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

Chapter 16: The Beggar's Tomb

Gideon
I fall to the stone floor. It's so quiet. It's deathly, terribly quiet. And I have no strength. I feel no magic in me at all.  Yet I feel no fear.
"You fool," Kit stands up, brushing off his white robes, "You ruined everything. What is wrong with you?"
"What is wrong with me? Why do you keep trying to kill me? And my friends? I understand King Henry, but the rest of us have done nothing to you," I say, sitting up.
"Well, you need to learn to stay out of my way," Kit snarls, flexing his hands.
"No, no Kit you don't want to do this. Is this where you're trapped? Where you've been trapped since Richard the Lionheart opened this tomb? Please let me help you," I beg, "I can try to break the curse and get you out. Get us both out."
"No. It's too late for me. And it's too late for you now as well. Because you're here. The tomb only takes. It does not give," Kit says, shaking his head.
"Well, we can try. We'll try anything, just stop—attacking us, we want to help you," I beg, "That is all we want, to make things all right again, you've made some mistakes but you're still worth saving, you are to me or I wouldn't be here."
"I am saved already. And I don't need you. Or your help. I was sent on a mission and when I —get out of here again, I'll complete it," Kit says, shrugging a little.
"Sent? You said that before, who sent you to kill King Henry?" I ask, confused.
"I did."
We both turn, slowly. A woman, with long pale hair and dark skin, slowly walks from the shadows. She's wearing long, loose white robes, and almost has a smile upon her face.
"You were there,  in Annwn," I frown a little.
"Yes," God smiles at me.
"So —it's you. It's your tomb," I say, quietly, looking around, "We're in the coffin, aren't we? And it's empty. Because you're not dead."
She smiles.
"What—but this is the Beggar's Tomb, you're not a beggar," Kit frowns.
"You're the beggar,  you were all along, of course. 'That which you do to the least of these you also do to me'," I smile a little.
"Very good," God nods to me.
"That's all Prince Harry, he's your perfect scholar, not me, some of it just eventually sticks," I say, also surprised I figured it out. "You built the tomb, to catch Wizards who were—going astray. Using our immense power for evil."
"Yes, and to give you a chance at redemption," God says.
"Excellent, what would you like us to do? I'm good with quests," I say.
"I know you are, brave one. But you were never condemned to the tomb. You have always been worthy," God says.
"How? I'm not a saint, I'm not your Prince Harry. I don't even pray properly I get distracted," I say, shaking my head.
"Simple. You didn't enter here for riches, or glory. You entered to save a man who has tried to take your life, and that of your friends," God says, smiling at me, and looking over at Kit, "He has lost his way. Perhaps one day he will be found again."
"I'll help him. Let him come back with me. He's been locked up a lot," I offer.
"He must find his own path. And you have yours," God says.
"Right, and not to put too fine a point on it—his path is a bit conflicting with mine at the moment. You see. He's trying to kill at least one of my Henrys maybe both, he was confused," I say.
"Okay, it's confusing that there are two of them, who both respond to Henry," Kit says.
"Yes. I sent him," God says, "For your King Henry. As you know Gideon, our Prince Henry is a man of faith, and courage, and has a kind a heart."
"Yes, definitely his father might not even have a heart jury's still out. But why are you sending Kit after him? Why would you send your most easily confused warrior after the greatest threat to humanity?" I ask.
"Kit will accomplish his purpose in time," God says, "And Gideon, you know yourself King Henry should have died on the 31st of August, 1422. He's late. Seventeen years too late."
"But I thought this world was different because it's got magic?" I say, frowning.
"Wait, what? I'm from 1986," Kit says.
"It's like a three hour lecture, I will explain it for free, in seven minutes," I say, holding up a hand.
"No. Everything must go the same. For all time. Otherwise all events are put out of place. And Henry has had his time to find his way. He has not yielded," God says.
"Because—by now Prince Harry should be on the throne, so the War of the Roses can kick off, Harry can get chased around the country and eventually killed, Yorks can have the throne before the Tudors get their ultimate revenge, and none of that's going to happen if King Henry's alive another ten years, is it?" I ask, quietly.
"No," God shakes her head. "I know you have been loyal to him. And he helped you. But it is time."
"I wouldn't say he helped me," I say, thinking of the many murder attempts.
"I would. Would you like to come with me? See things more clearly?" She asks, holding out a hand.
"Yes," I say, reaching out and taking her warm fingers in mine.
I'm filled with cold magic. And I'm back, standing in my childhood bedroom. I feel my skin crawl at the very sight of it. The bed with the dark blue bedspread. A red pillow. A beaten nightstand we found by the side of the road. And my precious books, laid out on the floor.
"Why are we here?" I ask, feeling tension in my back.
"You'll see," God says, gently.
I'm in a loose t-shirt and sweats. I'm crammed underneath the mattress, carefully writing in a notebook, a history book laid out beside me. I'm chewing on my other fist in thought.
And I can hear fighting outside.
"What so it's my fault? It's my fault I missed another fucking appointment?"
"Yeah. Cause you're the one who signs him up for those things. I said it's a waste of fucking money, now fifty dollars? Where are we gonna get that back?"
"What do you want us to do huh? What do you want us to do? Let him be like this?"
"I know you think you're some sort of super mom who's gonna cure his fucking autism well I got news for you. You're not. You can't even get him to his fucking appointments on time."
"So you want him to stay like this? Forever?"
Tears slip down my cheeks. I can clearly hear the fighting going on outside.
"Henry the fifth, Hammer of the Gauls. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram
Within this wooden O, the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?" I whisper, as I carefully sketch the battle lines of Agincourt on my notebook.
Outside the battle rages.
"You're not going to make him fucking better. Might as well call whatever centers right now because that's the third school this year and you can't even take him to the goddamn appointments."
"I had the wrong day, that's it one wrong day. We already quit two of the therapists he doesn't even look at people's faces anymore look at him—,"
I curl up tighter, jamming my fist harder into my mouth as I continue to sketch the lines of Agincourt, and then begin carefully drawing out soldiers.
"And the warlike Harry himself, to assume, the port of Mars," I whisper.
"Well they're going to lock him up sometime anyway! Take that shit out of his room for one thing, he doesn't need all that."
"He starts screaming."
"He's whining. He manipulates you he always does. He doesn't do that shit with me."
"Yeah that's because you can get the restraints on him when he's like that. What am I supposed to do when you're not there?"
I curl up tighter, chewing on my fist and looking at my arm, which is red and raw from the restraints. Probably from earlier that day.
"Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day'," I whisper, tracing one of the marks on my arm.
Downstairs, a door slams.
"Hey, you might want to talk a little louder everyone in Jersey probably can't hear you yet," Mariah says, then my room door opens. I roll over, peaking out from under the mattress.
"So while World War 7  is going on you want to watch something?" Mariah asks, balancing a laptop in one hand.
I nod, licking snot from my lips.
"Come here, get on the bed," she says, "Your pick."
"Hollow Crown?" I whisper, holding up the DVD.
"Henry again? Okay, yeah, Tom Hiddleston's hot. I can do that," she says, settling on the bed and letting me come snuggle against her.
I put my papers carefully underneath the mattress for later.
"You have this one memorized by now right?" She asks, tapping the keys to start the movie, wrapping an arm tight around my chest.
"Yeah," I say, putting my fist in my mouth.
"But you have to promise, to tell me all the places that play isn't historically accurate, all right?"
"Definitely."
"But only if you pause it on a close shot of Tom Hiddleston's eyes."
"Okay," I finally smile.
I smile as well, watching the memory.
"I'd say Henry helped you a great deal. Even if he isn't the hero you imagined. You needed the hero, didn't you?" God asks.
"Yeah, I did," I say, nodding a little, "And let's face it. He's still my hero. As you know I swore myself to protect him."
"And I would not dream of having you break that. I would never charge you to harm him. He's meant too much to you, even if now you see him for the man he is, flaws and all, greedy, arrogant," she says, smiling a little.
" 'Ego the size of Europe' has come up. But no, you're right, I still need him I guess. He was—braver than I ever thought I could be. I was scared of standing up to my step dad. He could stand up to an entire country," I say, quietly.
"And despite the sins of the man behind that. He still has value," God says, stroking my hair out of my face, "And I know how much he means to you. So. I am going to show you why I am doing what I must. Because it's time for Henry to move on. Though I'm not asking you to kill him."
"Okay," I say, nodding.
"Come," she says, a hand on my shoulder.
And we leave me and Mariah curled up watching the Hollow Crown for the tenth time. For one night. Happy and safe as either of us would get back then. She's happily married now. Works part time at a publishing company Dancer's dad owns. Has a cat and a couple of plants. Happy, in a house without fighting or yelling. Because we both made it.  Something we probably didn't think was possible on that lonely night.
The next memory, or rather time, God takes me to is back in—it looks like maybe Windsor? I don't recognize the hall. It's all stone, and it's dimly lit. Late at night.
We step into a room. A man is bent over a desk. His hand is shaking. He has red hair now mixed with white, faded and yellowed.
"The last two is all, father, just the Percy's land, as we discussed," the speaker is leaning in the shadows, with mock idleness. Dark brown hair cut short. And deep brown eyes flicking nervously to the papers on the desk. His face though, the right half is clearly damaged, with a deep wound that's red and oozing, his cheek badly sewn back together and skin pulled tight to try to fill in the gap.
Henry the fifth. At the moment just a crown prince, but none the less imposing. He's tall, easily six feet already. And by the state of the wound he's not yet seventeen, fresh from Shrewsberry and back in his father's favor if only because of his near death experience, that'll change soon though and his father will banish him once more.  He's quelled Wales' attack and driven Owain Glyndwr back into hiding. Not a bad resume for a boy who shouldn't be a junior in highschool yet. Of course we suppose he's seventeen but his truth birthdate isn't known, nor even his birth year. 1386 or 87, his parents were married between 84-86, and then his younger brother was born in 88, ergo he must have been at least nine months older.
He looks every bit sixteen here. Ignoring the massive facial scarring his features are soft with youth, the jawline not yet hardened and his remaining cheek is smooth, puberty and just time will harden his features till he could be cut from stone. Now, he could easily blend with a pack of year 9s.
"Of course, Hal. Sit down a moment,  you were out late last night, Oliver said you didn't get in till the early hours of the morning. Where were you?" His father asks, looking up at him. "You and Thomas both."
Prince Hal glances over to a boy loitering in the doorway. His Irish twin, Thomas, who favors their father with lighter hair, and a shorter, bulkier stature.
"The barmaids of Cheapside can't keep themselves warm all night, father. The winter is harsh, it's our duty to support local trade," Prince Henry says, smoothly, with a bit of a smirk. Only on his left side though, the right side of his cheek clearly pains him.
"You are my boy yet," Henry IV laughs, amused at his offspring's elegant response for such debauchery. When he tips his head up I see his own skin is in poor condition. He's ashen, then of course he'll die of a skin disease, of some sort. And I can see sores on his hands.  I wince at my Henry having an open wound so near what is probably a highly contagious disease. In practicality I know he's fine, but it still makes my skin crawl.
"If you didn't need anything else?" Prince Hal asks, gathering up the paper's he was apparently waiting for.
"Why, got big plans for your evening? How are the girls liking your face when you can't move half of it?" Henry IV scoffs.
Prince Hal clearly forces himself to remain composed. He is sensitive about his face. He'll refuse to let portraits be done of that side, and he'll have statues and his coffin made such that it shows no scarring. An odd choice given battle scars are usually something to be proud of. But he doesn't like it. And his dad should know that.
"What remains is more than most men have," Prince Hal says, a little coolly though his father doesn't seem to notice.
"All right. Go on then. I won't keep you from your young men's pursuits," Henry IV says, pouring himself a glass of wine, "And send these letters in the morning, would you? Once the wine has left your head."
"My lord," the prince takes them, and sets them in the pile of papers in his arms, before going quickly to the door.
"Goodnight father," Thomas says, quickly, getting the door for his older brother.
"Don't let that one lead you astray, Tom," Henry IV laughs.
Prince Hal smiles very, very falsely before closing the door.
"Why did you tell him that we were out chasing girls? We stayed up late going over next years tax forecasts," Thomas asks, hurt.
"Our father is ill, Thomas. Throw the man a bone, you saw how he enjoyed it," Hal says, sorting through the papers, "There, burn those three, and then can you put those two letters on my desk? D'you mind? I need to read and edit them,  but damn if I'm not getting another headache. And I've still got last year's cotton exports to go over."
"No, go on, I'll do it. We didn't get much sleep last night," Thomas nods. But apparently they were going over taxes which is an activity no doubt our Hal came up with.
"Thank you," Hal says, squeezing his brother's shoulder, "If you do want to go to pubs though—?"
"I'll find someone that isn't you," Thomas nods.
"Excellent, get some rest yourself," Hal says, patting his brother's shoulder before progressing on down the dark hallway.
"Hal."
"Rich, where the devil have you been? I've not seen you in days," the prince says, clearly pleased though to see his friend.
Our Courtenay, he's not sixteen here, with long black hair. Blue eyes as glowing as ever, and despite his youth his face is soft and handsome. All together a lovely boy the stuff teenage dreams are made of. At the moment he's in dark, drab clothes no where near as fine as his princely companion's. Of course, his family is poor, or rather regular people. He's just clever so he got into the priesthood likely because his brilliant memory allowed him to memorize large chunks of scripture to pass the various exams. He's already an ordained priest by now, but he much prefers doing complicated mathematics with the crown prince. And the crown prince quite enjoys the company of the only other person on the island to keep up with his schemes. He'll be known for his intellect and personal beauty, serving as the Bishop of Norwich and nicknamed 'the Flower of Devon' for his attractiveness. I know, just, I know. It hurts me daily now you know that.
"I need to talk to you. Are you free?" Courtenay asks, twisting his hands a little.
"Always for you. What is troubling you?" Prince Hal asks, putting a hand on Courtenay's shoulder, "You're weak."
"I've been, ah busy—there's something I need to talk to you about. In private. Will you come with me?" Courtenay asks, hopefully, twitching a bit.
"Of course," the prince frowns a little, but follows his friend.
"This way—we're ah—this way. In the cellar."
"You're full of secrets tonight. If this is a something you read we can talk about that in my room. I'm getting another headache, and as you're here I was hoping to go over the cotton exports from the last three years I had some figures I wanted a second opinion on," the Prince says, putting a hand through his hair.
"It's not, I promise, it might—help the headache."
"This is mysterious," the prince says, amiably though.
We follow the boys down to the cellar. Courtenay had the door locked with a spell and he fiddles to undo it.
"If this is a present it had better be a way to dispose of my father's body," Prince Hal mutters.
"It's not. Um, better—? Just come on," Courtenay sighs, leading him in.
In the dark basement, there's a human sacrifice set up. That was a weird sentence to write let me try it again. In the dark, camp, cold basement, there's seven human sacrifices set up in the middle of a pentagram. Seven men, all bound and gagged. Next to each of them is set a cup. And around them pentagram spells are scribbled. There are candles on every available surface to provide enough light. The men are clearly awake, clearly spelled not to be able to move but they are trying desperately to scream past rags crammed in their mouths.
"Well. I am surprised," Prince Hal says, folding his arms. Not, like upset, just deciding how to react. "Do you—want to explain what's going on?"
"You know I told you I had found a way to scry—the future," Courtenay says, nervously, twisting hands, as he backs away from the prince.
"Yes, Rich. I recall. I asked you to find out crop losses so I could properly acquire land and then sell it before it's value degraded," our Prince, who was apparently found a way to predict the future and immediately thought 'fraud'. Not technically fraud he was going to short the market. Great, that's so in character.
"I know. I did and I was trying to do that, but—Hal you die," Courtenay says, his voice shaking.
"I can't," the teenager with the god complex, a hand to his face, "I haven't. I'm fine."
"No, Hal please, trust me. You said you trusted me, I'm begging you to trust me. You do not live past thirty five years old," Courtenay pleads, hands clasped.
"You can't know that," his prince says.
"I do. I've seen it. Please, you die in pain, abroad, and I am not even there," Courtenay says, near tears, "I will swear on your soul you must believe me."
"All right. I believe you. Then—how do we prevent this?" Hal asks, not like he fully believes it, but like he wants to appease his clearly distressed friend.
"I don't know. That's what I tried to find out. If it was a battle wound or something, but you just get sick and I don't know why," Courtenay shakes his head, "I couldn't tell why."
"All right. What does that have to do with seven human—sacrifices?" Prince Hal asks, so generously given the actual sentence.
"The blood from the heart of a wizard, can be used to make a spell, binding, that by taking the wizard's life, you gain the years that should have been left in it," Courtenay says, holding up a knife, "I know how to do it. And I will. All I ask is that you drink."
"And why are you killing seven of them?" The Prince asks, slowly.
"Because they're a bit old. I don't know how many years any of them have left. Maybe ten each? That would get you seventy more years, think of what you could do if you lived to old age, as it is you don't have twenty years time left," Courtenay pleads.  To be clear, three of them aren't much past thirty. The other four have white hair, but they aren't that old.
"Surely this is some sort of crime for you, with your magic," Prince Hal says, stepping closer, and looking down almost—tempted?
"I care not," Courtenay says, tears running down his face, "I only care for you and your life. I love you in ways that words cannot name and the laws of man and time certainly do not allow. The world means nothing to me nor does my own life. Only you. So, this is for you. Please I beg of you, my prince. For England. For us. Say you'll do it."
"One one condition," Prince Hal cocks his head.
"Name it," Courtenay sighs.
"You drink with me."
"I don't know if that will work, it might split it," Courtenay shakes his head, but there's fear in his eyes. I wonder if he knows he dies at Harfluer, on campaign in France, with his beloved Henry.  Dies in the royal tent, in his monarch's arms if reports are to be believed, with Henry washing his body as he weeps for his beloved friend. "It might not last as long then I—,"
"Then it does not work. I care not," Hal smiles his lopsided smile, "When we go down, we go down together. As it was meant to be. For all time. You and I as I promised you. You drink with me. You die with me. I value your life if you do not. And I will not be parted from you."
"Nor I you," Courtenay says, looking at the knife in his shaking hands.
"Go on then. What do we need to do?" Hal asks.
"You, kneel there. I on this side," Courtenay says, crossing to the center of the captives, who were struggling then they like, quit for a minute like 'is this getting gay?' And now they're struggling again.
"That's all?" Hal asks.
Courtenay chants a spell and the pentagram glows. Both boys kneel by the first sacrifice.
Courtenay raises the knife and plunges into the man's chest as he screams. He cuts firmly past rib, then just digs his hand in. The man's flesh squelches as blood bubbles out past the boy's hand. Courtenay raises his arm, heart clasped in his fist, still beating and bound into the chest with arteries. Then, chanting quietly in Latin, he squeezes the still beating heart, letting blood dribble from it and into the goblet.
The man dies, agonizingly, as his life's blood is drained into the cup, jerking and twisting as the blood drips, so terribly loud, into the gold cup.
Courtenay leans forward, holding out the goblet in shaking bloody hands, chatting spells still, his eyes glowing red.
Henry accepts the cup, slowly bringing it to his lips. He sips, blood dripping down his chin, before he holds it back out to Courtenay. Courtenay takes it, finishing the blood quickly.
Then, carefully, Courtenay sets down the goblet and moves to the next one. They both slide over the floor which is now smeared with blood. Courtenay lifts his hand with the knife again, but this time Hal reaches out, grasping his wrist. Together they plunge the knife into the struggling wizard's chest. And carve out another heart. Once again Courtenay digs his hands into the chest cavity, sorting for the heart. He yanks it free with agonizing groans from the dying man, draining the blood into the cup. This time it nearly overflows.
Henry drinks much more quickly this time, no hesitation, before passing back the goblet. Courtenay tosses it back. Then they move on to the next one. The men are struggling worse now. Courtenay is glowing red with magic as he keeps repeating that hideous spell over and over.
"Sanguis pro vita sanguinis pro anima cor tuum surripio tuum est meum hoc bibo cor meum do ut cum moriatur vivat," Courtenay chants. I know  the words at first, I nearly became a blood sacrifice one time. But the last part surprises me. He neglected to tell his beloved prince that the spell automatically transfers his years to Henry if he should take his life. So a Hail Mary to save our Henry, that should Henry fall in battle Courtenay can complete this spell by spilling his own blood.
And agonizingly slowly they work their way through the sacrifices. By the third man, Courtenay's hands are no longer trembling, but Henry helps steady him anyway, keeping his hands cupped over the other boy's as they take turns drinking.
In moments both boy's hands and mouths are sticky and thick with the rapidly clotting blood. The last sacrifice is trying hard to scream, and Courtenay has to sort longer in his chest before ripping out his heart, to drain over the last goblet. By now both of them are breathing heavily from either fear or the magic coursing through them. Henry's skin has a hot red glow, and Courtenay is weeping blood from the effort of the spell.
The last wizard dead, Courtenay once again lifts the cup to Henry. Henry does not take it, instead holding Courtenay's hand to the cup as he drinks, then doing the same as he gives the remainder to the trembling boy.
Finally, Courtenay ends the spell. And the red light drains from his eyes.
"Did that work?" Henry breaths, looking down at his blood stained arms.
"I don't know," Courtenay whispers, he's shaking.
"We'll find out, won't we?" Henry asks, moving closer to him. He lays his hands gently around the other boy's neck, "Together."
"Yes, together," Courtenay whispers. He tips his head forward till both boys are sitting with their foreheads touching, just breathing. Blood is dripping still from their mouths down their chins, as they kneel there on the sticky stone floor, in the candle light. It's so disgusting, and also a little romantic?
"Now they can't take you," Courtenay whispers, putting a hand very gently into Henry's hair.
"Nor you" Henry says, quietly, eyes mostly closed as they just sit there, foreheads touching, surrounded by their own cruel massacre. A revenge against time, for ever trying to part them.
"Now you see why he must die?" God asks.
"Yes," I say, staring at the pair, still embracing in their bloody hell of their own design, "Yes, now I see why he must die."

The End