Days of the Dead Book 1: The Thief's End

Chapter 11: To catch a thief

Gideon
Morning comes early at Windsor. After the children curtsied to each other yesterday, and all that, for formal reasons, it was agreed that they informally be allowed to chat and play, so that they could have fond enough if brief memories of one another. Yes, we lost Kit I'm aware of that, but at the moment Lowri is my concern. I'll catch a thief later on. He's probably happy, damn it, he took the Viking amulet and the Richard the Lionheart amulet nobody really wants me to have fun do they?
Anyway, the children are supposed to play in the yard or whatever because the royal children's schedule is to run about for an hour at least, then lessons. There are still lessons today, but those will be separate, the play might as well not be. This is maybe overly nice so far as royal engagements, but not necessarily. Depending upon the situation a halfway decent monarch will do their due diligence to let their kid meet their prospective spouse. Edward III was reportedly allowed to meet and pick his spouse between two sisters, now all respective parties were twelve, but even so it was fairly decent for the time. Similarly, Edward III generally let his kids pick whom they were going to marry all the sons did, his oldest daughter picked her husband from among his captives (win for feminism? Like the guy was apparently fine with this by all accounts), and his other daughters who did have arranged marriages, in general, had met the spouse and such as children and were by all accounts happy with the arrangement. Henry VI will reportedly write to and get reports of Margret of Anjou. Like, as a rule, again, parents who were halfway nice tried to let the kids meet whoever they were going to marry. It's not out of the ordinary, plus we're a close ally anyway, we're right here. Also, considering Henry himself had no arranged marriage of his own, and arraigned none for his brothers, and in fact didn't marry till he was past thirty, I'm hazarding a guess he's mildly sympathetic towards his children and arranging their marriages.
At the very least it wasn't something he wanted to do, apparently, so he'd be aware they might not want to. He hasn't so far as I'm aware yet arranged a marriage for Prince Harry, that said all of Henry's arrangements are political, but he seems to be sparing his eldest. That could be affection, or just crass knowledge that the kid voted least likely to get away with an affair, ought to have more of a say. Or Harry has expressed no desire for marriage, so Henry's honoring that. To be fair. In this world our Harry doesn't need to worry about a marriage. With several healthy brothers, just like his father, he really doesn't need a son, he has a clear line of succession, the next brother. Easy. Richard the Lionheart (to bring up a sore subject), did this, he had a nephew, a younger brother, he wasn't worried about an heir. Don't believe Tudor era propaganda. If you have a couple of brothers, as in Henry V's case, or several cousins, in Richard II's case, you absolutely don't need a son of your own. You can name the next in line, and it's business as usual, nobody's really that concerned it's not a show of power.
Convenient as hell that Henry got a wife and a healthy son within about a year and a half of marriage? Oh, definitely, but our Henry Rex won at everything. At that point he was taking one for the team by getting married and having a son, his brothers while married had no legitimate issue (there's rumor illegitimate, but I have not confirmed that, could be true, but when I looked into it dates and times don't match up fully), despite their wives apparently being fertile. Which is actually an odd situation. Four brothers, three married. All three's wives would either later have children, or previously have children ergo they are fertile. But bear no Lancaster boys. Henry himself marries, gets a son right away. Really lucky, considering at that point he sort of needed another Lancaster boy, he and his brothers were all aging with no nephews he could name, so he got his own son. Easy. But point being, our Harry is in the same space with three younger brothers, he's not got to worry, he can wait and see if he gets a nephew here and if not then do what his dad did and find a wife then.
Long way about saying, royal marriages are arranged all sorts of ways. Usually the motive is political alliance, then as a second healthy heirs. That heir doesn't have to be a boy even, really. Say Harry has a girl first, he can name her the heir (that's a thing he can do if he wants) or if he doesn't want to, wait till she gets married and has a son, well he names the grandson his heir. Anyway, marriages are jobs, political ones at that. Maybe a family but that's a lower bar than political arrangement. And to be fair, most royal parents will try to be civil about that.
To that end. It is five or something in the morning, and I am making my way out to the back courtyard off the family apartments. This area, shrouded by trees, is a practice ground of sorts, with a gravel drive for sparring and the like. At the moment it's occupied by the royal brothers, albeit the younger ones. Princes Thomas, Edward, and Edmund, ages like eleven, nine, and six respectively, or somewhere in there. Harry's just going to be seventeen, a full five and a half years older than Thomas, who is just two years or like eighteen months, older than Edward, and then Edmund is four years younger than them, and then Kate is Edmund's twin, both of them are just about six and about a year older than our Lowri. This took a while to get straight, as by my reality, Prince Harry is the only one who should exist, in infant bands crowned king after his father's death, when he's barely nine months old. Ergo I had no Wikipedia to fall back on.
But in this reality our immortal Henry V is alive and well, with four healthy boys and a daughter. He's more on campaign than here, missing all the children' s brith's save Edmund and Kate and that was not intentional, apparently there was a storm his ship was sent back to port. So he was just here I don't know if he went and saw the kid, but he was on the island. He's rivaling Richard the Lionheart's record for time spent out of England. But I think he's a decent enough father when he's home.
At the moment, all three boys are armed with toy swords, whacking at each other happily, as their famous father looks on. Not a king at the moment, something dangerously close to normal dad. He's smiling with actual mirth as he watches the boys play, dressed in just a simple white shirt, dark hair streaked with grey curling in the morning dampness and mussed as though he's not bothered to straighten it. That terrible scar on his cheek throwing shadows on his mostly ruined face, but that is immaterial now. The boys only know that face as their father. And accolades and conquered lands mean little to a six year old who's just pleased his daddy is home. Henry is clearly humoring the boys's questions, kneeling to talk to them, quite necessary even Thomas just barely reaches his chest. Every one of the boys is fair haired with blue eyes, looking quite like a pack of golden retriever puppies loyally following a great mastiff, as they crowd around him. Henry's complexion is ruddy from years spent in the sun and battle, but he's altogether darker than his boys who have creamy pale skin and light eyes.
I lurk in the darkness of the walkway, out of sight, not minding watching the soft exchange as Henry talks with the boys. They pat his arms and lean on him easily as a child clinging to their dad in a supermarket, clearly not anticipating reprisal or any touch of their father's famous temper.
"You're up early," Elis says. He's holding a cup of tea, also watching from the safety of the shadows. As always he's dressed like color coordination is for the weak, in a long multi colored set of robes. His dark hair is neatly slicked out of his face and his eyes are clear as he studies them.
"So are you," I smile a little, holding my own cup and taking a sip.
"It's odd," he tips his head at the king and his princes, clearly having some sort of strategy meeting about a mock battle they're about to engage in. The boys are listening to their father with rapt attention, and Henry has a boyish smile playing on his lips as he studies his son's clear, fresh faces and sweet blue eyes.
"Yes, his human suit is quite convincing," I say.
"That's what it is. It's like he's—thank you I've been searching for the word. He's like a lion, wrapped in human skin somehow," Elis says, "Most other men, military men, great leaders, like my father. They're fierce yes and they're clever. Him? He'd tear you apart with his bare hands if he liked. I don't think he's known a touch of mercy. Or I didn't."
"Perhaps not," I say, shrugging little and taking a sip, "I don't know. I'd like to think that's true. He does love his brothers. I think if he cares about anyone that isn't him, or perhaps the Archbishop, it's the kids. Or that he wants to like them."
"I'd have said you were wrong but—they don't fear him," Elis says.
"No, and he's not a kind man," I say, "But Prince Harry will argue with him and he permits it. He wins of course. But he doesn't get cross, like I think his father did."
"Perhaps that's to his credit then? I forgive him nothing, but damn what a turn is it, looking at the person who robbed nineteen years of my life," Elis says, shaking his head.
"We're all somebody's devil. I think we all want to be someone's angel, and that to outweighs the devil, but men like him. He's quite content to be the villain, but he'll fashion himself the hero. But even the most evil man has a home to come back to. Ponticus Pilot had a family, Nero a wife," I shrug, watching as Henry and the boys set up to spar, two littler ones against the other then him against Thomas.
"Didn't take you for religious," Elis smiles.
"I did meet God. But that metaphor—analogy is the direct result of spending too much time with Prince Harry," I laugh.
"Is that where you went last night after we all fell asleep and you slipped off?" Elis asks.
"Yes, but also no, not the whole time. No, I've been drinking wine all night and arguing with King Henry," I say.
"Oh, Gideon don't! I've suggested nobody ever talk to him unless absolutely necessary," Elis sighs, "What time did you get in?"
"I didn't, I was doing that like, till an hour and a half ago," I say, holding up the glass, "This is wine."
"Gideon, the sun's barely come up!"
"I know, but in my defense I didn't know that was what time it was, and neither did anyone I was associating with, but when we found out because a servant showed up, then a really smart person said it was too late and suggested we just remain intoxicated to avoid a hangover and I'm not sober enough to see the flaw in that particular logic," I say, raising the glass. That was Courtenay, by the way, who told me that. Terrible Archbishop, but such an enabling friend.
"That's not a good policy," Elis says, taking the wine from me.
"I agree that's probably right, however, now King Henry spent the night also getting wine drunk and arguing with his sixteen year old and a twenty two year old with problems with authority, so that's fun, you're welcome," I say, taking the cup back.
"Gideon, why?" Elis sighs, "Why do you still talk to this person?"
"Ah, it was for a good cause. Also, I have no self control. Longish story short, Henry's been keeping some other wizard captive, because of course he has, and so I negotiated for the release, which is what took most of the night," I say.
"Gideon, does this story end with you getting to go on campaign to Castile like you've been wanting to since you found out that's what he's doing?" Elis asks.
"I think we both know it does."
"Goddamn it."
"Okay, okay, but in my defense, France is a gateway country to Castile and I've already campaigned there and now I was left unsupervised," I grin.
"Gideon," he shakes my shoulder.
"Stop saying my name like that! Anyway, it's not that dramatic, we both know I can be home anytime I like. I'll be there when the baby's born," I say, holding up my hand with the iron ring on it, "I'll just help, like, let's face it, Henry was going to find a way to make me do it anyway. That's in character. This way it's on my terms, for a good cause."
"Also, you'll enjoy yourself immensely."
"Yes, exactly! I'm glad you appreciate my motives and want me to be happy," I laugh.
"Are they as drunk as you are?"
"They started drinking before me, and drank faster. So yes. However Henry has a insane tolerance for alcohol because he's the tallest person alive, so Courtenay is as drunk as I am," I say. I'm not really that bad, it's more lack of sleep, I'm a little light headed, but that's all. It's a level buzz right now.
"Oh hell, we're in for a day," Elis says.
"Going to hope this means Courtenay will make Henry wrap things up early and we retire someplace," I say, "Like I said, we broke up an hour and a half ago, Henry was reading, but I think he fell asleep for his ten minutes a night or whatever, Harry dropped off around midnight while praying, his dad carried him to bed, that was cute actually. Courtenay and I kept arguing for a bit then we just decided to go find more alcohol."
"What was the prince praying for?" Elis asks.
"The souls of everyone who ever had the misfortune to meet his dad, as I understand. He was doing specifics, but his father the King kept adding people and laughing with Courtenay," I say.
"Shouldn't he have been in Church to pray?"
"It was a falling to his knees weeping thing, despite not touching more than cup of wine at dinner I guarantee he looks worse than we do," I say.
"Poor boy, I agree with you now he is kind," Elis says, setting down his tea, "All right, come on then, we might as well spar while we wait for the girls to be up."
"Your brother going to surface?" I ask, "Either of them?"
"No, as I understand Jac is refusing to participate in anything near the sun, as is his custom, and Gareth is still with the men at arms, so it's just us, you sober enough to spar?" Elis asks, taking off his over coat. He's still wearing a bright red white and grey loose shirt, but more normal pants and boots. As I said this is the royal family's custom in the mornings and we, the Welsh, were invited. I'm not Welsh royal family, but I am at this point a permanent member of the party like it or not. And it's entirely common for a noble, or king, like Elis, to have a man at arms companion with which to spar and the like, as he has no sons old enough and his brother is indisposed.
"Have I ever said no to sparring?" I grin.
We pick up wooden practice swords. Metal are used in practice but they're more dangerous with kids running about, plus we're not in armor to protect from blows of even blunted metal swords. That said, a wood sword in the hands of a man like Henry is probably still a lethal weapon, but naturally he is not using it as one. I see his dark eyes follow us as we move to the far end of the practice yard, but he does not disturb his sons' game. As usual his resting face is 'I know I invited you here, but I don't like you in my house'.
Elis, for his part, pointedly ignores his former torturer. I intentionally didn't tell him the specifics, that once again Courtenay and Henry cursed a boy, like they did to him. Now, they weren't trying to kill Kit, but damn that wasn't good for his health and they knew it. I'm not going to enrage Elis on what should be a peaceful visit. Let him know I took care of it. I can elaborate later if necessary. But for now he does need a cool head and understandably, however trained a politician he is, that's hard for him. Courtenay and Henry very specifically tried to kill him, and ruin his life, more than that they did it to see if they could. It's still a raw wound five years on. I and Rhiannon broke the curse, which is also why he has little regard for keeping me so close. In his mind I'm part of the only reason he's alive. He'll be damned if I'm far out of reach.
"Off hand, you need work, now I can tell the Duke we practiced," I say, picking up a wooden sword and wooden dagger. An off hand is a side arm, meant for your non dominant hand, as a defensive tool primarily though it can be used as offensive.
"Yes, perhaps after you've swilled your weight in wine over the last twelve hours I can beat you," Elis says, smiling with real humor creeping into his voice. After a lifetime of illness, all through his boyhood, so afflicted he could barely lift a sword, Elis is finally getting the swordsmanship practice he should have as a young man. His brothers are his primary tutors, of course, but whenever I have the time I spar with him as well, as does Rhiannon or she did before we found out she was pregnant.
Do women always train on the swords? Eh, it varies. That's not a strict no. The Middle Ages, while yes misogynistic, weren't strictly as bad as modern media might pretend. Plenty of women went to battle, Philippa of Hinault, Elenor of Aquitaine, Elizabeth I, and Margret of Anjou, to name a few Queens who led troops. In full armor. That said, they had to have trained at least a little to be able to wear the armor and hold the sword. Also, it's good common sense. If you're invaded and all else, do you want your wife/daughter to be defenseless and raped or do you want her to know how to at least pick up a weapon and protect herself and your maybe very young kids? Yeah, even if the men didn't go through that thought process, given that plenty of women did pick up arms at the drop of a hat, it's probably safe to assume most Royal ladies had at least basic combat lessons.
"Don't get your hopes up," I say, smiling as I raise my arms. Even inebriated as I am, I'm more than a match for him. "No magic. I promise." I can and do cheat in real world scenarios. In fun I won't unless I'm specifically training the guards to combat magic.
In reality Elis and I are quite well matched, I only started training a year or so before he did, and I'm younger than he. But I was more active before that, and I get more time to practice. I've also got about fifty pounds on him. Elis isn't a small man, but he's lean. Even now that he's active he's not built like Gareth is or I am. He's getting better, but I and the rest of the young knights spend hours a day in full armor, which weighs you'll recall something like a hundred plus pounds. I've got layers of muscled and fat on me, to that end I'm built like a tank. Most knights are, we carry hundreds of pounds of armor, while riding, on a regular basis. Yes, even leaders like King Henry, while they might not see combat, are still very, very strong, couple that with being in Henry's case well past six feet tall? I'm only five nine, and I still am above average height and decently broad. My muscles aren't defined, but my arms are thick as any weight lifter's.
What Elis loses in size he's beginning to make up for in speed. As he gets more confidant, he gets even faster and more fluid. He'd be no match for a professional soldier in a fight, but he's at least starting to look more the part.
I trip him easily though, tapping his back rather than striking him like I would anyone else. The Duke of Conwy and I, and well okay Rhiannon and I, will tend to just hit each other like pretty hard, to make the point that we got the touch. None of us do that to him and based off how surprised he is when we're bruised I don't think he knows we're doing it to each other on purpose. I realize that sounds bad that I and the actual Queen of Wales actively try to hurt each other with sticks but we've bled and nearly died together it's like, a thing, we're having fun, I promise.
"Damn the off hand," Elis says, stumbling but keeping both weapons in his hands.
"Don't focus on it, just let it be an extension of your arm, its there to protect you," I say.
"All right, Jac," he smiles almost, calling me by his brother's name. Jac, the Duke of Conwy, to be clear, trained me. He is left handed, so is King Henry for that matter. Left handedness not only throws off opponents who are used to right handed attacks (so much so castles are built for only right handed defenders, in this reality Wales' armed force is trained left handed for this reason, and castles are built as such). More than that, being left handed means, you probably were taught by a right handed opponent. A noble like Henry, who wasn't even crown Prince when he was trained, likely didn't have tutors who cared to adjust, so he either fenced right handed, or had to learn to adjust himself. This makes left handed swordsmen, as a rule, somewhat ambidextrous, ergo quite comfortable with an off hand, in their right or left hand.
At the moment, Henry is fighting the boys right handed, likely for their practice, I've always seen him draw with his left, when wielding a sword one handed. When wielding his great sword, he used either grip, left or right, inter changeably. Right now, since his boys are little, and used to right handed tutors, and it would appear all right handed themselves, he's just using his right. Because apparently he's a nice dad, he's not trying to throw them off, he's being nice and having a good time. Which, yes, see everything he's ever done, but like growing up nobody let me play fence or learn sword play no matter how many books about swords I read or a very nice PowerPoint I prepared. But I digress. (Yes, I always digress, but consider by my digressions are interesting).
Elis and I are quickly hot and sweaty. Even as sleep deprived and alright, drunk, as I am, I'm still outpacing him, though he makes me work for every touch. We pause after a couple of solid rounds, ending with him finally getting a hit on my ribs. There are all manner of servants lurking, the boy's normal sword tutors are hanging back while the King deals with his own children, probably for the first time in over a year. There's also a few attendants, with water, and an Archbishop, lurking in the shadows, drinking a glass of what I know is wine. His eyes aren't even red I'm not going to lie to you, reader, he looks amazing. Really, like his hair is just like the right level of wavy and his skin is glowing and I promise he's freaking gorgeous.
Elis and I gratefully accept water, and he's nearly smiling after the successful practice, dark hair sticking to his face. He brushes it away, glancing back over at his rival and three boys.
Henry is paying us as little mind as the servants. He's questioning Thomas, it looks like on something to do with the bout; I'm not close enough to hear what.
Edmund has wandered over to get a drink, and is pulling his sweaty shirt off over his head, pale skin red with marks from the swords and several bruises from rougher play.
"Don't, you'll get in trouble," Edward, known to his family as Ned, says, tugging the boy's shirt back down. Now as a side note, I can't wait to get to know Edward because everyone named Edward in royalty is a source of unrestrained chaos. Not always evil. Just chaos. Anyway.
"I'm hot," Edmund says.
"I don't care, I don't want to hear it," Edward says, not letting his brother remove his shirt. To be be clear, it's not uncommon for boys, or men, to strip their shirts off when doing such an exercise and it's a rather warm morning. Elis wouldn't, he likes his shirt too much to put it down, but I was thinking about it as mine is soaked to my skin.
"Boys, what are you arguing about?" King Henry asks, finishing wiping his face with his shirt.
"Why does he have stomach muscles? This is bullshit. He's very old?" Elis breaths, clearly enraged. To be clear, for the eight seconds Henry raised his shirt, yes he had muscles he spends all his free time in hundreds of pounds of armor on a horse with a sword in his hand if he can manage, he also has numerous battle scars. I saw one on his ribs when he lifted the shirt and I was trying to figure out where he got it, but I don't feel like I know.
"I know, it's painful," I pat Elis' shoulder.
Meanwhile, the boys looked at each other for a long moment.
"Nothing," Edward says.
"Nothing, father," Edmund says.
"Thomas d'you know what they were arguing about?" Henry asks, well aware the younger two are lying.
"Ah—so—Harry said you said he could make up rules while he's in charge. So he said we all have to wear our clothes all the time, always, and he makes everyone do it even when swimming or anything," Thomas says, knotting his shirt in his hands.
To be clear, in this day and age, it would not be uncommon for men or women to change clothes around each other. Yes, even the King, would have relatively little care for modesty or privacy when on campaign. Bathing and the like was often done together. At the very least, around family members, and for younger males such as the princes, swimming would probably be done sans clothing, especially on the privacy of their own grounds.
Henry puts a hand to his face, to be clear he was definitely also considering stripping the shirt off completely, I saw him tugging on it, "Thank you, Thomas. For answering me."
"Yes, father," Thomas says, looking at his brothers.
"Archbishop," Henry says, not moving his hand.
"Your Majesty, I will talk to him again," Courtenay says, raising his glass to Henry before taking a drink.
As a side bar, no, nobles don't usually refer to each other by their titles. Not in passing or in normal conversation. Like, no. Usually, a noble will refer to their family member by the appropriate name, like Elis called the Duke of Conwy, Jac, and then the Duke calls Elis by his title in company, but in small groups or in private he'll refer to him by his name or a shortening. Similarly they're all calling Prince Henry, Harry, because he's their Harry. Even one of Henry's brothers might do that, that's their nephew. Same with cousins or the like, you don't call the Duke of Exeter, Exeter, you call him his name probably and only use title to distinguish. Of course in public in direct address all nobles are 'my lord' or 'my lady' respectively, or 'your grace' is also safe. Henry usually goes by Majesty, but not always he doesn't make anyone really do it, I call him 'my lord' all the time. On the same token, the kids call their parents mother and father, but in extended company might use titles. Henry and Courtenay calling each other 'your majesty' and 'Archbishop' exclusively is a very weird them thing. It's not a common thing.
Also, I've once heard Courtenay call Henry not 'your majesty' and he called him Hal, interestingly enough, but that was only once when Courtenay was in danger, and needed to be quick. Yes, I was the danger, but moving on. Kings or queens are going to get called their real names by family members or best friends or archbishops. Unless like in this instance they are personally making the choice to be weird.
Behind us, the doors open, and a few more guests spill out, namely the ladies.
Queen Catherine looks well, if tired, in a long light blue dress, hair done up of course. She looks like she has little interest in the sport and regards her husband a bit tiredly. He doesn't really glance our way now he's talking with the sword master. Catherine barely looks at her boys. A governess behind her is leading little Kate, a yellow haired, blue eyed creature with as far as I can tell her father's temper, she's all smiles till she's off causing chaos. So yes, her father's child. The little girl is in a dress matching her mother, and looks annoyed to be being walked places.
Rhiannon comes and joins us, she's in a much simpler dress than the Queen, hers is just a deep green, and red. Colors of wales, always. It's a crushed sort of soft fabric, high collared and tight across her chest, and quite simple in itself, but just tight enough around her waist to reveal her now thickening belly. She's probably wearing practical shoes underneath. Her hair is mostly up though I know she hates it that way I'm surprised she bothered, as we're in theory only visiting today. Didn't want to look less the part than Catherine? Possibly.
Our nurse carries Lowri, who matches Rhiannon in dark green. She immediately squirms free to run up to me. I swing her into my arms easily. This isn't telling, Royal children are attached to all their aids, equally as much as their parents.
"Hello, Gideon leading you astray?" Rhiannon says, coming up behind Elis and poking him in the back. He swings an arm around her easily, tucking her against his chest.
"Hm, you get some sleep?" Elis asks, kissing the top of her head quickly.
"A little, this one thinks he should be involved in night time shenanigans," Rhiannon says, putting a hand quickly to her stomach.
"Why are you looking at me? I was getting wine drunk, with the King of England because I think we all know I have no self control, we all know that about me," I say, innocently, grinning a cheeky grin though, "The good news is I stopped someone from being tortured, and stopped Henry from acquiring another siege machine he thought could storm Harlech with, and I owe him a favor which he's definitely going to cash in on his latest campaign."
"Oh, so you're now involved with the Spanish campaign like you've wanted to be for six months?" Rhiannon asks.
"Yes!" I say, pleased she remembered. To be clear, Spain is divided into a couple sections at this point which are called Castile and Aragon respectively. But we still refer to them as being Spanish because they are, just like Aquitaine and Navarre are regions of France, but they're separate from France itself. Kind of confusing, not a big deal to follow, but that's why we're saying it like that.
"So in the end, you were the shenanigans, good I was blaming you, I was lying there getting kicked in the lungs and I thought 'someone is doing something stupid somewhere, bet it's Gideon'," she says, putting Elis's hand on her belly through the smooth fabric. We're in public obviously and I'm well trained to keep my distance from any of my friends, but I confess I imagine the child's kick under my palm. I've felt it in private yet apparently not enough. Strange secret world we live in, most of our affairs in court must be entire different to the public eye. I snuggle Lowri who must sense my thoughts for she wraps her hands around my neck. No inhibitions, she's a child and she's free now to hug who she likes. I grin, cuddling her back.
"Hm, thinks he should be out here playing with wooden sticks," Elis says, amused.
"Yes, more than likely," Rhiannon says, glaring at me.
"What? I'll oblige as soon as a sword can fit in the tiny Welsh fist, that's why you keep me," I say, tugging on Lowri's fist, for emphasis.
"Hm, yes it is, I'm holding you to that, so will he no doubt," Rhiannon says.
"Why do we think it's a boy anyway? I'll take another girl," Elis says, idly.
"You just want to dress a girl. You think it'll be more fun for you," Rhiannon says.
"Yes? You say that like it's a problem? It's not?"
"It's a boy, I know," she says, softly, then, "Go on to your fun then. I can't join for a while, you might as well enjoy the break."
"Yes, my ribs will be remarkably unbruised till next year, they're enjoying the reprieve," I say, swinging Lowri back to my chest. Rhiannon delights in hitting me in the ribs when we spar. I'll let her sometimes and that makes her mad if she finds out I let her. I'm like twice her height so you know, it isn't easy.
"May I go play mummy?" Lowri asks, hopefully, rubbing her face into my sweaty shirt like a cat. Like I said, royal children across the ages are likely to call their parents the usual honorific, saving formal titles for public.
"Yes, if you can be good and play nicely with you English cousins," Rhiannon says.
I set Lowri down gently. Meanwhile our English cousins have also drifted over to the newcomers, mostly it would appear at King Henry's bidding. The littler boys are talking to their tutors and not really paying their mother any mind. Henry says a couple of words to Catherine, but she appears to be saying something to the effect of, "Oh don't let me stop you from from smacking our very small children with a large stick." As in I can read lips, and she says something that effect exactly.
Henry does not take this badly he's quite happy to be smacking the kids with a stick. To be clear, he's not really hurting them they're fine they're playing.
"Wear him out for me?" Prince Harry joins us, looking fresher than last night, eyes still swollen and bruised from crying, face patchy and red. He smiles warmly at his brothers though, before quickly nodding to his parents. Again, in public he bows to them. Here in semi-public he's old enough to address them respectfully. He murmurs a 'Lady Mother, Father' before going back to his brothers.
"Have you been crying again?" Thomas asks, him, poking his big brother in the stomach.
"I was deep in prayer last night, come though, are we sparring?" Harry asks, lightly. He's dressed as always in a simple set of light clothes, though now he matches his father and brothers who are dressed similarly for sport in loose white shirts.
"Just warming up for you," Henry says, smiling with obvious pleasure that the boy did show up for their games. Harry generally would rather read than fence, and I'm sure after last night his father didn't expect him to make a showing. Despite their row, father and son are both entirely happy with the other's company. I'm quite sure Henry long since viewed such things as business, entirely different from parenting. He lets his boy have his own mind he's glad of that, other than when it might get the boy killed.
"I'll slaughter Edward," Thomas says, catching his younger brother in a headlock.
"Swords, both of you," Henry says, shaking them by the backs of their necks till they both laugh.
"Father?" Harry asks, pleasantly, picking up a wooden sword, "Who shall I take?"
"Myself, I'm home aren't I?" Henry asks, spinning the sword in his hand idly, right hand like he has been all morning.
"Only if you do it left handed," Harry says, smiling slyly.
"As you will," Henry says, tossing the sword to his other hand. It's a wooden practice sword with a grip like a bastard sword, ergo it can be used in either hand. Again, Henry's been fencing right handed he probably learned right handed then switches to his left for comfort. Harry's saying he wants the practice of a left-handed opponent, also I imagine Henry's a bit quicker with his left, though at this age he's likely fairly equally adept at either. As a rule left handed swordsmen are, which makes them even more deadly.
"Sword and shield?" I ask Elis, lightly.
"You know the idea was you'd go easy on me as you're intoxicated? You're as bad as a Jac or someone equally full of malice," Elis sighs, but he's clearly joking.
"Ah, I'll take that as a compliment the Duke's one of my favorite people," I say, giving him a shield. Sword and shield is actually really hard, doesn't sound it, but you're doing two completely different things with each hand, the shield can be offensive, not just defensive, and you've got to work around it. I'm not bad, I'm nothing like great, but Elis still struggles with the ambidexterity necessary to wield such a set of weapons.
We set to it, Elis isn't great at all with the sword and shield, but he does need the work. In truth so do I, in real battle situations I'm usually doing magic things and not actually, you know, having fun with weapons. Gareth and the Duke are sound tutors and I've devoted plenty of time to it, but I'm nothing like good, and in the end we're going at half speed compared to father and son on the other end of the yard.
Harry is remarkably quick and agile for someone who regularly walks into walls because he's too busy reading to look up. That sounded really judgmental when I have also done that, I'm just saying. Harry is faster than one would think, and a smile haunts his lips as he dodges his father's blows.
King Henry, for his part, is most definitely pulling his punches. I've seen him in practice with his brothers or battle-brothers. He's had a sword in his hands for more years than this sweet boy's mother has been alive. He's content to let the boy practice, though, clearly enjoying himself as he gives the odd bit of advice, and easily blocks his son's blows. To be fair, it's probably the only part of parenting he's really comfortable with, save discussing battle strategy. Henry spends little time home, and in his life has spent little time with domestic affairs beyond what is necessary to fund his wars. But he has spent many an hour doing something like this with either his younger brothers or cousins or probably even squires if he was so inclined. Of all affairs at the castle it likely comes naturally to him, with no need for pretense.
Elis and I wear ourselves out quickly, we've been going longer and a bit harder, and after one solid bout which I win, we go back to the shade. Elis is recovering from his lifelong curse, which did end a good five years ago, but that's not a lot of time to build up solid endurance and affairs of the state and our chaotic lives in general keep him from practicing enough. The goal isn't to have him great, but it is to have him be able to defend himself if Rhiannon isn't around to do it. But he's getting better, definitely, and I almost had to work for my victory.
We toss down our things and get water, which admittedly I should maybe start drinking instead of wine. Thomas and Ned have gone to cheer on their brother against their dad, while Edmund and Lowri are playing what looks like nicely under the watchful eye of like eight stewards because Henry doesn't even trust our five year old. I mean, she's a Fae I specifically summoned to make his life complicated, but he has no idea I did that.
Rhiannon is standing watching us. She claps for her husband nicely, smiling a little. Queen Catherine is watching her husband and son with something like concern like she genuinely doesn't trust either to survive at any given time.
Harry, for his part, is nearly spent and has nearly lost, and Henry is not even breathing heavily, just blocking his son's blows as quickly as they come.
"Truce?" Henry asks immediately before knocking his son's sword out of his hand.
Harry loses the weapon, and ducks his father's sword to roll and get the sword, succeeding in doing so without getting hit. With the recovered sword he gently taps the side of his father's leg.
"Truce," Harry grins, lying on the ground, covered in dirt now and gold curls limp with dust.
"You can hit me you know," Henry says, concerned, as the boy gently taps his shin again.
"Goodness no! We don't want to get hurt, that would be dangerous," Harry says, climbing to his feet.
Henry, who definitely knocked down all three of his other sons, intentionally, by hitting them with a wooden stick, not ten minutes ago, "No, we wouldn't want to get hurt. You're a very good brother."
Thomas and Ned make universal gestures for "no, he's not, see what we have to put up with?" To be clear, all three boys thought it was hilarious when their dad knocked them down with a wooden sword and they immediately got back up laughing. But. Point remains he knocked them down at least once each in Ned's case five times.
They join us under the pavilion, we're all pointedly not speaking to each other, that is, Queen Catherine has no interest in speaking to us, or Courtenay, who is standing slightly nearer to her party than us, but not really by much. He knows nobody here will be speaking to him. I almost feel bad; he's here for King Henry, but King Henry's not going to really be chatting with him either, not in this mixed company namely his wife, children, and us, who he probably is going to have to acknowledge at some point here.
Thomas and Ned hurry off to spar, pausing only to talk to Harry who encourages them on. King Henry, for his part, returns to get water, finally, glancing at Courtenay who is drinking wine and being a loyal shadow.
Queen Catherine is watching her two middle boys sparring with something like resignation, like she knows she can't stop them but she expects them all to get themselves killed sooner or later. She knows those will be real swords in a few years, and in a couple more years real foes. She may be removed from court but she's not naive. Each boy will get a Dukedom, and then given his father's power, probably will be named regent of some swath of their empire. An empire soon to be fraught with uprisings, and revolutions. None of that spells a good life expectancy for her babies. So I don't strictly blame her for being detached. This is a prince of England, not her precious child to be kept safe.
Little Kate, the youngest and only girl, may get to be kept safe, if her father and brothers are kind, if not she'll be married off, early as thirteen, potentially to a man twice her age. Now, 'good' fathers wouldn't arrange that but nowhere in history have there been a plethora of wholly good fathers. Henry doesn't need a political alliance, that's in her favor. But that doesn't mean he won't do it, or he'll care enough to stop someone else from doing it.
Right now she's all of six, and wearing a nice dress she's clearly dying to get mucky. She has been in the care of governesses who weren't letting her stray too far, but now she wanders over to attach herself to her tall dad's leg, pressing her face into his dusty boot. "Father, may I please go play swords with Eddie?"
"No, you can't do something dangerous that you've never done before, and will not get to do later," Henry says, nicely enough, "Stay with your nurse now."
"Yes," she pouts, still clinging to his leg, there's like a 0% chance she's not running around with a sword, daily. And given his response I'm guessing he knows that or just assumes she is and completely doesn't care.
"Kate stop, you're getting dirty," her mother says, glancing down, as she sits watching the boys play.
The little girl slinks back to her nurses obediently.
Harry joins us, getting a glass of water and kneeling by his mother to pet one of the lazy dogs that's lying out with us. He smiles nicely in our direction, first person to really acknowledge we're here.
In the Welsh party we're as follows: Rhiannon is watching the English with interest, Elis is trying to breath after our bout, and I'm holding his arm so he doesn't fall down.
"Harry, what happened here?" His mother asks, reaching out to touch a bruise on the boy's soft forehead.
Harry, for his part, leans completely away from her touch, automatically, then stops himself and moves back, "It's fine," he says, quietly. I'm one of maybe the three people here who know he's generally opposed to touch, the back of his neck, or his stomach, or ankle is fine, but anywhere else he doesn't like it. It's not uncommon for people to have such sensory preferences, but Harry tends not to tell people. I'm assuming his mother either doesn't fully know how much he hates it, or is busy being a mum and doesn't care if she thinks she needs to inspect him.
"You're not, that's awful, how did that happen?" She asks, touching it.
"He said he's fine, he's fine then," Henry says, his voice almost sharp.
"So you know how our son hit his head?" Queen Catherine asks, not even bothering to rise for this argument. She's one of the few people not to wither when the usual poison starts to leak into Henry's voice.
"I'm sure it was sparring yesterday," Henry says, quickly, which is a really weird way to pronounce 'last night at ten pm I was dealing with a kidnapping victim of mine, so I balled up the back of our child's shirt, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him over the back of a sofa for safe keeping, so that's probably what happened'.
"It rained yesterday morning they didn't go out," Queen Catherine says, staring directly at her husband.
"I'm well, lady mother," Harry rocks back on his heels away from her, finally, hands tense and fingers curled. Aw, it hurts him to be touched. Poor baby. Don't look at me like that. I'm allowed to love one royal for no reason at all and that's King Henry, and one because he's the nicest person ever and that's Prince Harry.
"He says he's well," King Henry says.
"Well, neither of you are very good judges of what are or aren't acceptable head wounds," Queen Catherine says.
"What's he done?" Henry and his two TBI's, very self-righteously for his sixteen year old who doesn't leave the house.
"At the moment been unable to explain why it looks like someone brained him with a rock," Queen Catherine says. Now, again, she usually looks like the bitch in these scenarios but, *gestures broadly to everything her husband has ever done* yeah, I thought you'd agree her line of questioning is super valid.
"I'm well, it doesn't hurt," Harry says, petting the dog and not looking at his mother.
"But—neither of you know how it happened?" She asking, looking between husband and son like trying to figure out who is covering for whom.
"Of course we know," Henry says.
"Yes," Harry says.
"I fell down the stairs."
"He walked into a wall."
They say it, of course, in unison. For reference, our Welsh party is just standing watching this and getting more entertainment than we've had all year. Both Elis and Rhiannon are shoving me because they just assume I know what happened. Which is true. I do. And all the while Courtenay is leaning against a pillar disassociating and drinking his third glass of wine.
"So. Which is it? He walked into a wall or fell down the stairs?" Queen Catherine asks, looking between her husband and son. Husband and son, are at the moment, look at each other with basic disappointed expected of the other, whom both presume is the dunce in the relationship, and making brief hand gestures as to why the other would say that.
"Ah," Harry says, because in the very rapid exchange he and his father did not decide which story to go with.
"The Archbishop was there, he'll explain it to you," Henry says, smoothly, gesturing to Courtenay who immediately starts chocking on his wine.
As an update, our Welsh party is just standing here watching this. We don't have Netflix this shit is good.
Courtenay clearly inhaled the wine and is now actively dying. I'm going to go help him, but Elis and Rhiannon take hold of my arms from either side.
"Don't you DARE," Elis hisses.
"No, forget it, you have to do what I say, I'm pregnant," Rhiannon says.
"I can't let someone die in front of you, you're pregnant," I point out.
"You can, that's an order," Elis says.
Courtenay meanwhile is still trying to breath. King Henry strides over and rescues his cup from his hand and does absolutely nothing else to assist, just watching his friend choke. Prince Harry hops to his feet and comes over, taking Courtenay's arm and patting him lightly on the back. He's trying to do it firmly, but it's very lightly. Henry takes a sip from the cup and frowns at it, apparently he didn't know Courtenay was still drinking wine.
"Are you all right, Archbishop? Here, have some water," Harry says, about to take the cup from his father.
"This is not water," Henry says, drinking from the cup despite knowing it's wine. Nobody else knows this but me though, so the scene is funnier.
"I'm well, your highness," Courtenay wheezes, just barely recovering and nodding to the boy that he can let go of his arm. Harry kind of pats him on the head delicately one more time before backing off.
"Harry, fetch us some water," King Henry says.
"I'm well," Courtenay, who is not well, nods to Harry.
"Good, my queen had a question for you," Henry says, completely naturally, gesturing to Queen Catherine with Courtenay's wine cup which he now drinks from casually.
Queen Catherine looks so disappointed with them as a unit, but her resolve does not break, "Archbishop, how did my son get bruised on his forehead?"
"He was praying and slammed his head into the wall," Courtenay, still half choking.
"You could have said anything else, you know. You didn't need to say that. You could have said you don't remember," Harry mutters, returning with the cup of water which he's about to give Courtenay, but Henry takes instead because apparently it was for him.
"Is that how it happened?" Henry asks, surprised, holding a cup in each hand. Courtenay is starring daggers at him and coughing a little. "What—? Well here which do you want—?" Henry says, holding out the cups. Courtenay takes the water and continues staring at him.
"Don't look at me like that. You weren't doing well with liquid," Henry says, sipping the wine.
"Yes, that's how it happened!" Harry nearly snarls, "How did YOU think it happened?"
"When we—," Henry makes a brief hand gesture with his free hand to indicate throwing his son bodily over the sofa.
"Oh. No. Caught myself, rolled, completely anticipate that now," Harry nods, pleased with himself.
"Oh right, good, when did you do the other?"
"Why did you think I passed out?"
"It was past midnight and you'd had wine all evening?"
"Oh. No. I smacked my head, praying," Harry says.
"So what I'm getting is, there were multiple ways our son could have sustained a serious head injury, to the extent that neither of you knew how, and somehow the Archbishop did, and yet you were both with no provocation about to lie about it?" Queen Catherine asks. I feel for this woman, she hasn't been here in months. She shows up for a brief family thing to meet the crazy people her one son is engaged to and she finds out her family is yes, still this crazy. She probably goes away thinking it can't possibly be that bad and maybe they'll improve. And then everytime she returns it's not just that bad. It's worse. Her husband is currently drinking out of a wine glass that he took from the Archbishop, his accountant, and the Archbishop is occasionally taking it to sip from it too, and handing it back, and both men are acting like this is normally how they consume liquids. And that is correct this is how they typically consume liquids.
"Yes, that's right, I'm glad you followed that so well, now the subject is closed. My son is fine," Henry says, his voice as ever heavy with malice. A tone he usually uses for enemy warlords, or Welsh teenagers. I suppose it's a compliment he uses it on her, he wouldn't if he thought she had no power.
"Harry, that's awful, whatever occurred last night that I want no more information on, please go lie down the rest of the day," Queen Catherine says.
"Yes, Lady Mother," Harry, who has not once in his life said no to lying someplace quietly with a cup of tea and a good book, "I'll rise only for my prayers."
"How often do you pray?" Courtenay asks.
"Seven times a day, more if necessary," Harry says, patting the dog and moving to leave before someone stops him.
"Harry. You're well, and you'll be with me today," Henry says, his tone still sharp.
"And you're a doctor?" Queen Catherine asks.
"I'm his father, come Archbishop," Henry says, putting his hand on Harry's neck, before he just leaves with his son. Courtenay, incredibly relieved, follows his monarch, and they all three retreat inside. Queen Catherine watches them go, then returns her attention to her two younger boys, who returned from playing.
"I haven't had this much fun since we broke out of his tower," Elis says.
"I haven't had this much fun since Lowri was born," Rhiannon says.
"This is what disincorporating is like, see why I do it all the time?" I ask, not moving because they're both still holding my arms, but I'm enjoying the cuddle. I haven't gotten cuddled enough lately.
"Yes, that was great. I suppose you know what happened to the Prince's head?" Elis asks.
"Oh, yes, obviously. So last night, long story, King Henry has been enslaving this wizard to do evil little tricks and things for him. And I found out about it and was setting the wizard free, Prince Harry was helping because you know, he's kind. Well, Prince Harry was less than pleased with his father for having a slave in the first place. And then, well, we got him to let the slave go. But as we were doing that the wizard wasn't happy so King Henry tossed Prince Harry behind a sofa as a precautionary measure. And then the wizard just went on home. So since I'd lost Henry the servant, I offered to help Henry so I'm helping him in Castile, it's fine though I can come back whenever, and total discloser I've been wanting to do that anyway," I say, shrugging.
"So why was Harry hitting his head?" Rhiannon asks.
"Oh, he was disappointed in his father as a human being and king, and was praying for god to help him, and that was not going well when Henry kept casually mentioning burning and pillaging in Europe. Anyway, King Henry and I were looking at maps and talking about that, we thought Harry just fell asleep. Seems he hit his head while praying and passed out and that's why Courtenay said, 'Saint, help me carry him to bed' and I went to, but King Henry said 'I'll do it' and just picked the whole prince up and carried him up to his room while Courtenay and I argued about who more recently stole whose spell book. It was him, spoiler alert," I say.
"That made so much sense it's frightening," Elis says.
"Yeah, it's like I was there," Rhiannon says.
I nod, "We going inside then?"
"Yeah, can you fetch Lowri?" Elis asks, nodding across the way to Lowri who has migrated out into the grass to pick at it and dig with sticks or whatever kids do.
"Yeah," I nod. I'm doing it because while we have nannies Lowri bites, and her royal mum and dad don't do fetching and carrying as a rule, at least so far as making a show for the others. We're trying to look the part, even if in private yes Elis will completely chase his little girl the length of Harlech's west wall, and despite the pregnancy Rhiannon will still carry the child on her back and hike down to the beach.
Lowri and Prince Edmund are kneeling in the grass, pulling it up, having the following conversation.
"So I'm Princess of Wales, because my daddy is giving me Wales, but you can come and stay, but I'm in charge."
"That's good. All I want to do is hit things with my sword. Like my dad."
So they get along and are having fun? Cool, cool.
"Hey, lovebug, we're going back inside you want a ride?" I ask, tugging on Lowri's dark curls.
"Yes!" She says, grinning and holding up her arms. She has yet to say no to a ride on my broad shoulders, I'm not looking forward to the day that changes. I swing her onto my back easily, her little hands resting in my sweaty hair.
"Prince Edmund, let's get you back to your mum."
"My lady mother doesn't want me, my lord," the boy mutters, smearing dirt on his face intentionally, which is a mood to be honest. He also puts a messy hand through his soft blonde curls.
"Well, your dad would have my head if I left you out here, so, we'll leave it there eh?" I ask, offering him a hand. He takes it readily frowning a little at having his fun ruined.
I return to Queen Catherine's party first, to drop off her youngest hell child. I say that with love because Ned and Thomas are clearly attempting to silently kill each other behind their mother's back and the nannies are letting that happen. The nannies look like they thank god everyday that the King and Queen stopped at five. These are people who put on mourning clothes when the fourth boy was announced. They are ready to auction off every one that isn't Harry. Imagine how they'll feel when Harry insists on adopting his two illegitimate brothers. Oh yes. Time travel plus Wikipedia has given me insight into the fact that Queen Catherine has two more boys, hidden away someplace in the country, at some secluded royal estate. Two boys with a father, who is not her royal husband. I don't presume to know how the notion of her affair was raised with the King of England. But the thing is Henry isn't an affectionate man, nor a very devoted husband, he cares for his wars and little else, with a passing bond to his boys. If it doesn't make Henry look bad, Henry isn't going to be too worried about it. I'm guessing there's some massive cover up plan, but beyond that Catherine can do as she likes so long as no scandal occurs. And she's too clever for that.
"Now Kate, I want you to tell me, on a scale of, 'often', 'every single day', and 'your father has personally encouraged and participated', how often have you been smacked with one of these?" Queen Catherine asks, holding up a wooden sword she got off one of her boys.
Kate chews her lip, "All three?"
"And that's what I thought—what is it, Saint?" Queen Catherine asks, noticing me standing there.
"My lady, I'm returning Prince Edmund," I say, as the kid bites me and tries to run, he does not escape me, however, and Lowri remains perched on my back.
"Edmund come here," Queen Catherine says, snapping her fingers.
The boy immediately begins acting less like Henry's hellspawn and more like the Lancaster family's best impression of a functioning human person.
"Yes, lady mother," he says, bowing a little and then scurrying to join his brothers who cease their fighting almost immediately and straighten up with a learned innocence.
"Take them inside to wash up before their lessons, thank you Matilda," Queen Catherine says, nicely, to the governess. I wonder what nurse minds her natural sons, locked away in house. According to them later, unaware their mother was queen. I wonder vaguely if that's the life she really wants. Not all this. If so I hope she's happy with it.
"My lady," I bow as much as I can with a child on my back, and am about to go.
"Stay a moment. I've hardly had a look at her," she says.
I obey, hesitantly, taking Lowri off my shoulders only for her to cling to my neck, smashing her face into my shirt like she does when she wants to go to sleep. Blessedly, seeing the conversation, Rhiannon comes over to join us. Elis has gone inside, Henry summoned him I'd expect. Rhiannon waited for me, but now since I've been delayed she comes over.
"Don't, she seems attached to you," Queen Catherine says, as I'm about to set Lowri down.
"I'm about a lot, your lady ship," I shrug a little. Queen Catherine is as wily as her husband, who I'm more familiar with dealing with. Also it is not at all beyond them to be at odds over the children, but wholly invested in some other scheme. Now, I do honestly have black mail material as I know about her other life. But I'm not about to use it, not unless truly necessary.
"Yes, it seems you are. You were here at Windsor over Christmas I recall, with my son," Queen Catherine says.
"I had some information he requested," I say, as Rhiannon comes over to join me.
"Your Majesty," Rhiannon says, nicely, bowing her head a little. But not a lot, "Has our princess been sociable?"
"Better than my sons," Queen Catherine says, kindness sparking in her eyes. Oh, she's more frosty with men? Eh, look who she's married to that would fit. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, my lady," Rhiannon says, also surprised at the good will.
"When is the child due?"
"It's coming after new year," Rhiannon says, hand on her stomach, smoothing down the crisp fabric over the bulge. "I'm just at five months."
"I'm usually ill by then. With my first, I was in my fifth month and I had to see my husband off, he was going back to France. I was quite unwell," Queen Catherine says. That's true, Henry left in August on campaign with no apparent concern for his obviously pregnant wife. He also never returned to England, dying a year later in my world. In this one he came back, apparently eventually, though I'm guessing not any faster. "How was the journey here for you?"
"It was quite smooth, I was ill with my first. This time though I feel fine so far," Rhiannon says, glancing at Lowri who is behaving for me and mashing her face into my dusty shirt. Of course Rhiannon didn't actually carry Lowri, this is her first pregnancy. With Lowri we just said she was on bed rest and being ill, which helped the ruse. Hence the story. "It feels odd not being ill, but so long as the baby's fine."
"I've lost four," Queen Catherine says, gently. I mentally calculate. I wonder if that's a correct number or if she's counting her illegitimate boys in the ones she's lost? It would be easy enough, and is in fact our plan if necessary, say the child is still born, spirit it away till it's old enough to mix in with the pages and blame on some man who is either the father, or doesn't really care. Nobody looks much for mothers of natural children.
"I'm sorry," Rhiannon says.
"I wish it on no woman. But I'm happy for the healthy ones I have," Queen Catherine says, looking at Lowri, "She seems happy."
"She's my little pal," Rhiannon says, smiling a little. That's true at least.
"With my eldest I was about your age. I suppose I was young, but I always felt like I wasn't holding him properly I just—I never thought I could hold him, he'd cry and he wouldn't be comfortable. Now my youngest, he's my little shadow, he'll fall asleep in my arms every night," Queen Catherine says, smiling a bit at the memory. Oh that was true too. But she's not talking about Edmund no, that kid is LancasterBrandNameHorrible. She's talking about her true youngest, the baby of the family with no family as he's not legitimate, Jasper Tudor. He's sweet and he'd absolutely be a mama's boy. He's also stubborn as hell and just clever enough to get into and out of trouble, which incidentally is why we're gonna be friends. I've met him as an adult already and after he got over wanting to kill me we pack bonded over hate of stupid people. It was great. Anyway. He's one of my favorite people.
"I want to protect him—them, sorry I think it's a boy," Rhiannon says, quickly. She has said that.
"I usually knew. Except with my eldest, I was terrified he was a girl, but I was praying for a boy I thought my husband would come back if I gave him a son. I was wrong," Queen Catherine says, dryly.
"I'm sorry," Rhiannon says.
"I know he's thrown you in his Tower which is worse than not returning from his beloved wars to meet our newborn," Queen Catherine says.
"He has yes and personally held me at sword point—but I think that's worse, not wanting to meet the baby is worse," Rhiannon says.
"Hm. Perhaps, actually probably yes he's supposed to like us not just look like he likes us. Anyway, some advice? I've had a few more babies than you yet. Hold that one close, yes if it's a girl but especially if it's a boy, the boys, they don't learn love any other way. They're certainly not born with it like we are. There's nothing in their hearts but anger, and some primal longing for violence. They don't know what love is, so their mothers must give it to them, before it's too late. A wife cannot fix that," Queen Catherine says, gently.
"I will," Rhiannon says, hand on her belly, like she wishes she could hold her baby right now.
"I'm sure you shall," Queen Catherine says, smiling a bit at her, "I won't keep you in the sun. You should rest after all this excitement."
"Your Majesty," Rhiannon curtsies, and I bow, then we both back away to go back inside. As soon as we're out of earshot, Rhiannon whispers, "Did she just imply King Henry is LikeThis because nobody loved him as a child?"
"Yeah, yeah, she did. But to be fair. If you were nineteen, and married a 33 year old sociopath with a god-complex, it kind of makes sense to realize that something seriously went wrong here, not just the arrow through the brain, it's deeper than that. I feel like yeah, you would sit there, and just go 'did nobody hold you when you were a baby, because you sir have a problem'," I say.
"Okay. Fair. Yeah, perhaps you would. Did no one—,"
"Henry's mother died when he was about ten, and he had five younger siblings spaced out below him, I doubt she had a lot of time for him, but by all accounts she was kind enough. And to be fair Henry's not cruel to women he's just indifferent, he provided a pension for his governess and he got on fine with his step-mum and had his mother's tomb redone, so it probably wasn't a bad relationship," I say.
"Okay, well the idea your baby will turn into a warlord with no functioning conscience, if you don't hold them, is creepy," Rhiannon says.
"I mean, yes, however. Henry absolutely chooses to be the way that he is, that is 100% a personal choice he and his traumatic brain injury made. I assure you nobody held me as a child, at all. As in, I know that. My birth mother abandoned me. The people who raised me would leave me crying in my room for ten or twelve hours because I wouldn't settle down and I couldn't be held either. Same thing as she was describing with Harry, um, some babies go stiff when you hold them or like to be held very tight, it's fine it's just a thing," I say. A neurodivergent thing, common with autism, like I have. But it can happen, some babies go stiff when you pick them up, and it can freak the care giver out if they aren't expecting that. Also if the caregiver can't figure out what sensory thing is causing the crying, then it can go on for hours. A new mother holding a baby gingerly would clash with a baby who wants to be held securely or the like.
"Okay, well good. Thank you for being a wealth of comforting facts," Rhiannon sighs, looking over at me carrying our sleeping daughter, who is now quite out, content in my arms. We were all up late last night and she probably got up after I left.
"We're going to be fine," I say, quietly, even if it's only because I just want to believe it, "This one will be fine. I'm not saying our lives are easy or they ever will be. But it's been pretty awesome, don't you think?"
"Yeah, Gideon, it has," she smiles a little, hand on her stomach again.
"Moving?" I grunt. We're stepping inside now, and while the conversation is private, people are about.
"Yeah, probably wants to invade Castile too."
"Sorry about that."
"Just come back here when it's going to be born?" She asks.
"I will, I swear it, you know nothing keeps me from coming home again," I say.
"No, it doesn't, but stop testing it?"