenanigans have ensued, and will continue to ensue until the war is won. And neither man nor boy is even questioning it anymore.
"In here, you're coming with me, I suppose, until I find somewhere to put you," Jasper grunts, to me, guiding me down a hall and into another drawing room. The fire is lit here, and it takes me a full minute to realize that Queen Margret is waiting for us. She's standing looking out a window, and turns at our approach. She was told? Or it's a ritual that Jasper comes and reports to her without the King's moral guidance.
"Your majesty," I bow a little.
"You both look awful—that poor baby, Jasper where has he been?" Queen Margret asks.
"Hiding. He's good at it, I'll put him to bed," Jasper says.
"You can give him to Ned's governess—,"
"I'll put him to bed, we're fine," Jasper says, calmly. So he trusts no one else with the boy? His last family member, brother and father both dead, and he's seen plenty of blood spilled in this war.
"What happened then?" The Queen asks.
"More of the—monsters attacked, when we were bringing Warwick in. He's in a cell, didn't want to go there. Insisting on talking to you," Jasper shrugs.
"Were you unreasonable?"
"Oh completely."
"Good, he'll be more likely to listen to me then," she says.
"You can't trust him," I say, because I don't care about talking out of turn anymore.
"I am not. But I will use him," Margret says, amused by me. At the moment I realize I look like a victim on the Walking Dead, but she should still be annoyed.
"He says he's not responsible for the monsters, doesn't mean it's not some other trick of York's," Jasper says.
"Is he the only survivor of his party?" Margret asks.
"No, two page boys, with him. One a scruffy thing, the other York's youngest boy, he's not crippled as they say, he walked fine, and sassed the Earl fine," Jasper says, a little amused.
"I think the other one, is Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham's eldest," I put in, "I think. I don't know."
Jasper shrugs.
"Little Henry Stafford is probably ten now, they'd have Warwick do his tutelage," Margret nods.
"Nice captives," Jasper says.
"Your King will find out and preach charity so enjoy your dreams, Jasper," Margret says.
Jasper smirks a little.
"Where are they now?" Margret asks.
"Packed in a cell, arguing with each other," Jasper says, "If it means anything, Warwick is as done in as us. He was being attacked."
"Could it be performance?" Margret asks.
"Yeah, this is Warwick," I scoff, "I wouldn't put it past him."
"I put nothing past him, your Majesty," Jasper shakes his head.
"You're both still bleeding. Get to bed, I'll have dinner sent up, and something for your injuries," she says, nodding to us both.
"Thank you, your grace," Jasper half bows considering he's holding his sleeping nephew.
"Gideon, my husband wishes to talk to you in the morning, privately, he's in bed now, but he requested your presence when you rise. Come to this drawing room," she says.
"Very good, your majesty," I bow a bit better, but not much.
She summons a servant to take us to our rooms. Jasper is across the hall from me.
"If you get attacked by ghosts—,"
"Scream 'ghosts in here' and then point them in the direction of Warwick?" I ask.
Jasper clicks his tongue and nods a little, in approval.
I go into my room, and collapse onto the bed. I'm too exhausted to move. Everything hurts.
God, I love doing this.
I'm so excited. I'm in so much pain and I'm bleeding out. And that was so damn cool. I can't believe it. I was hoping I'd get here. I met Richard III.
What?
Don't look at me like that.
But, Gideon, you say, why are you fangirling over meeting Richard III, 'now is the winter of discontent', guy? You've been solidly a Lancaster supporter, red rose, this whole time you came to help Henry VI, isn't it a little incongruous to like Richard too?
Yes, but also no. Let me explain it to you.
You see, Henry VI is the rightful King of England. He's the last son of the direct male line, from Edward III. Also as previously discussed, Henry VI is genuinely nice guy. And yes I substantially bad talk Warwick and Warwick's friends who bully Henry.
But.
That's not Richard.
Richard wasn't born till 1452, the War of the Roses was already underway. The eleventh child of his parents, with noticeable disability from an early age. He would be put in the care of Warwick and his wife early on in the War of the Roses when his family had to flee their estate. And then in 1460 his father was killed in a battle of the War of the Roses, he was nine. A year later when he was ten, his eldest brother would crown himself Edward IV, having run Henry VI and company out of London essentially. Richard would be knighted, but he'd go on to complete his knighthood training with Warwick, which Edward IV would pay Warwick for.
Richard is a child of war, he's been raised obviously in York camps, he's institutionalized to oppose the Lancasters, it makes perfect sense why he'd remain on the same side as his family. Sure he fights against us, that's ideological due to institutionalized bias, it doesn't make him a bad person.
In my world, he was eighteen when Henry VI was finally murdered, and while he participated in battle he had relatively little agency beyond the fact that he was helping his brother. He would marry his childhood sweetheart, Anne Neville, Warwick's youngest daughter. A marriage that would be happy enough so far as we can tell. Richard forfeited most of her inheritance in order to marry her (complicated but the point is he essentially gave up her dowry), and according to some legends, actually found her in hiding and offered her his hand in marriage. It's actually kind of a cute story, that's a quick retelling, ask me later. Also she was a widow, of our Prince Edward no less. Yes, Warwick at one point marries his daughter to Henry VI's son, (sing it with me, "the things Warwick will do for power", to the tune of 'the things we do for love').
So, Richard married his Anne, she was four to five years younger than him, so not a bad match. They had one son, and then no other children. There are no substantiated sources I can find that he had any affairs. Some expense books imply he may have been supporting an illegitimate son, but that's not clear also it's not clear if it was his son, or perhaps a child of one of his brother's that he was supporting.
Richard had substantial properties in the north of England, and essentially reigned as King in the North. He established his military prowess in wars with Scotland, and he was quite well liked among his people in the north of England, particularly in the city of York.
After Edward IV died, his twelve year old son was set to inherit, with Richard as Lord Protector. Richard assumed the role, but after a short period, was informed that in fact his nephews were illegitimate, as Edward IV had not legally married their mother. Ergo, by popular opinion, Richard was crowned King. Naturally Edward IV's widow did not like that.
Richard's various nephews, including Edward IV's boys, the infamous princes in the tower, would remain in the Tower, under protection. Their bodies have never been found, and though Henry VII blamed Richard for the murders there's little to no motive. Richard had already claimed the throne, the boys were no threat, also he had another nephew from his other elder brother, whom he named as his own heir. He also kept his various nieces under his protection, and by their own accounts they were happy with that. Richard's son and wife would die in rapid succession just months before he himself was killed. The cause of their illness is unknown but he was said to mourn them, and showed no intention of remarrying.
Of course, Richard was killed at the Battle of Bosworth field, by Henry VII and Jasper Tudor's forces. Getting their final revenge.
But as you see by that little biography, while Richard inherited the York's bloody throne and yes tried to hold it, he didn't start the war. He was probably flawed as we all are. But he was just a man, set in a very uncertain time in history, who was ruled by yes, probably greed sometimes, duty to his family, and adventure. He was a good soldier, a good leader, he was kind to his wife and child. Yet the court of public opinion has been hard on him.
So yes, I completely believe Henry VI should be on the throne, legally it's his throne. But by the time Richard actually comes of age and gets the throne, at that point it's kind of his, Henry VI's line has died out. And Richard is only protecting what's his.
Much less bloody than ThatPlay no? I love the play, don't get me wrong, not accurate though.
I say all this as a card carrying member of the Richard III, society. Yes this is a thing. A very nerdy thing. Google it. When I was like, ten, I was obsessed with Richard after reading a very small bit of the play in class, you can imagine what that did to me. Anyway, I was hyperfixated on his reign, maybe police were called because I was plotting to kill Henry VII, it's a blur, anyway, that year for my birthday my step sister, Mariah, got me a year membership to the Richard III society. They send you magazines, I was thrilled, naturally.
Point being, most historical figures, are victims of circumstance. This has nothing to do with Henry V; he chooses to be the way he is. But really, no, really. People like Richard, or even Henry VI didn't ask to be heirs to a reign of chaos, they got born into it and they are doing the best they can. And yes everybody messes up or makes bad decisions or hurts people, we're all human. But that doesn't make us irredeemable or evil.
So in short, I'm absolutely going to be emotionally attached to Richard. I think he's cool. Not only because of everything I know about him, but he talked back to Warwick in the eight seconds I met him. Also in that brief time he saved my life.
Thinking these thoughts, I fall asleep. Finally, I pass into a blissful deep sleep, coughing out blood still. Halfway through the night I crawl under the blankets and pile some pillows on top of me and pass back out. I want to go and disincorporate and spy on everyone, but mostly the three white roses in the cell. But I know I am way too ill for that. No. I need to rest. And so I just imagine what I'd find. Henry safe in bed, perhaps with one of his greyhounds. Jasper probably asleep sitting up in a chair, watching his nephew curled up in far too big a bed. In the night the boy will come over and crawl into his lap and they'll both sleep in the chair.
And in the cell Warwick paces and can't get comfortable. The boys lie there on top of each other like puppies, too young to mind straw for a bed, and sufficiently worn out from the day's adventures.
And thinking those thoughts I too fall asleep.
When I wake sunlight is streaming in through the window. The entire bed is stained with blood, and I can feel crusty dried blood on my skin. I sit up, rubbing my face.
There's sets of fresh clothes laid out, and a wash basin, along with salve.
I set to work changing, peeling off my old clothes which were stuck to my body with caked blood. I'm bruised, and sore, but otherwise largely unscathed. It's been something of a week for me, not a few days ago I was fighting apparitions in Windsor some thirty years in the past. I'm cut in a few places but nothing too serious.
I get myself cleaned up as best I can using a washbasin, and change into the clean clothes. There are a couple of sets so I find something that fits after trial and error. It's a cold day so I put on a coat and cloak as well. It's all mostly dark neutral colors, and all looks clean. I also accept a new pair of boots, mine are still filthy with blood and one is badly ripped.
Finished getting cleaned up and feeling worlds better than I did last night, I head out, picking up the sword I was lent last night. I was shoving it in my belt, having no scabbard, but it's not even my sword, Prince Edward gave it to me.
"The King requests you in the drawing room, on the third floor," a servant girl instructs me, regarding me a bit warily. She's carrying a load of washing and looks me up and down twice.
"Yes, of course," I bow a little and the girl blushes a little then hurries away.
In the light of day Dover castle is much less haunting, and dare I say it the routine seems normal? Typical of a castle anyway, everyone going about their morning chores. I'm not even surprised to hear laughter in the hallway.
The source of laughter turns out to be Prince Edward and little Harri, who are chasing each other with toy swords and giggling. Prince Edward is decently older than the Tudor boy, but both lack a playmate. I'm glad to see Harri smiling, he was very somber last night. They pause their game at the sight of me, still clinging to each other as they wrestle over a toy.
"Your Highness," I bow, "Thank you for lending me this last night. I wanted to return it." I hold out the sword flat on both my palms, kneeling so the boy can take it from me.
"Oh. That's all right. It's not really mine, I just took it from one of the knights. I'm not even supposed to have a sword, my father doesn't approve of me preoccupying myself with violent pursuits," Prince Edward says, sighing a little. He does remind me of his grandfather, that tool. With heavy features, and dark hair and eyes, he looks more like the great king than his own father. Genetics plays those tricks sometimes, but there's plenty of rumors that he's not Henry's biological son.
"So your mother ensures you have a proper weapon?" I ask, innocently.
The boy grins, "Keep it. You'll have need of it."
"Very good," I say, standing and putting the sword back in my belt, "Harri, where's your uncle?"
"He says being a pest," Harri says, very seriously.
"Hm, good on him, have a pleasant morning, my lords," I say.
The boys giggle and go back to tumbling all over each other. Good for them, it's good for small children to run around with toy swords. I'm sure Jasper and Queen Margret ensure they have real weapons in their hands often enough. It's a fine cool morning for adventures, and last night's terrors seem a world away.
I progress to the drawing room I've been indicated, knocking and then entering, tentatively.
"Your Majesty?" I ask, stepping in, slowly.
King Henry stands at the window, his back to me. Gold hair pale with age and white strands, but still curly nearly down to his neck. As last night he's dressed in simple clothes of just a shirt and trousers.
He turns at my approach, almost smiling.
"Gideon, come," he nods, smiling a little though his face is lined with—pain.
"Are you hurt, sire?" I ask, coming over as he indicates.
"Yes—no, no—nothing that will heal," he says, "I am—weak." His voice is thin and raspy. He raises a trembling hand to touch my face, his left hand remaining limp at his side. Has he just had a series of strokes? Parkinson's disease or the like? An untreated spine or upper back injury? I realize I'm never going to know, and it could very well be all of the above.
He places trembling fingers on my cheek, as though verifying that I'm real.
"When did—never mind—you're young still. I have told my wife and Jasper that you are who you claim, they're skeptical, however the truth is—I barely wrap my head around it. They need not understand the logistics if as I recall you and I never fully sorted them. Explain for me, when are you from?"
"I'm sixteen, going to turn seventeen. Your father—,"
Quietly, so resigned, "Of course."
"—he was making me give up the ring to stop protecting you, so I and Courtenay sped up the spell so I could answer the ring's call through time. Which took a toll on us both but," I shrug a little, "For me this is happening directly after the Irish incident, you'd just persuaded your father not to fight the Fianna like he apparently wanted to, and I had actually been erroneously thinking he was maybe innocent of waking the Fianna."
"Oh. Yes. Sorry about that," Henry winces a little, "I do apologize for my father's behavior."
"Thank you, but I don't blame you. I blame him. It's fine. I'm sure I'll get over it," I sigh.
"Okay."
"I don't get over it do I?"
"I don't think any of us do, actually, fully move on from the time Windsor got invaded by ghosts he was trying to figure out if existed, specifically to fight them, specifically for entertainment," Henry says, dryly, but a twitch of a smile on his lips.
"Likely not," I say, rubbing my face.
"Come sit with me a while. You must fit in passably, in fourteen sixty—three yes, three. Warwick has already seen you, that's fine I don't particularly care what he or his associates think. However," he motions for us both to sit. There's breakfast things laid out. I am starving, and don't say no to fresh food. My last proper meal was at Windsor and that was ages ago now.
"What ails you, my lord?" I ask.
"It is no curse, Gideon," he smiles kindly, "I doubt even Warwick has the power Courtenay used on Elis. But my sorcerers assure me this is entirely physical. I don't know, I've been very ill before, some days its hard to stand, or even think. There's not always pain but—sometimes I think I've gotten used to it. This arm and leg do me little good, I barely feel them."
"I see," I nod, that's nothing I can cure if it isn't magic. I knew he ailed in my reality but I held out some hope.
"I'm well. God would not give me trials, if I could not face them," he smiles a little for me, "But go on, you're young, what do you think you need to know? On that note, how are you here and when will you return?"
"Oh, I can release the spell when I think the threat is finished," I say, casually.
"Gideon," he says, knowingly, "You know for a fact I only called to you for the fight in the passage. Not for my war."
"Kind of," I mumble, eating.
"I would not have asked for your aid, but Ned—Ned, my son you met him—,"
"Briefly, my lord," I nod.
"He's a good boy. We were caught there, our guards killed. He would not leave me, he's got my father's spirit I fear. He would fight ten thousand on a dare, let alone with me unable to stand and defend myself," Henry says, fondly. His voice is so weak and almost pained. Is it just some sort of severe back injury and he's in pain? He said the pain sometimes made it hard to think.
"He's brave," I say. Prince Edward, in my world, will fall in battle at the age of seventeen. His father locked in the Tower, his homeland forever stolen from him. I see in his eyes now the spirit of a boy ready to die fighting.
"And he frightens me. He would not go, and I was so weak I do not even think he heard my pleas. My life is in God's hands, I'm well with that. But I could not imagine not returning that boy to his beautiful mother," Henry coughs. I offer him a cup of water which he accepts. It's strange to see him now, after yesterday I saw him at age eleven, bright eyed, face flush with health and youth. Now his skin is pallid, sunken, the years of illness gradually taking their tole on what was once a strong man. Henry has always preferred his books and his religion to fighting or perhaps even his crown. But he still rode into battle in the early years of the War of the Roses, winning in fact, and he would have trained on swords and worn full plate armor as the need arose. About five foot ten or eleven, he was never a small man and not a particularly weak one in his youth. Horse back riding, and general lifestyle to be considered, it's entirely possible he suffered some sort of severe back injury. Pain would cause most of his symptoms, and its not unheard of if he injured himself earlier in the day not to show symptoms till later or till he tried to move or twist. He could have simply fallen. In our modern world it's a bit harder to imagine, but with zero x-rays or treatment or knowledge of nerves even a simple injury could be debilitating.
"I understand. And I know you don't want me—stacking the deck for you, I get it. But consider two things One) maybe God sent me—,"
"Don't you dare quote my father," he laughs.
"I genuinely didn't know he said that—,"
"Constantly when we talk about him maybe not invading places. Go on—,"
"Two) let me stay until whatever is sending these ghosts is resolved. It's clearly another wizard, fight fire with fire and all that. I'll not—," I can't say it. "I'll not interfere with your battle with the Yorks, or kill Edward York or anything like that," I might kill Warwick I'm not going to lie to him. I'm not a violent person by nature, but holy hell some people just have it coming.
Henry sighs, "You should go home, Gideon."
"Please? Just let me help catch the wizard doing this," I sigh, "I'll get to the bottom of what's going on, and then I'll go back where I belong. And you can use the ring again if you need me."
"I'm not going to do that," he says, quietly. And I know it's true. His principals are too strong. As a boy when he called me to Windsor he was frightened for himself and his siblings and his fathers. He'll use it to protect others, but his faith is too strong to let him call upon me at any turn.
"I know," I say, gently, "But I'm not busy. And I do not mind. Please? Let me help figure out what is causing this. Jasper's your only sorcerer, right? He can't fight all of them alone, and the men were getting slaughtered. I had to summon the dragon last night just to get us both in the gate."
"All right," Henry nods, setting down the cup of water as his hand trembles, "Yes. Stay until we find out whatever it is—within reason if it's another York trick the Yorks—actually tell me what you know that's quicker you usually know things."
"The Yorks took the throne for mostly bad reasons involving liking war with people and you being a nice person, but you being ill and them not liking the Queen being smarter than them and a woman and doing most of the speaking for you when you were really ill, certainly did not help," I say.
"No one has ever put it that bluntly before—but basically," he nods.
"Richard of York's oldest, Edward is on the throne styling himself Edward IV, he's married to Elizabeth Woodville, probably by about now has a daughter or two but no sons yet which makes you and the Prince even more of targets—right?" I ask.
"Yes, in brief," he nods.
"You've been in hiding in various courts across England for the past what three or four years? England is mostly Lancaster supporting but getting an army together to roust the Yorks for good is a main thing, and you have tried to do things peaceably, but these are not nice people," I say.
"That's exactly it, here I thought you'd need to be caught up, do you get bored of people underestimating you, Gideon?" He asks, smiling in amusement.
"That's literally the first time in my life that knowledge has done me any good, but I do need some catching up. Can we expect any aid from your brothers? What of Wales?" I ask.
"I'm pretty sure I shouldn't tell you things you're involved in, that breaks some rules of time, I expect," Henry says.
"Okay, well, your father is dead I know that," I say.
"You want me to tell you how he dies, or something of that kind?" Henry asks, a little amused.
"It might cheer me up. I helped free the castle from ghosts he personally invited there then watched him charm his way out of it to everyone including me, and spent like three days actually believing he might not be guilty of everything like he always is. Yeah, I think it could make me happy," I say, nodding.
"No," Henry says, shaking his head, "I am not telling you how he dies."
"What—why? Please? Wait—he is dead right? He's not just given you the crown while he crowns himself Emperor of Everything Ever because he's conquered half of Europe given this much time?" I ask.
Henry starts laughing.
"Okay, but you're not answering, and that bothers me," I say.
"My answer will make you feel worse how about that?" He asks, still laughing.
"Okay fine, I'll be surprised, when he does or doesn't die," I say.
"As you should be. No, in all seriousness. My brothers I've distributed to our various territories, they're kings in their own right, and that gives each country their own measure of independence," he says.
"That's fair," I expected little less. He cares not for fighting or glory.
"Ergo I can request aid of them and at this point I have. That's why we're in Dover. Thomas is sending aid from France, we'll sort it out—that's him and Margret mostly," he coughs again.
"Is she cool if I talk with her about that at length?" I ask, hopefully.
"Almost definitely, I know your addiction to battle plans, sorry, I was about to compare you to my father—,"
"No, that's fine I'm still honored about the time he punched me in the face. I also still sort of hate him, but I don't want him to be die, so I think that's love. It is not easy," I nod.
"Charity often isn't," he says, kindly, "Anyway. We are expecting fresh troops, shortly. To hopefully reclaim Windsor. I don't want to do that at all. But I'm aware the alternative is death. I'd accept that for myself, but not my wife and son. I cannot condemn them, simply because of who I am."
"All right. So great, good plan may want to see that later for curiosity, but for now—we've got the Wizard attacking. We've got Warwick down stairs because I suspect he was claiming he'd go turncoat," I say.
"Something of that kind. Margret wants to use him. She's smarter than he is so I said best of luck to that," Henry shrugs a little, "I don't suppose you have extended opinions on Warwick?"
"I'd step in front of a charging horse than trust a single thing he said," I say, "In my world—my original world, he does turn back to the Lancasters in the end after Edward the Pretender figures he's tired of the sound of Warwick's voice, an understandable sentiment. However. He's a snake and that doesn't mean he'll do it here, or is doing it now."
"About what I thought," Henry nods, picking at the food, "They told me his party was killed, on the road. Popular opinion, popular opinion is my wife and son, says that he'd stage that just to get us to trust him. I do not believe any man could be that cold blooded."
"If someone could, he would, I'm with popular opinion, I'm afraid," I say, "Anyway, he's not summoning the ghosts, doesn't mean he isn't involved, something I've personally termed 'HenryV rules' even if a person appears innocent this one time maybe, he might not be."
"He'd be proud you are saying that, he wouldn't even wonder he'd say 'yes and?'" Henry laughs a little.
"That's why I'm not gonna tell him I'm calling it that. Point being, yeah, Warwick might be involved, but for now I want to figure out what exactly is causing the ghosts. See, when I caught Oisin after he summoned them on Windsor, he was near by, Courtenay and I both agreed you'd have to be a stones throw from the castle," I say.
"So whoever it is—is here," he nods.
"And is a wizard. Maybe within our own ranks," I say.
"But why last night?"
"Blame it on Warwick? I don't know I don't have great ideas, we can run that by the others," I say, finishing my plate of biscuits.
"Before you go. We agreed I shouldn't tell you anything major that might affect your judgment back in—what—,"
"1433."
"Right, especially about yourself. I think you've got enough of what's going on here, and you should probably refrain from asking anyone anything as well," he says, gently, "But about yourself—I realize you already introduced yourself by name."
"Jasper recognized my name," I frown, "But it's thirty years on I'd be what, forty six? He said he didn't recognize me."
"He's met you, many times. So has Margret, I think Ned has met you a few times as well when we were in Wales last. There's a reason they all didn't recognize you last night. I've instructed them not to speak of it or the past to you, citing magic reasons which is true. I did offer the three hour lecture explaining it in full, interestingly they all declined," he almost smiles, "They know exactly who you are, though."
"Good, so long as they trust me, I'm not going to lie. I'm spectacularly fond of being held at sword point, but Jasper and Owen are both wearing out their welcome on it," I say. Henry V has not, still think that's the coolest.
"I apologize. For both of them."
"I am usually acting like an intruder it is completely fine. I'm just saying I'm glad to be slightly trusted," I say.
"You always are in this court, Gideon. I know you're Welsh to the end, but this is your home as well, so long as I or my son hold the crown," he says, wincing as he tries to rub his shoulder with his good hand.
"Do you want me to do something?" I ask.
"No, no, nothing to be done," he shakes his head.
There's a soft little rap at the door.
"Come in Ned, I'm just chatting, this is Gideon, our friend from Wales d'you remember I told you last night?" Henry asks, as the boy comes in. The child is flush from playing, dark hair messy and black eyes glowing. None of the terror from last night. He's a bold thing, but he's young. He's abandoned his toy sword and is carrying instead a bible, which to me his hilarious.
"I was just reading, father," he says, coming to his father's side. Reader, that boy has not been reading. He's been wrestling with his cousin. He's clearly scrubbed dirt from his face and brushed his hair. "I had not seen you this morning, are you well?"
"I'm fine," he says, reaching out to pat the boy's head, "I was chatting with Gideon. You both are up early, after last night."
"I was hungry," I say, helping myself to more food.
"You're up, is your arm alright?" Prince Edward asks, frowning up at his father.
"It'll be fine, the doctor's washed the wound, just an arrow. I'm sure my brothers did worse in fun," Henry says, smiling for his boy. The child is attached to him, clearly, granted everyone is who has half a brain and spends any time around him.
Rumors abound about Edward's legitimacy. Admittedly, father and son look little alike. Henry has light blonde curly hair, and soft brown eyes. Edward has deep brown hair, just wavy, and dark brown eyes. To me he looks like his paternal grandfather, Henry V, he has a similar shape to his face and a similar countenance, a bit heavier features as well. Henry has remained from boyhood soft cheeked and thin lipped, though his illness has done him little good, it remains he doesn't resemble his only child. Margret also has fair hair, and she's light eyed, and while mothers and sons rarely look noticeably alike primarily due to sexual dimorphism of our species, even so they're not very similar.
That could be down to genetics. The thing of it is, though, it's long been assumed the boy isn't Henry's. Some sources say Henry was never physically affectionate with his wife. That's neither here nor there, and could have been simply how he was raised he was king from an early age (in my world), and took interest in governing even as a young teen. He and Margret married when he was twenty three and she fifteen. Not terribly young but still, rather young. The first five or so years of their marriage went well, husband and wife shared an interest in academics, and Margret would go on to found Queen's College, and Henry King's College. To be clear, if you're me, founding matching colleges is the most romantic thing I can think of. But whatever. Henry would found several colleges at Oxford as well as Eaton.
Margret and Henry, according to their personal diaries, intentionally would spend time together, going riding, or arranging to have meals together to chat about their recent studies. In all a good life and Margret was happy. It's quite likely they were waiting to have children, Henry being deeply pious he was not in any way a lady's man, though some accounts do say he was pleased when, during marriage arrangements, reports said she was pretty.
But all seemed well and England, already fond of their boy king, welcomed his bride. Court was another matter, Margret was trying to learn her role, but she was clever and confidant, which did not make her popular with the nobles, who were used to talking over her quiet, pious husband.
And then, when Margret was twenty-three, and Henry thirty-one, Henry had his first, major, bout of illness. Little was known medically, but it is established he could not speak, or move much at all. Around this time Margret became pregnant, notably though he fell into a coma when she was already pregnant, and she gave birth while Henry was still ill.
No matter what the boy's true paternity, it's likely this was a very unhappy time for Margret. Her husband, the king, was ill possibly never to recover. It's entirely possible she decided she need an heir, and as soon as possible. A son meant she had an heir to the throne, so neither she nor her unfit husband would be removed from the palace. If she or they both thought he could be dying...she needed a kid. It was protection, not only for herself but her husband who she by all accounts did love. If she did become pregnant by another man, that man took the secret to his grave, and Margret would have no more children, nor would she ever appear to have a public affair even after Henry's death, she would not remarry.
Plenty of suspects exist in the Lancaster court, but again, if the rumors are true, it mattered little as Henry never appeared to question paternity and Margret had no continued relationship. I'm not gonna really justify the rumors by relaying them, because honestly it's none of our business. The entire family was happy with whatever the arrangement that's up to them.
It's entirely possible the boy is his, and unluckily Henry fell ill as he was always going to at that time. Margret was well old enough now to want children and the young couple was happy. It's an equally pitiably situation, she's finding out she's carrying her first child, her influence isn't wanted at court, and this child's father isn't even coherent enough to acknowledge her telling him she's pregnant. She was twenty three that's young by most standards. And this was likely a hoped for child. She would assume Henry's affairs herself, attempting to govern as he wished, with the help of a few loyal supporters. After she gave birth she brought the baby to Henry, who reportedly tried to move his eyes, but could not speak.
Henry would recover, blessedly. But, according to several sources, when he was able to speak and sit up, and was presented with his child again, he said that the boy was, "Conceived by the Holy Spirit." Henry is highly religious he says stuff like that; also give the highly religious guy a break did anyone tell him how much time had passed? They didn't exactly have wall calendars. The guy had not had a great time, it's a shock he knew who his wife was and could speak after being comatose that long. Like, even if he said something like that, the guy was not exactly fully there. You try being full there after lying on a bed for a year and half, having people bath you when you like bathing alone, and having soup poured down your throat. You wife just brings you a baby, what are you supposed to say?
Whatever the truth, likely only Margret and Henry knew and frankly it's none of anybody else's business. Growing up, I was adopted and so I didn't really look anything like my parents, but for whatever reason people would assume that my mom had me with a different man than, either my father or my step-father. And honestly it would get wearing. First of all, clearly I belong to these people who are carrying me while I'm screaming and crying. Second of all, whoever actually gave birth to me or fathered me is really none of anyone's business. There are lots of situations, from adoption, to pure luck of genetics, that could cause families not to look alike.
Henry says the boy is his, case closed. Again, to me the kid looks like Henry's father, which can happen genetically. He could take after Margret's side of the family too, I really don't know what they looked like. That can happen. Even if Margret did have him with someone else, this was purely a practical decision given she remains with Henry, fighting for him, saving his life more than once, and they raise the boy together. People say that this was power hungry on her part, I say she was losing, badly. You don't fight that much for something, or someone, you don't truly love. She could have abandoned Henry more than once if she wanted to just put her son on the throne, she didn't. If she had had an affair with a leading Lancaster, then it's surprising there's no other evidence. And she and Henry raised the boy together, so that's their kid, in the end.
"Father said you might not stay," Prince Edward frowns at me.
"I will, for a while," I say, "I want to help find whoever sent those ghosts."
"And he's been cautioned to go home," Henry says a bit fondly.
"Let me help find this wizard, I haven't had good punch up with a wizard in ages," I say.
"That likely means a week," Henry says, tugging on his son's hair fondly, "Have you seen your lovely mother?"
"Not in the last—like, while. I saw her earlier, she was talking with Jasper," Prince Edward says.
"Oh that's not—they shouldn't necessarily make decisions together—they have bad ideas and encourage each other to do them and Jasper does not have great impulse control—Gideon, would you—,"
"I'll go find the Queen," I say, like I don't have terrible impulse control and won't immediately help them do the stupid thing. I hop to my feet, finishing my cup of tea, "I should get going anyway. I had a few things I need to look into."
"Thank you, Gideon," Henry nods.
"Your Majesty, Your highness," I bow to them each, before departing.
I slip out into the hall, all's quiet. Good. I keep expecting a ghost to pop out of any corridor.
I have no idea of bearing, so I am walking in small circles trying to find the Queen, which I am beginning to guess is a thankless task since I'm really very lost.
The third loop of the keep I do come upon her, in the hall. Again, I'm struck how she's dressed more like a nun than a queen, with a high neckline, and in deep drab colors. In the Welsh court we're rather colorful because King Elis has his way with most of our wardrobes, and Queen Rhiannon is young, a year younger than I, and likes fairly bright gowns. I'm going to assume Margret's wardrobe is slightly her husband preference, but she's a practical woman in the end. She has her hair as before done up tight on her head, and she wears no hat though maybe that's because we're inside? I'm not good with royal fashions.
"Your Majesty, His Majesty the King requested your presence," I say, bowing quickly. I don't dare say which drawing room he was in I really don't know.
"Ah, thank you, Gideon," she nods, a little, her face is lined as though tired. She was up as late as we were, later given she didn't get to bed till after I was. "Is he ill?"
"Having breakfast, I understand he wanted to speak with you," I say.
"Good," she breaths in a little, "Does he—he's quite ill, you see. Last night he said—he's not been well of late. He's in pain, but he's too fierce to show it."
I smile a little, because she's probably the only person in the known universe who's described Henry VI as fierce.
"I know you're here to help, he said. And—sometimes it's hard for him to move. If you come upon him and have to move him for whatever reason, and he seems to not wake up— he can hear you, he's said, he just can't move," she says. Oh, so he can hear when he's comatose? That would make it torture. I shudder at the thought of lying for months on end. His wife, and friends, coming to him, talking to him. His wife telling him she's having their child, trying to show him this child he loves. And he can't move to comfort her. Has to watch her tears as she doesn't even know if he's there.
"I see, thank you for telling me, my lady," I say.
"He's strong, he thinks it's his burden to bear. But. If he is paralyzed and you are trying to rouse him, don't touch or take his arm like you'd think to, he hates it, it's —don't. You can touch the back of his neck, or his stomach, that's fine," she says.
"Is it—because of his illness?" I ask, frowning.
"No, no, he's always been like that, he says it hurts. It's fine if he's expecting it or he initiates it usually, but he doesn't like it otherwise. He never tells people, again he says it's his burden. But as you're here and whatever—going to him. However it works, I assumed he hadn't told you, at this point. It's just him, he's always been like that," she says.
"No, he didn't tell me, thank you, I would have tried to shake his hand," I say. A sensory thing? More than likely, plenty of people don't like physical touch. I'm not one of them, I'm usually fine unless I'm in a full meltdown in which case don't touch me at all, but many neurodivergent folk have preferences. As a boy he's hugged me a few times, and he put his hand to my cheek, but like she said it's okay if he knows it's coming. I wonder why the back of the neck —IS THAT WHY THAT PSYCHOPATH GRABS EVERYBODY BY THE BACK OF THE NECK?? Seriously??? The one thing I hate about him? So, as you'll recall from past adventures, Henry V perpetually catches people shorter than him (everyone) by the back of the neck. Does he do that because his eldest at some point in his little soft fairy voice whispered only to touch him there, so Henry went and generalized and figured "eh that's not a bad policy maybe that's an everyone thing I don't know my son is the third person I've ever talked to at length and tried to be nice to". He did, didn't he? And Courtenay, the other half of his brain, doesn't talk to people he wouldn't know either. Yeah, that's what happened isn't it?
"No, no one knows, he admitted it after we were married," she laughs a little. Why is she—oh she knows me now. That's why she's talking to me a little. That's nice. I'm glad I get to meet her later. "It didn't matter much, for a while there but, now as he's ill I don't want to do anything that makes him worse."
"Definitely not, thank you, your majesty," I say, nodding.
"Have you seen the prince?" She asks.
"He was with the king," I nod.
"Good, perhaps they'll stay in one place—Harri did your uncle tell you you could play with that?" She looks over my shoulder. I turn to see little Harri, standing there holding a dagger and trying to spin it in his fingers I'm sure like he's seen his uncle do. I feel like Jasper was doing that last night, but last night was a haze of blood loss.
"No, my lady," he mumbles.
"Give it here, where did you get it?" She asks, walking over and kneeling in front of him.
"I don't know."
"Oh good," she shakes her head.
"I'm sorry," Harri shrugs.
"My lady," I nod, backing away. She nods to me to go, straightening up from taking the weapon from the little boy.
I don't really know anybody else here, like I probably should. Somerset and Butler are two other major Lancaster supporters, but they should be dead by now. No. I don't know who else has lived this long except Jasper and the third Duke of Exeter, but I have no idea what he looks like or if he made it here.
I walk into a stairwell to have a knife put to my throat. It's really fun here. I get they're on the run. I do. But like really.
"I should have a red rose just tattooed on my forehead, it would minimize assassination attempts," I say, as the man digs the knife deeper into my throat.
"Who are you?" He snarls, I recognize him from last night, but vaguely. He's a small man, with thin features, like he was meant to be a rat until the very last minute. He grins cruelly as he presses the dagger to my throat. A large scar graces his forehead, and another on his left chin bone.
"Gideon Saint, I'm here in service of King Henry," I say, holding up my hands. I don't want to use magic on him.
"Aye and would Queen Margret mind if I kill you?" He snarls.
"Like—probably, yes, I'm helping? Like, you should ask someone before you do this definitely, ask Jasper Tudor, the Earl of Pembroke," in all technicality I'm pretty sure our Richard of Gloucester holds the Earldom of Pembroke now, but I can't be positive.
"I wouldn't talk to that bastard Welshman if you paid me," he scoffs.
"Okay, take me down to the cells. I needed to go there anyway," I say. Honestly, I want to go check on the boys. I personally am the world's biggest Richard III fan girl, but also he's like, twelve, and therefore a literal baby at this point and I feel bad nobody is clearly supervising him and little tiny Henry Stafford Duke of Buckingham.
The man smiles, wider, but in a demonic sort of way. Freddy Kruger would be proud to call this man, son. "I think I'm going to kill you." He kind of giggles as he says it.
"No, please, don't make me do this," I sigh, I can fight him. I don't want to. "You're the Duke of Exeter, aren't you?" I'm going to hope so. I would certainly hope that only one person in the Lancaster's party is deserving of having "dangerous and needlessly violent, hard to get along with" as their epithet on their Wikipedia page.
"How do you want to die? I'll do the opposite," he draws another knife.
"Harry do NOT!" Jasper basically runs into the smaller man, not knocking him over, but succeeding in getting the knives from my throat. "Jesus, Harry, I told you! If you find a brown wizard boy that's ours now. It's imprinted on the King, and the Queen says we're keeping it."
"Calm down Jas, going to send yourself to an early grave. Honestly. I'm just murdering the boy. He insulted me."
"I didn't say anything about you. Henry Holland, Third Duke of Exeter, I presume," I say, rubbing my throat. I like this guy, honestly. His Wikipedia page is the funniest thing you'll ever read. He's known as being dangerous, and highly volatile. Yet a fierce supporter of the Henry VI, he's Jasper's age, or just about, by now in his early thirties. Legally he's married to the York's oldest daughter, Richard's much older sister, but in reality it's likely he hasn't even seen her in years considering he's fiercely house Lancaster. She'll wind up annulling the marriage on the grounds of who he is as a perosn. He's fought and commanded flanks at most of the major battles of the War of the Roses, after the the battle of Tewksbury he'll be left for dead, but somehow survive. Edward IV will wind up personally ordering him to be thrown into the English Channel, it's not clear if his body was ever recovered though there are a couple sources saying it washed up on shore. It's a special breed of crazy that makes an actual King, order you to be thrown into a stormy channel to make sure you're dead this time. Like I said, nothing not to love.
"That's him, see Harry? Your reputation precedes you, he recognized you immediately as an ass," Jasper says, as the men wrestle affectionately.
"There it is, little Welsh scrap," Exeter pins Jasper, who admits defeat, laughing.
"Don't mind him Gideon, he's always like that, in fact don't speak to him if you can help it," Jasper says pushing his way free of his friend. The men would have known each other before the War of the Roses, likely from Henry's court, however as some of the few remaining Lancaster generals, they're going to have something of a bond. Neither has any other real family.
"It's been an honor, actually," I say, nodding.
"Where've you been?" Exeter asks Jasper. Again, he's probably not going to be called Exeter, he's Henry Holland Duke of Exeter, but we've got too many Henry's as it is, so I'm just calling him Exeter in my head. Sounds like Jasper calls him Harry.
"Off fetching Warwick up and back. Queen Margret spoke with him, then I put him in some rooms, because the King's awake so we're being nice to White Roses, again," Jasper says, disgustedly.
"Oh aye, I'm not, which rooms?" Exeter asks, pleasantly.
"I'll tell the Queen, and she will order you off. Now, where've you been all morning anyway?" Jasper asks, pushing him a little.
"Been looking for you, haven't I?" Exeter pushes him back, "Found your boy there upstairs. Gave him a knife."
Jasper basically bolts for the door.
"We took it, the Queen took it from him," I say, catching Jasper's cloak to stay him.
Exeter is laughing uncontrollably. Not like, happy laughter. Like the Joker laughing. I really am not skilled enough of a wordsmith to explain how creepy this guy is. I really love him this is amazing.
"What in hell are you giving the boy knives for?" Jasper asks, rounding on Exeter to shove him.
"He's getting big, you're too soft with him. Boys need knives."
"Harry, he's six. He's got a little blunted knife, of his own, yes, that's fine. I'm sure you gave him a great big thing—Gideon did he not give him a great big thing?" Jasper asks.
"Eh—kind of? The Queen has it," I say.
"Serves you right you won't get it back now," Jasper says, still clearly annoyed, "Don't be going near that boy now."
"Good lad. Reminds me of your father or someone else with a spine," Exeter says.
"You think I won't curse you and I will," Jasper snarls.
Exeter snatches the bigger man into a headlock.
"Do you two need me for this?" I ask, raising a hand, as they wrestle.
"You sure Queen Margret really didn't want us stabbing him now? Maybe she just said that. To test us."
"No! We don't stab him. In the light of day, he looks maybe twelve."
"I'm sixteen! Also, I might even be seventeen I don't know fully, I'm illegitimate," I say, stuffing my fist in my mouth.
"Aw, so's he," Exeter, about to shove Jasper down the stairs.
"Really? You're not like, really sixteen though? Right? Whatever, I don't care—yeah you can go on Gid, I'll lock him up someplace, where you going?" Jasper asks, barely resisting being pushed down the stairs.
"I'm just going to look around, see if maybe I can figure out where the wizard was," I shrug.
"And I know when I was born. It was the end of summer, my mother said she was sure I wasn't supposed to come till the fall," Jasper says, pleased with this bit of information, as he informs Exeter.
"I feel like that isn't true. Because people don't want you I can't imagine someone like a woman voluntarily speaking to you."
"That is so rich coming from you just so shocking, then again, I'm shocked everyday when you walk and talk at the same time," Jasper grunts, still trying not to get pushed down the stairs.
"You said you put Warwick in a room?" I ask.
"Aye, against my better judgement, something about us being the bigger people," Jasper grunts, "I don't know I heard the first, maybe eight words, the King kept talking. I know it had to do with the Bible. I'm very definite on that."
"What did you do with the page boys?" I ask.
"Warwick sent them outside to gather his things," Jasper explains, "After that they'll be in another room. Queen Margret said she didn't want them to die because if Warwick kills them on our watch, the King will feel bad."
"Why don't we kill them right now?"
"Jesus, Harry! We just talked about this—you know what? Clearly this is gonna go on, you can go Gideon," Jasper grunts.
"My lords," I dip my head respectfully which is mostly sarcasm at this point because the two men are still wrestling. I decide to assume this is normal behavior and to press on. I'm not keen on the idea of the boys off fetching the horses by themselves. It's dangerous out there and they're only children.
With only mild difficulty I make my way outside the castle walls. There is an easier exit door near the gate, so I exit via that. I consider disincorporating, but then decide to save my strength. It's not worth the time and trouble even if I'd like to know what the boys are talking about. I will spy on them later. For now I'd sooner they just get back inside, where its safe.
It's a cool and cloudy day, the sky looks threateningly of snow or rain, and a harsh wind blows from the channel. Dover castle itself is a buzz with activity from last night, but outside is eerily silent. I sigh. There's less woods here. I don't know where this wizard might be hiding.
I find the boys not a half a mile from the main gate. They are pulling bags and things out of a wagon, and clearly arguing about what they find.
Richard looks much better than yesterday night, I suppose we all do. He's fresh from rest and looks every bit the child, cheeks red from the wind, deep brown curls being blown in his face despite him pushing them away. His eyes are a very dark, stormy blue, no longer corrupted with magic. He's again wearing black clothes and a cloak, which does mostly disguise his slanted shoulder. He shows no sign of being hindered by it though. While his back may cause him pain later in life he's either too young or too stubborn to notice at the moment, nimbly crawling on top of the wagon to toss things down to his smaller friend.
Hal Stafford is also well, not dampened from spending the night with Warwick. His blonde hair is being blown too in the wind though he doesn't try to fight it. He's a weedy thing and would easily blend in with the other page boys. He's three years Richard's junior, but they're about the same height, though Richard is the stockier of the two.
"I'm just saying if we say we lost it he'll send us out to look again," Hal is holding something I assume is important to Warwick.
"If we say we lost it he'll blame us," Richard says, tossing something else down to the littler boy.
"Richard, he blamed us for St. Albans. He can blame us for anything, it don't even matter," Hal says, struggling to hold all of what his much stronger friend tossed him.
"Well, we are trying to reduce the number of times he's gonna have you lashed when we get home," Richard says, nimbly hopping out of the cart.
"Why? It's already in the thousands. I'm gonna die," Hal says, calmly.
"I'm not going to let you die. You stupid idiot," Richard says, starting to take things from him, "Now let me think. I almost got a plan."
"To get us out of trouble?"
"Not really, no," Richard winces a little.
"What sort of plan is it, Rich?"
"Fun?"
Unfortunately, at that point I get close enough that they pause their bickering.
"What are you doing here?" Richard asks, very saucily, "Out to set more ghosts on us?"
"No, I never set the ghosts, I nearly got killed as well last night," I say, smiling a little, at the boy's cheek, "I'm Gideon, I'm a Welsh Wizard. I was passing last night when I saw the fighting."
"Why should we believe that?" Richard asks, hitting Hal who then says, "Yeah, why should we" really quietly.
"You don't have to, but it's the truth. Thank you for your help last night," I say.
"Lord Neville always leaves me outside," Richard says, annoyed at the memory.
"Me too! And I can't use magic, it's like he wants us to be murdered or kidnapped," Hal Stafford complains.
"I'm with Bell now that could definitely be what he wants," Richard says, starting to take some things from the other boy. I'm assuming Bell refers to one of Warwick's daughter's, his eldest, Isabel, so they're calling her Bell. She was Richard's age about so while I'm sure Lady Neville doesn't want her girls playing with the boys doing their tutelage, they'd likely at least get to chat at formal dinners or the like. Girls and boys would have been mostly separated at that age, but human nature prevails, and they'd wind up seeking out friends.
"I do doubt Lord Neville is actually fixating on preserving you, I'll put it kindly," I say.
"What are you doing out here anyway? Come to try to kill us?" Richard asks, but like slightly hopefully because he hasn't gotten to get in a fight since last night.
"No, I'm out here looking for whoever did set the ghosts, and I thought I would thank you for your assistance last night," I say. I also wanted to generally mind them, but I truly doubt Richard will appreciate that.
"Well. On your way then—give it over, Hal," Richard sighs, trying to take more things from his smaller, scrawnier friend.
"No! I'm fine you've got all that."
"You're not fine, you want your back to look like mine?" Richard asks, hand on hip.
"Your mother didn't think there was anything wrong with my back."
"Eh, not bad, seven out of ten. You've really got to wait for the right bait," Richard nods, approvingly of the other boy's joke which he's apparently coaching him on. "One of these days Lord Neville will say something perfect, you'll have the retort, and he then he'll kill us both, instantly."
"He won't kill you, just me."
"He will blame me. I promise. He knows George trained me well—are you still here?" Richard asks, annoyed, glancing at me. George is his older brother, who being an older brother schooled Richard in the fine art of crude jokes and irritating Warwick in general. George would have done some of his knighthood training under Warwick as well, I believe.
"I can help carry, it's not safe to be out here and I'd sooner you were both within the castle walls," I say.
"As if we'd be safer with a Lancaster," Richard says, distastefully.
"I believe in chivalry, you are our guests at the moment. I have no war with you," I say, holding up my hands. No on war with you little king. He was born a York and therefore part of the problem, but not for any sins of his own.
"Lord Neville thought we'd be fine on our own," Richard says.
"Lord Neville is not overly concerned with your safety, my lord," I say, wincing a little at the slip. In my head, he's Richard III, a future king of England. In this reality he's a child duke given land by his usurper brother nobody is calling him that except maybe the lowest of servants. He's a twelve year old with dirt on his cheeks whose been teaching his little friend 'your mom' jokes and arguing about getting in trouble, because he's twelve.
"He is not concerned," Hal Stafford nods, a little bit.
"I'll protect us," Richard says, picking up his share of the loot. I say loot because it does not look like Warwick's personal stuff. It looks like weapons and things a distractible nine year old and a twelve year old with a problem with authority, would find important.
"Is this what Lord Neville sent you for?" I ask.
"He sent us for 'what we could find'," Hal shrugs.
"So we're doing it, room for interpretation, swords are very important," Richard says.
"Y'don't think he'd want anything from those cases clearly marked with his seal?" I ask, gesturing to some cases lying in the mud, clearly unopened.
The boys look at the weapons in their hands, then the cases, and shake their head in unison saying, "No!" Quite merrily.
"Fascinating, nor do I, as you were," I say, nodding for them to start walking as I follow.
"You really don't have be here Sir Wizard," Richard says. This is not respectful he's implying he doesn't remember my name.
"Gideon is fine," I say, lightly, "And I know, it's fantastic, I don't have to be anywhere."
"As you like then," Richard says, not yielding any of the weapons he's carrying. Both boys are fairly little and labor a bit in the mud as they trudge back up the hill towards the castle. Richard's sturdy like a bulldog, though, and soldiers on, smoothly taking a couple of things from Hal who is thin like a reed. I can't decide if Richard's back truly gives him no pain, or if he's too stubborn to admit any pain. Both are equally likely.
There's a faint cracking, in the distance. Like broken branches.
I flip my head over my shoulder, sure enough ghosts are springing up from the forest. Richard looks at the same time I do, dropping his arm load.
"Run, now," I say, pushing both boys ahead of me. They need no second bidding, we all three take off for the castle gates. I send a bolt of magic behind me to slow down our pursuers who are gaining on us, rapidly.
The gate isn't open, we came out a side door. I hear the alarm bells being rung. We're maybe fifty yards out when the first ghosts reach us.
Richard skitters up to the wall, nearly tripping, and this child, this four and half foot tall chunky little baby with hair blowing in his face, that's where he decides to make his stand. Apparently. That was his damn plan all along. Gonna get to the wall to my back, and stand here, fighting four hundred odd opponents, all my little tiny Kylo-Ren-build-a-bear looking self. That'll be fine.
"This is why you die," I snarl, only to myself, physically tackling him before he can start incantations. The ghosts are nearly to us and together we send a blast of magic to dispel the nearest ones. Then we run in the door which little Hal Stafford was trying (and failing, he weighs as much as a corn chip) to open for us. We help him get it open, well I had to help him. Richard was not being helpful.
"Curses! You fool," He actually curses I'm editing it, because this is not a Tarantino film in which Samuel L. Jackson voices a prepubescent child, which apparently is what he thinks is going on, "Now, I'll never get to fight!"
"Good! You're twelve!" I say, closing the door.
Richard snarls at me.
We're inside the walls, where the remaining soldiers are rallying. Jasper approaches with Warwick. And, Reader, I have never seen a man look so disappointed in my life, as when Warwick lays eyes on his virtually unscathed charges.
"Go to the keep, with the other boys," Warwick says, just incredibly disappointed they're still alive.
"We're on the wall," Jasper says, cracking his knuckles. He's not in armor yet either, "Ready?"
"I was born ready," I say, almost grinning. Don't look at me like that. I'm sixteen I'm not twelve might even be seventeen we don't really know. Also I came inside voluntarily of my own free will.
A couple of stewards run up with armor for us. They help us slip into mail shirts, then leather coats and gloves. Neither of us have our own sets of armor so it's ill fitting stuff left over from archers it would seem, but it'll do. They also give us, mostly me, weapons.
Together we jog up the stairs to the ramparts. Yes, this is as much of a work out in an actual chain mail shirt, as it sounds. As a reminder mail shirts like we're wearing are about twenty pounds, then we're both carrying our swords and an off hand which plus the jacket itself we're at thirty or so pounds of gear. But we both do stuff like this everyday if only to stay fit. I'm pleased to say I'm not even out of breath by the time we reach the top.
Archers are getting in positions. Queen Margret is here, in a plate and mail chest piece, and armed with a sword. This is clearly a matter of form for her men, who are rapidly taking orders from her. The Duke of Exeter stands a few paces away, calling to mostly the archers, and watching Warwick, very much like a dog watches a bloody steak placed very close to the edge of a table. Exeter very much was born in the wrong century; in the 21st century he could have played Pennywise. With no make up, or script. Just him being himself with a group of children in Maine.
"Where do you want us?" Jasper asks, leading the way up to the Queen.
"One on either end," Queen Margret says, "The Earl of Warwick will be assisting you."
"It's not really my place," Warwick, clearly trying to get out of this.
"Yet if you claim to be loyal to me you will aid in the defense of a castle that shelters you," Queen Margret says, with poison in her voice. She knows exactly what he is. But she will use him.
"Of course," Warwick says.
"My lady," the Duke of Exeter says, "If it pleases you—,"
Now, before I give you what he is about to say. I need you to fully understand the generations of inbred ill will that have gone to make up this man.
First Duke of Exeter, was Richard II's maternal older brother. Something like a decade his senior, and Richard created the dukedom for him. When the brothers were invading Scotland together, they at one point approached a castle and a bowman fired at the duke by mistake. The man was found once they made it inside, and the man came up to apologize. And the Duke of Exeter immediately killed him. Richard II had to arrest his brother, presumably while saying "why are you like this" but he eventually pardoned him. The Duke would years later be executed while attempting to reinstate Richard II on the throne after he was overthrown by Henry IV.
His son, second Duke of Exeter, was about Henry V's age, and grew up mostly in his friend group, of which Henry was leader and had sole custody of all the braincells. Throughly loyal to Henry V, this Duke of Exeter was his constable of the Tower, and built at least one of the torture machines if not two.
Which brings us to our Duke of Exeter, his son, the Third Duke of Exeter. Basically all historians bother to write about him is what a vile, ill tempered, unpleasant human being he is. Margret of Anjou gets on fine with him, though. He also is constable of the Tower and loved his rack the best. He'll be left for dead at the battle of Tewksbury, survives, walks to safety, where he's promptly arrested. He somehow lives through all this, and then Edward IV orders him thrown in the channel so we're sure he's dead this time.
It takes a special breed of terrible for the king to take time out of his day to order you to be thrown in the channel. I cannot express how much that is not a thing. Let's see what usually happens to rebels/deposed king's supporters.
Roger of Clarendon = Beheaded
First Duke of Exeter = Beheaded
Richard II = starved to death (this could have been a hunger strike not gonna lie)
Duke of Buckingham (our little Henry Stafford) = Beheaded
Richard III =killed in combat fighting at least ten men while Henry VII cringed (sorry I'm legally obligated to add that)
Henry VI = blunt force trauma to the head
Fourth Duke of Buckingham = Also beheaded
Piers Gaveston =Beheaded
Hugh Despenser = drawn and quartered then beheaded
Point being, you don't do that. We don't throw people in the channel that directly implies they thought that he would survive a beheading, or haunt them if his body was anywhere near London.
Anyway. All that's backstory to instill the idea that nothing that this guy says, is ever going to be charitable or even halfway reasonable. Insane asylums didn't exist really in this time period and I remain shocked no one invented them to contain him, like, you take one look at him and you know "Like, maybe he hasn't committed a crime, but he's probably going to." He's full bred 100% bastard and I love him completely with all that I am. He's so metal and I mean he's on our side who are we to complain?
"—if it pleases you my lady, as its the sorcerers are who the ghosts are targetings, they should go down the wall," the Duke of Exeter, grinning his serial-killer-clown grin and staring directly at Warwick like he's about to volunteer to throw Warwick off the wall.
Margret, who also hates Warwick and like me genuinely likes this nutcase, "Absolutely, Jasper at your command."
Jasper looks pityingly at the duke who CLEARLY wants to watch Warwick have to jump off this wall. It's not like we can't catch ourselves with magic. It's moderately unnecessary and dangerous and Warwick is too old to find such a thing cool. Warwick is about Jasper's age, but we're ignoring that he's old to me.
"Warwick center, Gideon take west, I'll be on the eastern front," Jasper says, snapping his fingers in my direction to make sure I'm paying attention.
"Your Majesty, my lord," I bow to the Queen and Exeter. Not Warwick. I'm petty and I know it. I pass Jasper whispering in his ear as I do, "Let's kick ass, my lord."
Jasper grins and winks as he turns to run towards the other end of the rampart.
I swear to god Margret says, "Oh god, Henry said they can't be friends."
I run along the rampart behind the bowmen, letting magic build up in me. I'm going to need it for the leap.
Then I reach the end of the ramparts, I grin once at the grey stormy sky.
Then I leap off.
I let myself fall maybe fifteen feet before the magic catches me and I float in the air. I'd be lying if I said this wasn't exhilarating. I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't done this a time or three back in Wales and one time at Windsor because Courtenay said "You're probably stupid enough to jump off aren't you?"
I hover in the air, suspended by magic, well above the masses of ghosts that are attempting to scale the castle walls. Green, and glowing, they wield all manner of weapons and return fire to our bowmen. I can see on the far end of the field Jasper has also made his dive, he glows red hot with his sorcery, and is suspended in the air with the graceful elegance of a person who has clearly been doing this since age ten. He has as good of an impulse control as I do. Oh. Maybe Margret was saying Henry was saying that the two of us shouldn't be friends. At first I was like 'can't mean us' so why, then we both willingly leapt off the ramparts and have clearly done this before, and in the first ten minutes of knowing each other with zero context we started harassing an old white man together, so I get it now.
Speaking of, Warwick has also gotten down above the battlefield suspended in a haze of red magic. He may know complicated spells, but that doesn't make up for sheer brute force. Like Courtenay he has experience, but Courtenay had a lifetime of tricks and a very good supply of energy due to his and Henry V's evil little schemes. Based off of Warwicks' behavior last night I don't think he has that much natural endurance. Which is why he probably didn't want to jump. This is taking energy. Jasper and I are strong, with not the greatest self restraint.
I raise my hands, letting magic ripple through me. We do need to move, now, and use him while he's still fighting and not claiming he can't do anymore, or worse, Richard and Hal figure out how to get themselves involved.
"This is about to get super dangerous and really fun, go with it," I say, whispering the words and letting the magic carry to them.
"My two favorite things," Jasper mutters, voice bubbling with magic.
I slam my own magic up through him, and draw his through me. This is a weird move, and he's likely not had it done to him before, but Courtenay and I got good at it over oh, eight hours over a field in France. As I suspected Jasper is close to Courtenay's equal, or he will be as he ages and learns more of the craft.
The magic flows readily through him with little hindrance, and both of our auras mix red and blue, until they shine a stunning purple. Let Warwick deal with the ones scaling the wall he can handle that and save his own hide. We'll handle the rest.
Slowly, drunk on the mixing magic and my head going light, I form a shield in front of me, like a wall, pure vitriolic magic burning as the sorcery and wizardry combines. Jasper is doing the same, hands raised in effort. He's never done this before I doubt, so it's likely not easy. Courtenay and I took a while to figure it out.
I scream in effort, holding my arms in front of me as I drive the magic forward, crushing the ghosts in its wake. Jasper's side comes forward from the other side, closing in. As, inch by agonizing inch, we obliterate the ghost soldiers, not just dispelling them, no sucking their magic into the wake of our shield so we're recycling their power into our own. It'll give us more energy, not a lot, but some.
Warwick sees what we're doing and in a moment of uncharacteristic cooperation, drives the ghosts back toward us into the closing fold.
My muscles are screaming in pain. Doing something like this doesn't require energy as such like some magic, but because it's all the magic flowing through you over and over, plus foreign magic flowing through you, physically it's as though you're having all your blood sucked out of your body, then pumped back in again. As in I'm bleeding a lot, that may be happening. I don't know. An egomaniac with a god complex stole all of Wales' magic texts and has yet to give them back. I know exactly why I say it like that and if you don't, read books 1-2, because it's Henry the goddamn Fifth who did that, in case that wasn't obvious.
My body is vibrating from the magic and I taste blood in my mouth and blink it out of my eyes. We're working our way through them, mowing them down. But it's agonizing and entirely too slow. There's hundreds of them. And for a period there I think some of them were regenerating. I can get through this but it is going to hurt when I come down.
The magic walls near each other, crushing the ghosts not unlike the trash compactor scene in Star Wars. The ghosts aren't actually screaming they're still trying to fight as they get eaten up by the magic vortex we're creating.
Finally, after what must be two or three hours of this mind numbing assault, the walls meet. And our magic solidifies then expels, we are no longer linked and our own magic rushes back to us.
And we are thrown mercilessly in opposite directions into the surrounding wild lands.