Days of the Dead Book 3: The King's Ghost

Chapter 7: I interrogate a pensioner and get stabbed

Gideon
I return the Pleasance, where night is also falling. I, of course left from a corridor, so I'm back there. The mastiffs are asleep in the hall and thump their tails at me. I have fed them a lot of little sausage bits in the last day or so, so I guess that fits. I pat all of their heads before going to find their master. The Pleasance is a square, so that's nice and organized and easy to navigate I just walk the halls until I hear the sound of generational trauma happening.
The chaotic trio is out in the garden, where there are tables laid out in case you need to do your bank book out in the garden, like you do, surrounded by nature and a ridiculous number of statues of yourself. Okay, fine it's just one, but the correct number of statues of Henry looking amazing and fashioned as a Christ-figure should have been zero. We needed no statues we all know what he doesn't look like, because the statues are not accurate because somebody is vain as hell and has his ideal face on all the statues, not his actual a bit messed up face.
Courtenay is sitting at the table clearly working, being prettier than anyone alive has a right to be.
Prince Harry, dressed all in black, is standing there having a nervous break down. Two dogs are sitting staring at him and his puppy is laying on his feet chewing his shoes.
King Henry is dressed as he was when I left, white shirt, loose, no coronet, dark hair curly and thick, elegant. He hasn't shaved properly in days now and has the forked beard he grows when he forgets he doesn't have the patience to maintain facial hair. Seriously, he will wind up shaving it off when he goes on campaign again, though at home he'll attempt to briefly sport the rough, short beard Richard II made popular. He can't grow a full beard due to the scarring across his right cheek so he'll settle for this until he remembers he can't stand it. It's like a two week cycle of believing he's patient enough to maintain facial hair he goes through every time he comes home yes I too think it's weird I know this.  In his home like this he's probably as close to a common man as he's ever come, far from the public eye, with just the few trusted guests he allows out here, dressed simply, with only a few rings on his fingers to betray the money and power he represents.
"In conclusion, Normandy's self governing will produce sufficient funds as I explained to pay back the first half of the Scottish loan, not the Scottish Crown Jewels, the loan from the country themselves, and then you can borrow from Wales to repay the Paris loan which is coming up the next summer, but only if you don't need to fortify the boarder, in which case if you have to send more troops there you can move them from the Castile boarder, but only if you get funds from the Castile crown which may be nearly drawn out if you don't  repay them for housing bills which you can't do if you haven't taken out the loan I'm recommending you take out from York, there. See? It's not that complicated. January, now we'll go on to February," King Henry is saying, nearly cheerfully, pointing to a portion in his ledger as though this should make sense to any sane person.
"Okay," Prince Harry, so weak, with no will to live, just staring at it and assuming he's going to die, "Isn't half of that illegal?"
"No."
"The part where you cancelled the taxes on an export that you had just bought so that you didn't have to pay taxes on it, then charged France a tax for importing it, even though they didn't have a choice because they were importing it for you because you were paying them to, but less than the tax? That was okay?" Prince Harry asks, very tired.
"Yes, it is our government. We are the law so we can do no wrong," King Henry says, in his obvious voice, "We talked about this two hours ago, Harry. It remains true."
"Okay, what now?" Harry asks, putting a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to be sucked out into space.
"So if I were to die—tomorrow? You tell me what you would do," King Henry says, cheerfully, closing the ledger, "As a quiz. Where would you start?"
"I'd start. By praying for your soul. And then I would take every single one of these books and throw them in a fire. And then when anybody came to me for money I would apologize and say with all honesty I have no idea what they are talking about. Because it is true. I do not. Nobody knows what they are talking about. Because if I even begin to explain where their money went they will naturally assume I am mad. So we will not do that. I will tell the truth is which is that I do not know what happened. Nobody knows what happened and it's a shame, but we'll get through it together. And then we'll start from fresh, as a nation, together, and we're going to pretend none of this existed. For everyone's sanity, we will simply, start over," Prince Harry says, very condescendingly.
"You're very dramatic. It's entirely straight forward. You simply have to apply yourself," King Henry says, very condescendingly.
"Gideon, do you have word?" Courtenay notices me standing there. Father and son were too absorbed with disappointing the other. It's true, I have never met two people who liked the other more, but simultaneously thought the other was not safe to be out specifically without their supervision. The amount of condescension and pity on both sides is just remarkable.
"Gideon," Prince Harry looks like he wants me to blow them both up.
"Saint," King Henry says, irritated at being interrupted like he hasn't been talking continuously about tax fraud for twenty four hours to his poor damn kid who is too religious to function anymore.
"I know nothing, new, but I do need the Archbishop for a moment," I say, tipping my head, "Magic related. Don't let me interrupt."
"Right," Courtenay says, stopping off what he was doing.
"Is that John's accounts?"
"Yeah, I'm doing the final notations, do you want me to start on Humphrey's when I get back?" Courtenay asks, cleaning his hands on a rag.
"No, Harry was crying during my explanation of the the Paris tolls and I still need to check over that and he's got his head down again so he won't do it while I do the Scottish ones," King Henry sighs, a little.
"Why are we both like this?" Harry is mumbling, into the dog that has crawled into his lap to comfort him.
"Well, if I weren't going to be murdered potentially we wouldn't have to audit three years of accounts now instead of next weekend when I was going to for a nice rest, nor would we have to appraise you of all the current transactions."
"You said that like it's someone's fault other than your own that you might die. And it's not, we all remember it's not," Harry says, not picking up his head.
"What is it?" Courtenay asks, coming over to me. It's weird to see him matching the king in simple clothes. Not weird that they match they often match which is weird, however. He's not dressed like a priest. He looks like a model who got a part in a Hallmark movie which is a knock off of Outlander about a model who got sent back in time and fell in love with war torn, gruff, Henry V and chose to live with him and raise a family together. As I say it I would watch that movie. I don't know what Outlander is, but I don't thinks its gay and that is and that would actually make a good/bad movie.  Anyway. That's what Courtenay looks like.
"This, time to return it," I hold up the amulet.
"Ah. Right," he nods, jerking his head towards the castle, to signal we should go in so as not to disturb the family bonding going on behind us.
"So what I am understanding is that as King you plan to change the tax system?" Henry, extremely hurt.
"Father, that isn't a system even I can't change it if no one who isn't you understands it! There's nothing to change. I think that's a failing ecosystem by now!"
Still very hurt, "The Archbishop understands it."
"The Archbishop understands everything you do it's why you have him!"
"Well, I have suggested you find religious counsel then you wouldn't be alone to understand this, but you haven't been interested."
"No one person could help me with I don't think an entire team of scholars would understand this! I promise you no one will ever know what you were thinking, ever, so no one person would not be able to help me I would not subject someone to that."
"You're very dramatic you know. If you actually tried to understand it you'd find it relaxing."
"No! I wouldn't! I need you to know that is not a universal experience! Nothing you experience is universal we discussed this while talking about the head wounds thing."
"Yes, that's because I'm God's chosen warrior."
"Are you also God's chosen embezzler?"
"It is not embezzling it's all our property to begin with it's just not located with us."
"That! Is not! How! Money works!"
That's what's going on behind us as we walk inside. Courtenay for his part does not react or care.
"Is that okay?" I ask, pointing over my shoulder.
"Been going on for ten hours," Courtenay nods, "They usually try to understand each other at Christmas as it is so this is a bit overdue."
"Ah," I say, feeling a bit bad for both Henrys.
"My office is here," he says, before leading me back to the very office he shares with Henry that I was in with them earlier.
"I just need to go and put it back, I'll be quick," I say, holding up the amulet, "Then I've got a line on a way to distract Kit."
"Tomorrow at the earliest, he'll be up?" Courtenay asks.
I nod, "Are you going to stay here?"
"No, we go down to the main house in the morning, more staff, soldiers, since he can show up inside," Courtenay says.
"I'll try to keep him off of you," I say.
"Much appreciated, all right, do you have the spell written down? I confess I do not remember it," Courtenay says, putting a hand through his perfect, perfect hair.
"Here," I get him the paper I had the amulet wrapped in.
We complete the spell, and once again I feel hot magic flow through me. It isn't as bad as last time, though, and I quickly find myself outside of Windsor Castle, about a hundred years ago or so.
I'm not eager to encounter anyone, so I quickly find a manservant and ask them to give the amulet to the King. Given his lifestyle this is apparently not surprising and I'm not even questioned.
I return to Pleasance quickly, surprised at how good I feel after expending that much magic.
"All right?" Courtenay asks, he is standing where I left him, sexily putting his hand through his hair and looking out the window.
"All quiet, it went back where it belongs," I say.
He nods a little.
"You think you're going to die don't you?" I ask.
"You saw what I did," he says, quietly.
"You didn't want to lose him," I reply, "There's no shame in that."
He shrugs a little bit. We're both well aware the world would beg to differ.
"We should check on them, eh?" He asks.
"Does anybody but the king talk to you? About this, or anything?" I ask.
"Why would you even ask me that?"
"You seem lonely, and you're thinking you're going to die  now. That's all," I shrug a little bit, "He's always the focus isn't he? Nobody much thinks about you. Can't make you popular."
"I don't want to be popular. I have my king," Courtenay says, cuttingly, "Shall we?"
I shrug, following him. At least I tried to talk to him. He's a piece of work himself, I mean he'd have to be. But most of his crimes are to please Henry so there's some tragedy to that, I think.
When we get back out to the court yard the following conversation is going on.
"So. I want you to explain to me. Like I am five. And cannot add, what is going on here," Prince Harry says, hands on the various papers.
His father, clearly humoring him, "We take out loans, from a set of various sources, and then we pay back those loans, primarily using other other loans. But so long as they remain staggered, then each one pays off the other."
"That is not how you talk to a five year old," Courtenay mutters.
"Did you say something, Archbishop?"
"No, your majesty, carry on."
"What—about the money we bring in? As a country?" Harry asks, as the realization of what is really going on dawns on him. I've known. I read a paper about this. I know what Henry's doing, basically.
"It costs us about 100,000 crowns, give or take, to operate as a nation, that's just England not France or Scotland or Wales or the like," King Henry says, condescendingly, like this should be obvious. It's not. "We get money from our imports and taxes but it's less than that."
"How—how much money do we as a nation have right now? Tomorrow? If you got kidnapped and I had to pay your ransom? How much money could I put my hands on?" Harry asks.
"None. Everything we make is channeled into my wars, we're currently 90,000 crowns in debt but it's rotating, so it's fine. Every jewel and property we have is somehow loaned against," King Henry says, like this should have been obvious, "That should have been obvious. I explained this for the past day and a half."
"Lord give me strength," Harry breaths.
"All of this is needed to fund our wars, which are God's will," Henry says, "Again, it's really not that complicated. I haven't even explained the church tithes yet. Those do get complicated because no one knows I collect them, but you'll be fine you love the church."
"Lord, you made him, you knew this would happen, I'm not strong enough. Why did you send me here? When I cannot add and you know this? What test is this?" Harry says, hands clasped, staring skyward.
"Are we sure this is okay?" I ask Courtenay.
"Yes, they're happy," Courtenay says, dismissively.
I figure that isn't true, well King Henry looks fine, but I also have work to do. The best thing I can do for Harry now is prevent his dad from dying so he never has to think about this again.
I return to the 21st century, where I find my friends fast asleep. It's late and we're all jet lagged. I'm a little hungry again, but I'm too tired to care. Instead I just change and crawl into bed with Dancer. He immediately, eyes closed, discards the hotel pillows in favor of me, crawling over to nestle his head into my chest and wrapping his arms around me like I'm his personal pillow pet. Cuddles are good so I just curl up to go to sleep myself.
When morning comes Sadie and Dancer agree to return to Harlech while I go about espionage. We figure one person questioning Ms. Wren is enough and they should see how things are going back in Wales.
"And remind them I'm not going to die," I insist, over breakfast of hotel bagels and cream cheese.
"They're not going to believe that because we also don't believe that, however we're rooting for you," Dancer says, encouragingly.
We agree to meet back here at the hotel come evening. For now I take the car keys (I don't know how to drive in America) and head out. Let's face it driving in this country where they drive on the wrong side of the road, is one of the less stupid things I'm doing in this story.
I show up at the nursing home, wearing a green hoodie, dark glasses, black jeans, and boots. As a rule I try to dress as simply as possible so if I do have to make an emergency return to the Middle Ages, I at least won't stand out too badly. The dark glasses are to disguise my eyes, which upset some people. Not a lot I can do about the scarring people will have to live with that.
I park in the visitor section. I learned how to drive in London, in a Mazarati (those are expensive I don't know if you know anything about cars but they are), while the owner of said car sat in the passenger seat saying things like 'I've got insurance and twelve more of these come let's see if you can hit 350'. He meant kilometers. Not miles. That's still really bad.
So I'm very good at parking. I park and pocket the keys. It's a bright sunny day and even though the home is on the outskirts of the city, there's still a hum of traffic in the background.
I walk inside the cool building. I realize I look a bit out of place with the usual stream of family members and delivery people, but the receptionist is professional and only jumps a little bit when she sees me standing quietly waiting to be helped, fist in my mouth.
"A Mrs. Wren lives here, I understand? She said she'd meet with me, I'm working on a book," I don't technically lie.
The receptionist sorts out a visitor badge for me. After all this time I have long since adopted a Welsh accent over my American one, and that only throws people off more.
"Are you from England?"
"No, Wales actually."
"Isn't that England?"
"No! Not at all! Thank you for asking! Do you want to immediately know a lot about Owain Glyndwr and colonialism and the systematic oppression of my people? I can do it in ten minutes." One more time, I look Mexican.
Nobody ever takes me up on my (free!) Owain Glyndwr lecture. That's a shame because it's awesome.
The receptionist directs me back to a cafeteria area. It's nicer than a cafeteria, set up more like it's mimicking a home environment. Residents shuffle around in cardigans, smelling like baby soap and old people in general. I and my friend group have a general problem, we don't expect to get to grow old. In fact we've nearly died (and in my and Sadie's case actually died) more times than we can count at this point. One of these times it's going to stick.
So suffice to say I don't ever expect to end up in a place like this. I'll just bleed out. These people are lucky, it's a privilege to grow old. Denied to too many.
"Mrs. Wren?" I ask, sitting down at the farthest table across from an elderly woman. She's in a wheelchair, though she's probably only eighty or so, with silver hair and wearing a simple sweater.
"You're Mr. Saint?" She asks, frowning a little.
"You can call me Gideon, yes, thank you for responding to my message," I say, sitting down across from her.
"You said you knew something about my son," she says, quietly.
"Yes, I believe this is yours," I say, laying the dog tags on the table. Kit gave them to me to try to lure me to him, and it worked.
"Where did you get these?" She breaths, picking them up in disbelief.
"Kit gave them to me," I say.
"Then—he lived? I told them that he couldn't be dead," she says, softly, "That I'd know if he was really gone."
"He lived, in a way. He's not doing very well, permanently it would seem," I say, evasively.
"They told me he was dead. I knew he wasn't dead," she says quietly.
"In the police reports, it says that an unexpected storm destroyed your home, trapping you inside. And that Kit was presumed drowned after trying to escape into the bayou," I say, leaning back a bit in the plastic chair.
"You wouldn't be here. If you didn't believe something else had happened. You say you've seen him," she says.
"Tell me about your son," I reply, "Who he really was?"
"Kit was always different," she says, softly, "He was a sad boy. And strangely cruel. I never knew why. His father was cruel to both of us—I—I blame myself. I didn't protect him. Not enough. I always thought that was why—anyway. When he was ten, Kit disappeared. For several days. And when he returned he didn't speak. I thought something awful had happened to him. And his father died not long after."
I nod. I assume Kit's magic is the cause of his father's death.
"He didn't speak. Not until the night he disappeared. I was trying to get him to go to the hospital. He'd been ill. But he didn't want to go he—he argued with me. So I suppose he hadn't lost his voice all that time."
"No. He did. I'm the person who gave it back to him," I say, taking off my glasses. I raise a hand letting white magic glow within my fingers, and slowly I raise the vase of artificial flowers from the table, and then set it down again. "Is that something like what happened that night?"
"Yes," she whispers, "So you know—,"
"I'm a bit like your son. But no I don't fully know what happened to him. I found him again. He's in some trouble, mostly of his own design it would seem. But he's tried to kill me, after I helped him. And I'd like to know why," I say, leaning back in my chair. It all sounds like a cop out. So his father beat him? That wouldn't lead to a great world view. Also, lady, yes it was your job to protect him. You're his mother.
"He was so angry," she says, quietly.
"Any idea why?" I ask.
"No. His father had been dead for years. We—we were trying to have a life.  It's all my fault," she sighs, quietly.
Likely true.
"What did he say that night?" I ask.
"He was talking about Ethan," she says.
"That's who owned these?" I ask, tapping the dog tags.
"Yes. Kit's older brother. He died in Vietnam. He was only nineteen. When I told Kit, he hardly reacted at all. But he must have been so hurt. He—the night that he left. He accused me of wishing Ethan were there instead of him. I'd never said it. But of course I was mourning my boy," she starts crying again, quietly.
"Kit tired to kill you?" I confirm.
"Yes," she whispers, "I failed him."
"How did his father die?" I ask, quietly.
"He started bleeding, from his brain. One night," she says, softly, "You don't think—,"
"If he was abusing Kit it's likely Kit was the culprit yes," I say.
"Do you know where he is right now?" She asks, hopefully, "Can you—I know he won't want to see me. But please. I want him to be safe somewhere, and happy. He was so angry when he left. I don't know what I did."
"I don't either but," I wince a little. She's still crying, "Let me tell you something. Maybe you did fail him. I don't know, I wasn't there. Maybe you loved your other son better and totally screwed him up. But, my parents failed me. And they're still alive last I checked. I chose to leave. Sounds like Kit chose to stay and hurt people."
"I don't know what I did wrong," she sobs.
"Neither do I. I was hoping coming here I might find an answer. But. The thing is I and a good friend of mine both helped Kit. He was yes, mute. I got him his voice back and helped get free while my friend arranged his freedom, he pled his case. Kit has since tried to kill both of us. I'd really like to stop him because I won't let him hurt my friends," I say.
"No, he won't stop," she says, quietly, "He—there was another child, teenager, child to me—he liked at school. He killed that person."
"Another boy?" I confirm. I think Kit is gay, but it's worth asking.
"How did you know?" She asks, softly.
"The way he walks, and talks, and presents himself, also he called my friend 'hot' and 'very pretty' more than once despite trying to kill him, so that's there as well. Lot of little things; no one in my friend group is straight it's fine," I say, dismissively. Her generation might still have some taboo about talking about it.
"It was the 80s. Things were different then. Kit had had a crush on this other boy, he had for ages. Well the other boy had turned Kit down repeatedly. I don't know if he really didn't like him, or he was afraid. I knew Kit was angry but—," she squeezes her eyes shut, "Before Kit came home and fought with me. He killed that boy."
"Okay," this is bad. She might not be up for parent of the year awards, but I'm starting to feel bad. She's definitely upset and it seems like she genuinely wanted to take care of him. Isn't that enough? Well, no, but it should be enough not to turn someone into a cold-blooded killer. Come on. Nobody in my friend group had a great childhood. I'm me, obviously. Elis and the Duke of Conwy both had their dads die young and their mother isn't warm and fuzzy, but Elis is a great dad to our kids, and neither one of them would murder a friend or their mother in cold blood. There's a far cry between needing a bit of therapy and turning into a psychopath. For example your father could be a psychopath and you could still wind up a bible-loving pacifist who faints when presented with too much math.
In all seriousness though, I'm not seeing some sort of prison/hostage/torture situation that would cause Kit to act the way he is. Even if she sucked as a mom, why not go and pledge yourself to Richard the Lionheart and go on crusade? That's fun. And Kit knew he could do that, why keep coming back? That's what Dancer literally did, found his amulet, figured he'd stumbled on the superior timeline, and didn't bother to go back.
"I feel like I should have done something. And he was so sick," she sobs.
"He's not sick anymore, he's ah, doing fine last time we talked. He's resting now," I say, "But he'll be up soon and not too happy with me. I was hoping to find out something—anything you know of that might, help me bring him around to his senses?"
"I don't know. That's the thing. There wasn't ever really a change. He just got darker, every day," she says, softly, "I'm so sorry. This is so terrible but—I wanted to believe he was dead. I wanted him to be at peace somehow. But I knew it wasn't true."
"No, he's ah, far from at peace. But if it makes you feel better I don't think he's feeling any pain. He seemed perfectly pleasant last time I saw him," I say, "Other than the trying to kill me part."
"How did you survive? You're only a boy, yourself," she says, frowning.
"Oh um—I'm—he's—he still looks like, solid fifteen. Also, how old do you think I am? I'm doing a survey?" I ask.
"I don't know, you're all young to me," she says, softly.
"Right, sorry, I'm twenty-two, like, ish, we don't know my actual birthday so you know that's there but anyway, yeah, he's a bit of a threat to me but I'm more concerned about my friends," I say.
"I'm so sorry. I never understood his mind. No matter how I tried. I would think we were having good times then—it was all back to his usual darkness," she sighs.
"I'm sorry, I'm sure it's painful," I say, feeling guilty now. I can't imagine how I'd feel if it were someone questioning me on Myrddin's crimes. I mean, that'll probably happen, but I'm hoping to have also been involved in the crime.
"What's so stupid is, I miss him. I miss who he should have been," she says, wiping her face again.
"I understand that," I say, softly.
"Please. If you can, try to help him? He's still my baby," she says, "Even after all he's done."
"I understand," I smile again, "I'll do what I can for him. I promise."
"Thank you," she says, reaching out to tentatively touch my hand.
I thank her again for her time and we say our goodbyes. She entreats me to do what I can to help Kit, although she knows that may actually not be a lot.
And I'm as rudderless as before. How am I supposed to distract Kit when I don't know anything new? I was really hoping she could tell me something. But from the sounds of it he had a reasonably normal upbringing. Killing his abusive father is one thing. I can even justify killing his boyfriend, if perhaps there was an altercation that could be an accident. But why decide to beat up her? For one thing it does seem like she was trying, for another why go back and beat up her he literally had ten other dimensions to hang out it in? If not Richard the Lionheart's age, then he was also in Edward II's court which is notoriously fun and gay and supportive. That doesn't make sense, why attack her? And now he's attacked Prince Harry and I both more than once and we both were the ones who helped him escape? He's becoming a danger, but he's unpredictable.
I get in the car and sit down, rubbing my face. I need to get thoughts of Myrddin out of my head. I've already met him as a teenager because time stuff, which is helpful. However, I still can't help but wonder what I'd do if one of ours did that.
I say 'ours' because yes I am their dad but like, they also have another whole entire dad, plus their mum, plus an assortment of aunt and uncle figures, so like it's not just me. Their mum and dad do the primary parenting I'm in charge of the supernatural magic bit of it, which is fun for me. But anyway. What would we do if one of them were—doing stuff like that? What are you supposed to do? Lock up your kid because they're getting, as she said, darker and darker? Farther and farther away? At what point are you helping them figure things out and at what point do you realize you have the next school shooter on your hands? And what do you do about that then?
A knife buries itself in my arm, and I jump, a little, not a lot it's not like I haven't been stabbed before.
Kit is sitting in the passenger seat, leaning forward and grinning at me, messy black hair hanging in his face.
"Hello you," I say, turning on the car to get it warmed up. He's shivering with cold.
"So you thought you'd visit my mother?"
"Got to be hungry after that nap. Want to go get something to eat?" I ask.
He turns on the radio, smiling a little, "No."
"What do you want, Kit?" I ask.
"You," he smiles again.
"That's ominous. Come on. I'll buy you lunch," I say.
"You're really not going to pull the knife out or anything?"
"It'll bleed worse if I do. And this is a rental. and it's not like I haven't been stabbed before. Come on. I'll buy you a burger," I offer.
"Yeah all right," he smiles, turning the radio up. "Suspicious Minds" is playing. I had it on an oldies station.
Kit tips his head, mouthing the words, a manic grin still weirdly on his face. He's wearing his white robes, and I can see lines on his face from sleeping on the stone of the tomb. He giggles a little at the verse, for no apparent reason, then says,  "D'you know this song?"
"Yes, it's Elvis, pretty sure everyone knows Elvis, did you come here to talk about Elvis?"
"Definitely, where are we going?" He asks.
"Chilis," I say.
"I thought you said a burger."
"Yeah, they serve burgers there."
"Sounds like they serve peppers."
"They ought to have consulted you when they built it and named it."
"Should have yeah."
"So you want to have lunch?"
"Yeah, let's have lunch."