Days of the Dead Book 2: The Beggar's Tomb

Chapter 5: 0 stars worst castle ever will definitely stay here again

Gideon
I say my goodbyes at Harlech and get ready to leave. I start with Oisin, filling him in quickly, he also blames Henry so that's good to know. Then I find the kids. Lowri is doing her lessons, but she runs to me the moment I knock on the door of her little studio. The tutors don't even care anymore. I pick her up and spin her around, hugging her tightly. She swears to be good and take care of Wales while I'm gone, only requesting a new doll from London while I'm there, in return for watching over her baby brother.
Myrddin is a bit harder to say goodbye to as he has nannies. But, thankfully Rhiannon finds me loitering in the hallway and takes the baby back to her room, alone. I naturally follow and she promptly deposits my son in my arms. He stares up at me with concerned blue eyes. I kiss both his cheeks and tell him I'll see him again in a few days. Okay, maybe a day. Like, I don't know why we all think I'll refrain from coming home to check on him every night. Like I'll completely do that I have no self control we know this about me. As it is I give him a solid cuddle and smell his soft baby hair, before finally yielding him back to his mother's arms. He goes willingly, tugging on the bodice of her dress, used to being handed about and hoping to nurse while he's getting the cuddle. I was that age, or something close, when my birth mother abandoned me. I wonder if I did the same, or if she said goodbye and I didn't know what it meant. If we don't come back this time, or another, will it have mattered that we tried? I've never been bothered about my birth parents, content that they didn't want me. Now though I'm nagged, wondering in the back of my head if something happened to me if he'd think I didn't want him. Which would never, ever be true.
"We're fine," Rhiannon tugs on my shirt, "You're going to find the threat."
"Yeah I know, well, okay in all seriousness there's definitely high odds this is actually an act of god," I say.
"Let's let it be true this time," she sighs.
"Yeah, well, I'm not holding my breath, but," I shrug.
After such sad goodbyes, I make my way to find the mourning clothes I was promised. How Elis had the 1439 equivalent of Gucci mourning attire I will never know.
"I really don't need—,"
"It's important to me we out dress them please shut up," Elis says, pushing a set of clothes into my hands.
Brief note on mourning clothes since if Elis knew I've been skimming heavily on fashions this whole time, he'd kill me. I know what you're thinking. You're envisioning us all in black. And you would be wrong. Black has been associated with mourning since the Roman Empire, when the Roman's would wear black died wool as a symbol of mourning. That said. Funeral attire the world over was traditionally, wait for it...white. Yeah, white, because it was cheap, and anyone might need a funeral.
Among aristocracy, usual a widow would wear a white veil. Everyone might not be in full white, but it would usually be certain finer clothes, for the wealthy this would mean purple dyed garments (purple was expensive) or gold. Usually some mix there of. It wasn't until the later 1600s, that black became the fashion, but even then it was restricted to nobles themselves. For example, in Hamlet, Hamlet is famously wearing black to mourn his father's death. Who did make black a fashion statement of mourning, the world over, for all walks of life? Queen Victoria. After her husband's death, she wore black for forty years. Before this, there were restrictions on who could and couldn't wear mourning clothes.
There, now that's something you know. Fashion doesn't usually affect me I'm wearing a shirt and drawers I'm probably going to ruin, 90% of the time. So it doesn't really come up.
Now though I'm getting special treatment. Practical, dark pants (drawers) my usual boots, and then a much nicer shirt than I usually have, bright purple with a red welsh dragon embroidered on it, then a white tunic. And since it's winter, a long button up coat but this one is black and edged with white fur. I admit it's warm. But I feel bad the way my life goes I'll destroy it before long.
"I give it like a week, it'll be ruined, you know how often I run into open flame," I sigh.
"It'll be out of fashion in a week," Elis says, lightly, "Go forth and be better dressed than the English court."
"Will do," I grin.
After that I find Gareth and the Duke of Conwy and say my goodbyes before leaving. Mostly with them it's promising to check back in before long.
Then it's time to go. It's easiest to return to wherever I last used my amulet, and so the most logical place to go is up to my room. My old room above the library. It's small, across the hall from Dancers. Mostly it has a few spell books I was reading, my clothes piled up neatly okay not so neatly, on shelves. The window with no covering looking out at the clouds.
Considering that I've lived here longer than any other place in my life, I think, it's odd that it's mostly impersonal. Nothing really up on the walls. My bag, old boots shoved under the bed that's all. Nothing to say I live here. But I suppose I'm busy off living. Not spending time shut up in here. That's good I would think.
I lock the door and lean against it. Back to Windsor.
I really was fancying a quiet Christmas. But it's not to be helped, even if I am personally annoyed. Last Christmas Myrddin was just born and I was mumbling spells every hour to give him and Rhiannon strength, sleep deprived with a newborn who didn't look like he'd live through the night. I was genuinely hoping to spend his first real Christmas trying to help him walk and making all his lovely toys dance.
But that's not to be. Time to get to Windsor, see what's brewing.
I twist the iron ring on my finger, focusing on where in Windsor I want to be. Back state apartments, the family quarters. I'm not fond of being held up by guards the minute I appear.
The necessary magic flows through me, and I feel my feet hit the cold stone, as I steady myself. Courtenay had a couple of enchantments up but they snap like cheap thread, nothing I can't handle. A couple of dogs run past me, barking. Oh, good, a sword to my throat.
"Getting old, really, not like all of you don't know who I am," I say, holding up my hands as two palace guards rush me.
"Orders from King Henry," one growls, "You're not permitted on the premises."
"I'm sure it is, bye bye now," I say, tossing their swords out of their hands easily and throwing them both several feet away, "I'm here to visit Prince Henry is he about?"
"STOP RIGHT THERE!" They both run after me and are joined by a third as I progress down the hall. I'm going to throw them back again but the commotion draws out the desired Henry.
Prince Harry really, nothing like as imposing as his father the king, he's tall but still lean, his eighteenth birthday was a few weeks ago, but he could still pass for sixteen with ease. Now his pale blonde curls are limp and damp, mussed from him putting his hands through them, and his eyes are red rimmed from crying, face blotchy and red. I instantly feel bad for my distaste for this funeral. I was just cross I didn't get to lie on the floor and watch my son try to get his fat legs to hold him up properly. This poor boy lost his mother.
"Oh dearest Gideon! I'm so glad you're here!" Prince Harry says, walking up to me and promptly wrapping his arms around my neck. I am as surprised as the guards. While they probably don't know, our Prince usually dislikes physical touch, namely skin to skin. He has a few points on his body it's all right, such as his neck and stomach, or if he initiates it he's fine. Some sensory preference or the like, I assume, I've never gotten a cause or his real symptoms.
But now he tosses himself into my chest with no inhibition, flinging his long arms around my neck. He's a couple of inches taller than I, but I'm much broader so I easily crush him in my arms. With sensory stuff firmer is usually better so I try to hug him securely and he melts, sobbing into my shoulder. Like the child he still is, desperately wanting someone else to hold him up and together when he's falling apart.
The guards, after like an awkward full minute, take this to mean I'm staying and grudgingly return to their posts.
After a good solid hug, Prince Harry leans back, hands still tight on my shoulders, "I'm so glad you came—then Wales got my letter?"
"We did. I came ahead of the rest," I say, not wanting to say it was to make sure his father wasn't pulling something. That's awful to say about his mum's funeral, but please consider his father. "How you are fairing?"
"I'm—," his voice shakes, tears welling in his big brown eyes, "I'm far from well. Come, are you here to stay? I desperately need your counsel, old friend."
"Yes, of course," I say, letting him lead me back to his study. It's usually very neat, monastery neat, as in there are crosses places, and big dogs. Right now there's papers spread all over his desk, and the shades are drawn on the window. There's a praying-boy shaped imprint one rug, so that's not great. I sigh a little. Yes, I'm staying, of course I'm staying.
"Thank you for coming," he says, closing the door behind us and moving behind his desk. He's all in black, again not the funeral attire of the period but he usually does not dress in fashion. He's wearing just a simple deep black shirt and black pants, and usual boots that are simple and square toed. Nothing fine, no fur, not even silk.
"More an antique Roman than an Englishman," I say, softly, as he paces. The quote is of course from Hamlet, Horatio is referring to himself being more an antique Roman than a Dane, in that he's thinking of running himself on his own sword. I'm referring to the Roman practice of wearing black, and Hamlet hasn't been written yet.
"What—oh this. Yes, the Romans did it. Why not us? Father has an entire—stash of funeral clothes , for all of us, and burial clothes, it made me sick, everything makes me sick since—," he winces, tears running down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I don't know what to say I'm horrible at comforting people which is bad considering how many bad things have happened to me and my friends.
"I didn't know. I didn't even know she was ill," he says, rubbing his face with his hands, "I'm so sick. I haven't slept in three days. I wrote to father right away to tell him to come home for the funeral and then Thomas as well he's in Castile now."
"Ah, yes," they sent Thomas to marry the Spanish Princess, or as we in the business call it, inflicted Thomas on Castile.
"Uncle Humphrey is coming he wrote to me already and I wrote to Uncle John he's bringing Ned back from France and Father's reply hasn't come yet, but he'll probably name ten other things I should be doing everyone I've spoken to has and I've prayed and I've prayed and I can't eat if I do I throw up, I'm sick," he says, pressing his face into his hands.
"You've done really well you've got other people to help plan the logistics now you've told everyone, we're good," I, who have no idea how to plan a funeral, says. I know there's a procession and church is involved.
"I'm not good, I'm not anything," he says, hand shaking, and not able to look at me, "Gideon she—she wrote to me. To me just—just to me. Before she died."
"Ah," I have an idea what this is.
"She said—," his voice is trembling, "Do you—did you know—,"
"I have an idea what she wrote you of, your grace," I say, gently as I can. He knows I have a knowledge of the future and that we agreed I wasn't going to tell him anything as it might affect his judgement or something of that kind.
"Tell me what you think it is," he says, tears running down his soft cheeks.
"She wrote to you to tell you that you have two brothers," I say, softly. Now, in my reality, she was semi-remarried and had the children, which her royal son might have been vaguely aware of, but probably not. And she did die suddenly leaving behind two young sons nine and ten years younger than their royal big brother. Half brothers, that is, they are illegitimate.
"Yes," his voice cracks, he bites his lip.
"She should have told you sooner. I'm sorry," I say, gently, "You're allowed to be shocked, and hurt. You just lost her so you can't even ask her about it. You don't have to be okay."
"Good, because I am not. How—how could she? How could she do that?" He asks, sobs escaping his throat, "One's just younger than Kate and Eddie. She—she was—all this time. Seeing him. In this house. I'm going to be sick."
I come over and move a fortuitously present bucket so that he can vomit into it, steadying him by the back of the neck while I hold the bucket.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Gideon, every day of the week we talk about illegitimate children. Gareth's a national fixture in Wales. You have like, one and half illegitimate children with the queen of Wales and basically everyone knows this. What's the big deal? We've all met King Henry it's obvious he wasn't a present spouse. I get him being a little surprised, but isn't this an extreme reaction?
And the answer, reader, is, no. Not really. Not for this kid. See, most everyone else is probably fine. The other siblings if/when they find out are going to be like 'huh, no siblings of mine' and just go on. King Henry almost definitely already knew this was happening, he'd have been a fool not to guess and he's not. I'm sure the national 'don't embarrass the crown' policy was the biggest concern for him.
But Harry's Harry. He's, well, he's religious to a fault. The idea of his mother committing adultery with likely no shame in her letter, probably sickens him. More than that, and this is just a guess, I think he's highly sex repulsed, likely asexual, so the general knowledge of an affair producing children, is disgusting him. Why do I think he's sex repulsed? Well, starting when most people hit puberty and want to see other people's bodies, he instituted a court wide policy everyone has to be completely clothed at all times, high necklines for all the women. Well, not just the women. I found this out because I was bringing him some book I thought he'd like and I walked into his office wearing a shirt with kind of a low v-cut kind of thing, and he said something to the effect of 'you shouldn't be wearing whore's clothes!' And then made me put something else on. It's completely relevant that I stole that particular shirt from his father. I was on campaign with said world-destroyer and I ruined my shirt so before you know, bopping back to England I just stole one of his father's old sparring shirts and anyway. Yeah.
Poor Prince Harry. He's a modest soul and again it's shocking news. Worse that she didn't ever tell him. Worse that she probably told him who the kid's father was and he found out he's known the man all his life.
"Thank you thank you," he says, as I find a cloth to help him wipe his face, "I can't—I prayed to god for her sins. But she was unrepentant. How could she do that?"
"People, do all sorts of things," invade countries for no reason whatsoever, like that's a worse thing, "It's not, it's not to do with you, or, your brothers and sister. But she should have told you."
"She doesn't care," he whispers, "She wrote to me only so that I would not find out later if gossip was brought to me. Said that I could inherit protecting the family name and say nothing." He scoffs dryly.
"Okay," I say, nodding, "What have you done?"
"Um—I wrote to my uncles, they'll bring Ned and Thomas home, and I wrote to my father I told him he must come definitely I'm beseeching him to come home and leave his campaign. Kate and Eddie are here, they were supposed to be in Scotland, but I begged father to let them stay home with me another year I'd miss them," Harry sighs. It's worth noting he's the only person in his family with parental instincts.
"I meant about your mother's letter," I say, gently.
"She told me not to tell father," he says, softly.
That's almost definitely because his father knows, would say something like 'so?' And then Harry would have a break down.
"Okay, I'm concurring with that let's not—engage with your father just now," I say, moving a chair so he can collapse into it. At the moment poor Harry looks like he's had three successive mental collapses and two divorces in the last week.
"I'm a mess," he breaths, into his hands.
"You've done your duty. Take care of Harry now," I'm very good life coach.
"She never even liked me. I wonder if she likes them," he says, softly.
"I'm not going to guess if your mother loved you or not. That's not me, that's you and if you didn't feel like she did, that's on her. And it's stupid, and wrong because you're really great just as you, you don't have to earn that. And if she didn't get that's she's absolutely not worth you worrying about. You're arranging a nice—funeral—thing—cause you're the good person that's what you do, but if you have to wonder about someone's love it wasn't worth it to begin with," I say, squeezing his neck a little. He puts his hand on mine.
"You're a good friend, Gideon. I'm so glad you knew. It's so relaxing. I didn't want to have to say it," he whispers.
"Did you sack Tudor?" I ask. I kind of need to know if our poor Owain Tudor is going through every stage of grief in the nearest pub. He's a Welshman I kind of should help him with that next once I get this one to sleep.
"Lord no! Why would I do that? God will judge him for his sin that's not for me to do," Harry says, almost indignant.
"Okay then," did you give him the day off though? Like, I don't think he's had one since the cold summer of 1423. Might be nice. "Most—um—sons would."
"No! That would be awful. What he and my mother did—," he nearly gags, this poor kid. "Is between them and God. That is all. I would not dream of dishonoring a knight who has been so loyal to me."
"That's—really good of you," I say, nodding.
"I don't know. I can't speak to him. I can't look at him. It's sinful, I can't—," he sighs.
"Did she tell you where they are? The boys?" I ask, gently. Right now there's two other boys who lost their mother.
"She had them—in her letter, she —she said she had them locked up in this house where she would go. One of our houses I don't—but the boys wouldn't be let outside. That because they were secret that they weren't allowed out and a few servants minded them, but they didn't know who she was. She was warning me. And said that if she died then the boys would know nothing, it didn't matter. One is—she said—the little one is younger than Kate and Eddie by not even a year. The older one she says is but a few years older and that they would go to work," he sighs, tears in his eyes as he looks down at what I assume is his mother's letter to him. It's in French, of course, so I can't read it.
"Does she say what became of them?"
"No! What do you take my family for, Gideon? Something other than self serving?" Harry asks, bitterly, "I had guards sent to the house, and the boys' father." He spits the word nearly. "They hadn't been outside before and wouldn't talk to anyone, the men said. I had them taken to a convent, the nuns will care for them for the present I—," He breaks off, choking.
"That's good," I say. Convents served as orphanages in this time. The boys will at least be fed and well looked after.
"Because no one in my family is helpful, it was Tudor who confessed that both boys have magic," he says, dryly, "So—so they're in the convent for now. When I'm able to talk about this without throwing up, I'll arrange for them to be brought here. They're my brothers they'll be treated as such, and get some privileges of their mother's birth. As Tudor's natural children they can pass at court, and be trained by our sorcerer line."
I smile a little. He's nothing but kind, I expected little less. In my reality he does the same, bringing his brother to court, calling them as such, and bestowing titles on them as appropriate.
"That's good. One day at a time yeah? All of you have lost your mum," I say, gently.
"I'm going to tell my siblings, when they're all here. Not father, she asked me not to. I will honor that," Prince Harry says, "I'm sure he doesn't know."
"Okay," I say. I'm sure he does.
"What, you think he does?"
"Is him knowing that WORSE than the number of innocent people his wars have killed?"
Quietly, "I suppose, no."
"Okay then. Look, I have yet to find something your father doesn't know about and have five contingency plans for. Doesn't mean I recommend talking to him about it though. Don't ask don't tell, right?" I ask.
"Agreed—no, I can't talk about this. I'll tell my siblings, they deserve to know. And I must protect my brothers, they should not suffer for the sins of their father, and mother," he says, with obvious disgust.
"I trust you will not allow that," I say.
"She named one of them Edmund—before ours he's bigger. Um—she didn't say why. So stupid," he says quietly.
"Yeah," I agree. I'm a very good yes-man when people are sad. Elis trained me well.
"They're here in London, in a convent. Said they'd never been outside why—," he breaks off, shaking his head, "Tudor didn't say anything. He's doing his usual duties I don't—I told him I would ensure the boys had a proper education that was all."
"I'm sure he's in shock too," I say, and anticipating getting killed. By the way, Tudor's usual duties are doing increasingly dangerous side quests for the royal family.
"And the children. I was going to have them brought here, but I can't—think about it yet. I can't look at them, I can't look at Tudor either without throwing up," he says, voice wavering.
"Do you want me to go and check on them?" I ask, gently.
"Would you?" He asks, "Edmund, and Jasper are their names."
"Sure. I'll tell you how they're fairing. You don't need to push just yet," I say, nicely. It's cool Jasper's one of my favorite people. "You're doing a lot, you've done a lot. I'll go by there tonight, check in. I'm happy to spend some time teaching them magic. Heck," don't look at me like that he hates swearing, "Wales and England are friends. They can come and stay with us I'll tutor them with our little sorcerers eh?" I mean Lowri. I'm fine with Jasper knowing she can use magic he's gonna wind up knowing all the known unknowns, I can tell. I know less about this Edmund, but he should be fine.
"That's a good idea, yes," he says, nodding, "Then they wouldn't have to be here. For a bit."
"Yeah, it'd be fine." I'll teach them lots of dangerous spells. Character building. "We'll work this all out. Right now, you're exhausted you've not slept."
"I can't sleep," he says, quietly, "I try praying I can't—it's like god doesn't want to hear me."
"Maybe your father made god angry—don't look at me like that, that was a joke."
"And you have met my father. Oh, he'll be here soon, no," he puts his head down on the table.
"Yeah," I'm not strictly looking forward to that either, "Look. You're exhausted. You need to rest." He seriously does look one family member away from having a nervous breakdown. Mystery solved with this poor guy goes comatose and quits talking for a year, ten years from now. No, I don't know if stress can do that. But he's clearly testing that. He clearly hasn't slept in days, his left hand is trembling violently.
"Your hand's shaking," I say, gently.
"I'm well," he mutters, rubbing it on his pant leg, "Numb that's all. I haven't slept since I got the news. And read that horrible letter."
"Okay then, let's fix that now," I say, helping him to stand.
"No, no I can't sleep—a million things need doing—,"
"Okay well, you're gonna lay down on the floor here for maybe ten minutes, and I'll read you whatever part of the Bible you like, and you'll close your eyes," I say.
"All right. I suppose, yes you're right of course, the word of God always helps," he says, basically collapsing on the rug. One of the dogs moves over to cuddle against him.
"Perfect, close your eyes," I say, opening a book I assume is the Bible. I can't read Latin. The Bible won't be translated into English for another good hundred years. Not fully anyway. That's okay I have a few verses memorized for occasions such as this.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He make the me to lie down in green pastures, my kingdom come, my will be done, on earth as it is heaven, render unto Ceaser what is Ceaser's, let the little children come to me, oh god why hast thou forsaken me, your sins are forgiven, something, oh well that was quick," I mutter, good I didn't have a lot more. The poor boy is completely asleep, eyes closed, red stained face twitching a bit as he unconsciously clings to the dog.
I sigh, standing a little. I don't want to strictly leave him, but I did promise him I'd go check on the boys and I do need to do a general sweep of the castle, make sure everything is all right.
I cross over to his desk. Half his notes are in French which doesn't help, but I identify the orders to take the little ones to a convent, and the name of the convent so that's something. He's been working on all manner of funeral arrangements and the like, nothing else I need to worry about.
I slip out, telling the guards in the hall he's not to be disturbed. They nod, not daring to arrest me again after the Prince embraced me on sight. I turn invisible to be on the safe side, though, for the rest of my spying.
My general sweep of Windsor goes surprisingly well. The only siblings left are Edmund and Kate, the twins, and they're doing their lessons, mostly subdued. I look in on them but don't go in. They won't want my company and they're better off with their tutors. I'm poor comfort anyway.
I make my way outside and do turn visible for that. I know I could try to hire a carriage or something but I don't want to. Windsor is fairly removed from the rest of London and I'm not wasting magic, to go into London and try to hire a ride, when I can just take a horse. For free. I'm technically on the prince's errand anyway.
I make my way out to the stables and turn back visible. The stable hands don't bother to stop me they are very resigned to me being here at this point. I skip all the hunting horses and the like and find some of the nice Welsh Cogs that Henry relocated here when he burned down our country, and they mysteriously never relocated back.
"Hello Perseus, you miss me?" I ask, petting a thick chestnut pony's head. He was one of the mounts I first learned to ride on. I miss him. I wonder if we can sneak him home with us this time? I want to try. Lowri could use a good steady pony.
With those thoughts, I steel myself to get going. It's a couple of hour's ride by my estimate, and I'd like to get back, check on Harry, and then go home to Wales to update everyone. But for now, time to meet the Tudor boys.