Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 3: Guess who has it, just guess. I want you to

"No. No. No, please Gid, one holiday, do not manifest that," Oisin, following me up the road.
"Look. We have a missing cursed sword. The usual suspect is, unless I'm very much mistaken, up there, camped out, with a skeleton army getting ready to do battle against one of the best military commanders of his age, Harry Hotspur," I sigh.
"Okay, I'm feeling better, now, fill me in, from the top, what is going on?" Oisin asks, "That you know of?"
"Okay, this is about to be slightly brief for sake of time, and simplified because I've studied a whole different timeline. But. Shrewsbury, 1403. Henry IV is on the throne of England, but he's lately been, ah, insulting and all round not paying the allies who put him on the throne, namely the Northumberland family. That's about to backfire, they just revolted, and they're getting Welsh help to do it because Wales is no friend of England. Like any responsible parent, Henry IV sent his then fifteen year old to manage the problems at the Welsh boarder, namely entering into extended cat and mouse Owain Glyndwr in a lovely game of who would win? The fifty year old seasoned warrior or your fifteen year old honor student with a god complex? I think we both know the fifteen year old is of course winning. Then the Northumbrerland's specifically, Harry, 'Hotspur' Percy revolts due to Henry IV insulting him and not paying him. He is now marching on Shrewsberry with an army possibly up to twenty thousand people," I pant as we make our way up the hill, "The occupying force at Shrewsberry is barely a few thousand with their sixteen year old commander in chief. Henry IV is currently in Scotland on the 17th of July he'd have gotten word of Hotspur's revolt but it's against the odds for his army to beat Hotspur's back here by the 20th. He'll do it by some miracle, covering over 60 miles in three days with a full army."
"So this is a couple of days before the battle?"
"If he's turning them out of the town yes I'm respecting our earlier pact not to speak his name lest he show up," I say.
"Appreciated, so who has the sword then?" Oisin asks.
"Ah, at the moment we have three armies and three equally impulsive likely to touch something sharp they oughtn't, people. By which I mean my money is on everyone's favorite anti-hero," I say, "We'll know soon enough."
"I am aware of your fondness of battles is this something we're about to be involved in?" Oisin asks.
"Shrewsberry is a bloodbath. It's longbow on longbow, for the first time on, English soil. Two of the three commanders take arrows to the face, if that tells you anything about how horribly fast and bloody it is. Plus we weren't even supposed to interfere with the results we're just here to get the sword," I say.
"So that's a yes?"
"Obviously that's a yes this is like Christmas," I say, "Are you joking? I read about this when I was a kid. Even if we find the sword right now we're hanging out to see it I live for this stuff."
"Sounds like a plan," Oisin says.
"Just like that?" I ask, pausing. Warfare, namely open combat, is not usually his thing. He can do it, but he's not a military strategy nut, like I am.
"Just like that, I know you enjoy it, we do my things," he shrugs.
"Your things are walking quietly through the hills of Ireland," I say.
"Well, yours are much more hazardous I give you that. However," he shrugs, "I'm not not going to come. Could be entertaining, I like longbows."
"Longbows are great, unless they're pointed at you," I say, "All right, time to turn invisible, unless we want to be shot at? I'll do this spell, you did the last one."
"Is that our plan? Sneak in and out with the sword?"
"Pretty much, I mean, let's keep it simple, right?" I ask, shrugging, "If it's not here, with, the usual suspect, then we go south a bit and find Hotspur's camp see if it's with them? I mean Hotspur's like forty something by now, and he's been around the block a few times. He could very well have it."
"But probably not."
"But probably not."
I turn us invisible and we advance up the road. Sure enough, a small army is preparing for battle. With no backup and a ridiculously large opposing force, they are quite logically entrenching themselves in, to prepare for an attack. They can't and are not counting on the relief from Scotland to make it in time. It will, or it should, but they do not know that yet. So they're digging trenches, and set up a night's watch.
Their now famous leader is in his usual place at the front of the lines, observing the trenches, micromanaging, and making last minute adjustments and boosting morale after his own fashion. I recognize the beat of his walk, and the tip of his shoulders, well before torchlight throws shadows on his face. I last saw him, for him, forty some years on, older than he ever should be, hair greying and face lined from years in the sun.
Now he's fresh faced, sixteen. With acne pot-marks on his cheeks, not even full height yet. Dark eyes roving and restless. Face still and calm and hauntingly whole. I cannot help but wince with the knowledge that in two days time or the like an arrow will forever mar his right cheek, shattering the bone and causing significant enough disfigurement for him to forbid any portraits showing it.
Future Henry the Fifth, Hammer of the Gauls. Right now a crown prince, our Prince Hal, sixteen years old, with all the confidence and cleverness of a man twice his age. He's barely won his spurs, directing skirmishes though he may have observed combat in Ireland. Knighted at age twelve in Richard II's court, with a healthy stipend and training under experienced knights, Richard took his little cousin to war in Ireland something I'm going to assume the boy quite enjoyed. However, our Hal's father would then depose and kill Richard, recalling Hal from Ireland and making him crown prince, a role the boy was always quite suited to. Confident he was born and bred for greatness he's fulfilled his role to perfection. And the men can't help but admire their cocky, if stoic leader.
I'm calling him Hal here because that's what he mostly was called as a boy, and to distinguish from his father who is the current King Henry, albeit King Henry IV. I know, it's confusing, don't blame me blame them for naming themselves all the same thing.
"That's him?" Oisin asks, quietly. We're under a spell so they can't see or hear us.
"That's him," I say, nodding, as I watch.
Hal and his men are mostly in armor, though it's mixed mail and plate. They're expecting to be attacked, but not really yet, they'll have scouts. Still best to be prepared. Admittedly Prince Hal isn't recognizable from his forty something year old self, with obvious facial scarring, but I know him. Not only is he clearly in command and the right age, his manner is unmistakable. Chroniclers will note his eyes, still and calm then in a flash angered, the only part of him that shows much expression; he was noted for refusing to change his expression through entire parades and ceremonies. Still faced and calm, though he'll smile at those he deems worthy. An unmistakable smirk will now and again haunt his lips, and there is little mistaking his arrogant, calm pacing, even and measured, like a lion or other equally wild thing sizing up its prey.
Right now he's finished walking the trench line, giving a couple of last minute directions. Nothing if not a perfectionist, even as king he'll retain the habit of checking over even the most minute detail himself.
"Gid, look at his sword," Oisin, with a hand over his face.
"That's not his usual sword," I frown.
Sure enough, he's wearing a typical bastard sword, and an off hand. That's usual for someone of his station. But the bastard sword has an ornate handle, with, I can see in the firelight, Latin writing on it. A stone is set in the hilt.
"Oh my god I can't believe you, where did you get that?" I sigh.
"I can believe him. Of course he has it. This is very typical," Oisin says.
"So we're assuming that is it right?" I ask.
"Yes, doesn't look normal, we'll follow him he has to take it off at some point, right?" Oisin asks, looking around, "Wait where's the other one?"
"Other who? Oh Courtenay he shouldn't be here, we're safe," I say. Courtenay, Henry's usual right hand and resident sorcerer, usually can detect us doing things like this. "No um, give me a minute, some of Henry's usual brat pack might be here, but not Courtenay he's a priest our Hal doesn't have enough pull yet, Courtenay will likely still be in school."
"Good," Oisin grunts.
"Yeah, makes this easier he's not gonna know we're following him," I say, "I'm not seeing any sorcerer lines in fact? That's odd."
"Yes, it is," Oisin frowns, "Why wouldn't he have them out?"
"I don't know, not like you not to have sorcerers in place already, Henry," I mutter, as we move a bit closer so we can properly tale him. Surely he does have a resident sorcerer about? If so I'd like to spot them before they spot us.
We make our way a bit closer, close enough to hear conversations.
"Get some rest," an older man is standing with our prince. He's also in armor, one of Hal's handlers more than likely? At this age, in charge or no, he'd have older more experienced knights properly minding him and helping him with his plans.
"I have correspondence to answer, I'll be in my tent," Prince Hal says, coolly.
"You'll go to sleep, for a few hours, and we'll wake you if there is anything. Eat something," the man says, smiling a little at the cocky boy who is already taller than him. The man is definitely the senior, maybe late thirties? Not much past, he's not got grey in his hair, a sturdy man short but then everyone is shorter than our prince. Hal is easily already six feet tall, he'll be six three by the time he's full height now he's lean and clearly still growing, towering over the average man who will only be five six or seven. "I'll be coming to check."
"I'm sure you will Jack," Hal almost smiles so he's not minding being parented? Jack is a disastrously common shortening.
"Eat food, and get some sleep," the man says, shaking his shoulder, "You hear me?"
"You've been heard," Hal nods his head a little, "Come fetch me if they hear anything or the spies return."
"I will, personally, off with you," the man says.
"Harry, tell Fastolff he's to be executed for treason and ordering about his monarch," Hal says, going to loop an arm around another boy's neck. Well, more young man than boy looks decently Hal's senior. Oh my god, Fastolff? Fastolff, quick recap, is the guy Shakespeare's Falstaff was based on except that was all wrong, Fastolff is nothing but a loyal, good soldier, great knight, something like fifteen years Hal's senior and he'll remain loyal to him serving even at Harfluer.
"What, am I being kidnapped then because you've been sent to bed?" The man that Hal is smothering laughs. He's decently shorter than Hal, with pale skin and red hair, freckles. He's clean shaven but unlike our prince he's shaving. So he's probably early twenties? He's with the other nobles though or he was and his armor's fine he's got money.
"Know who that is?" Oisin mutters.
"Fastolff is Hal's handler so to speak he's an older knight meant to watch him as you saw, healthily paternal towards him, no bad will there. This guy I don't know doesn't feel like a sorcerer," I say. I can usually tell but not always.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hal says, still resting his arm on the other man's shoulders and head, heavily. They're in armor this isn't comfortable. Hal hasn't fully cracked a smile but is clearly amused.
To be abundantly clear he could have any number of battle buddies about his age. He's got a solidly full brat pack of followers among the high nobles, but most of our usual faces, like Exeter, or his brothers, are all younger than him. So they wouldn't be here. Exeter is five years his junior or about, so he's like eleven so too little to come. Same with Edmund Mortimer, or even Humphrey or John his little brothers they're both like eleven and twelve. Henry has a younger brother only one year his junior, Thomas, but I know Thomas wasn't at Shrewsberry and this man is older. That said, Hal would know plenty of young noble knights from his father's court and Richard's court, he's popular by design despite his personality.
The men have tents set up outside the town, looks like they've looted and occupied most of it. that fits that's a standard Henry activity, looting and occupying towns, next to sieging things it's his chief hobby.
A rather large, if practical, tent belongs to our crown Prince. Outside of it lays a big black and tan mastiff. The thing flops its tale at its young master's approach, hopping up. Hal leans down to pet it. So his attachment to the English mastiff was early? I know he used them at Agincourt. Makes sense he'd campaign with at least one, no better body guard for a young royal than a loyal dog that can't be bought. I don't really know of his father as having been noted to have them, he's the first monarch to use them in battle that I'm aware of, so his grandfather or Richard probably bred them so he was astute enough to keep the things about.
The mastiff licks the prince's face readily, letting him pet it for a moment before they progress inside. I'm hesitant, dogs usually know we're about. But Oisin shakes his head a little, holding out a hand. Animals like him, he's good at charming them with and without magic. The dog sniffs him a little then lets in.
Why are they going to tents when they occupied the whole village? Well, I'm assuming Henry I paid for this war supply we're absolutely going to use it good training for us the Fifth, made them pitch the tents anyway. For the exercise of it. Like that's in character as an adult. To be fair he's a kid right now, so using the tents is a bit fun as well I'd expect.
"Here, you ugly thing," the other boy reaches out to pet the big dog, who ducks away from him, sort of glaring.
"Good girl Athena, pick your friends wisely. Sorry Harry, the dog's a good judge of character," Hal says, removing his gauntlets, clearly amused that his dog does not like his friend.
"You're in a very cheerful mood tonight, anybody die?"
"No but the day's not done," Hal says, cheerfully, as the other boy who he's calling Harry moves over to help him. Harry means nothing to me it's short for Henry sadly plenty of people involved are named Henry. Since the kid is helping him it could be just a low level knight I've not heard of? Didn't Hal have a steward also called Henry or something?
"That's two jokes isn't your meter up or something? You'll have to be sullen for two whole days in repair," the other boy says, helping undo Hal's armor.
"Something of that kind, why aren't you merry? I thought we agreed warfare was an acceptable Scrope activity?" Hal says, innocently.
I must audibly react to the name because Oisin glances over at me.
I nod that I know who he is.
Ah Scrope. Henry Scrope, who is our Prince Hal's best friend, till he isn't. Yeah, there's a rather dramatic part of the play where Hal has Scrope executed, and beheaded. And that is completely true. The Southampton plot, 1415, Hal's king and ready to go to France, when Edmund Mortimer helps uncover a plot on his life, with Scrope as the ring leader. Scrope was formerly one of Henry's closest friends. He's a noble, not like quite a duke or anything but respectable family and he's no steward. He's about nine years older than the young prince but not surprising when you consider Hal was cleverer than most people his age, or older than him really. No Scrope's not here as his servant. He's here as the closest thing our crown prince has to a friend.
"I really don't fancy dying, so there's that," Scrope says, finishing with his armor.
"Everything is going beautifully," Hal, who is facing an army 20,000 strong with less than 2,000 men, and currently no back up. Like, the definition of things not going well.
"Things don't just go well cause you tell them to, it's important you learn that sometime," Scrope says, helping lift his mail off.
"My father will not reach us in time. Hotspur is a man of honor, and pride. He'll never massacre us for sport. I will offer him my generous parlay he'll be forced to accept by his own code of chivalry, and we'll win the day," Hal says, cheerfully, going to his little writing desk. It's heaped with papers.
"What makes you so sure he's going to accept?"
"His pride, I know him. We parlay, I offer to fight him in single combat, he must accept. For one he doesn't want to go down in history as slaughtering my force, for another, he will fully believe he can beat me in single combat. Which he cannot," Hal, completely happy. To be clear, he always does this. Like every single chance he gets he offers to fight the enemy in single combat. For some mysterious reason, nobody ever takes him up on it. Only once at the siege of Melun. Everyone else, no, no way. Yeah he's taller than anyone alive and strong as an ox from working out in all that armor like one blow from his seven foot long broadsword you're super dead. Nobody will fight him it's almost sad; he perpetually really wants them to.
"And you get to duel someone like you've always wanted to," Scrope nods.
"Yes, precisely," Hal says, for all intents and purposes going to his papers. He's still wearing the damned sword. Of course he is.
"So after you die do you want me to tell people you were completely happy about this or do you want to play it up all dramatic?"
"I don't really know why you think I can die," starting to write, not looking up.
"That's it? You're not coming to dinner?"
"Oh no, I'm far too busy. Bring me something when you return, take your time, I'm not hungry," Hal says, rubbing his face and immediately getting ink on it.
"Right," Scrope shakes his head a little, like wondering why he thought this would go any other way. "That's it? You're gonna sit there answering your mail?"
"Yes? Is there something else needs doing?" Hal asks, genuinely thinking for a moment. "No, there's not. I've done everything everyone should be fine for a few hours—,"
"I mean you're going to die tomorrow possibly, if Hotspur reaches us, in which case—," Scrope gestures as though it's obvious.
"In which case all the more reason to get this done now then I wouldn't be here to do it. Don't let me keep you," Hal says, turning back to his work.
"I'll bring you dinner," Scrope sighs.
"Don't forget sausages for the dog," Hal calls, but gets little response.
Oisin and I look at each other.
Hal gets up and takes off the sword belt, hanging it over the back of his chair. He puts a hand through his hair, then sits back down to go back to his work. The loyal dog just lays at his feet, eying us, but not really concerned.
"What is it?" I ask, as Oisin studies the sword. He's better with Latin than I, and more accustomed to reading cruses.
"It's a curse," Oisin nods, "I can't read the whole thing. Let's just take it when he goes to sleep."
"Yeah," I say, knowing fully well this kid is NOT going to go to sleep anytime soon.
Hal continues to work diligently on his letters or whatever he's writing. I'm not daring to get close enough to read it. Oisin paces a little, then comes and waits with me. We don't need to give ourselves away and a pet sorcerer could walk in at any moment. We need to be unobtrusive.
I feel like, a little bad taking his sword before a big battle. But not that bad. It's cursed, he doesn't need that. And they'll have spares.
"Where do we think he got that thing?" Oisin asks, rubbing his face.
"Ah, pretty much anywhere. Richard II very easily could have let him pick it from the weaponry, Richard kind of spoiled him," I say.
"Why?"
"Just being nice pretty much, Richard had no kids of his own so you know," I shrug.
"How spoiled?"
"Richard gave him five hundred crowns a year an allowance."
"What in hell."
"I know," I roll my eyes. That's about the modern equivalent of like $500,000. Like it's ridiculous. 100 crowns a year would be standard or overkill. Our Hal loves money, so I'm sure he was fine with the arrangement. "Point being, yes he could gotten it from Richard, or his grandfather's things. Or he just stole it he's been on campaign here in Wales for a minute, we all know he's a thief."
"True."
A few minutes later Scrope returns, with a plate of dinner, cup of wine, and no extra sausages for the dog. The dog sits up at his return just staring at him with droopy red eyes. Hal barely glances up to affirm who it is.
"Just set that there," Hal says, making a free space with the papers.
"Right," Scrope sets it down as requested. "Ah—why don't you leave that for a bit? Come take a walk? Talk or something?"
"About what?"
"I don't know—Hal we did go over how you could die tomorrow, if Hotspur reaches us—,"
"I do not lose. I'm quite busy if you didn't need anything else? I've all these to answer, if you'll correct your humor I'd rather like to go over my battle lines again," Hal says, like genuinely confused why someone would worry about him and his god complex.
"Never mind. I'll be in my tent if you need anything," Scrope shakes his head to go.
"I won't," Hal mutters, going back to his work, but there might be annoyance in his manner.
"What was that?" Oisin hisses.
"Possibly boyfriend," I mutter.
Okay, here's the thing.
We have scant evidence of Scrope or his attachment to the crown prince. That said, he'll hold high positions in Hal's version of the government, and Hal will go stay with him a few times. It's one of these times that the, at least rumor gets started that the crown prince was of the habit of inviting Scrope back to his bedroom. Yes. Much like Richard the Lionheart, and the tales he shared a bed with Philip II of France, this is entirely rumor, while we know they were both physically there we don't know what happened and never will. That said (straight) historians tend to try to defend our warlord king's heterosexuality by disregarding these rumors. In all fairness, rumors and second hand tales are all we have of any of them, six hundred odd years on. But, Gideon you say, this was six hundred years ago, does 'sharing a bed' mean what we think it does?
Okay. So. Here's how sleeping arrangements worked in the Middle Ages.
In short, not too different from modern day, in that the lower class, that is the poorer you were, the more likely all bets were to be off. I mean, when you can only afford to heat one room, then yes everyone is going to be in that room. That slightly applies when on campaign as well. Like it's pure practicality.
Now, for the nobility that doesn't wholly come into play, we're talking big castles, lots of rooms.
Noble children, would usually share a nursery, and a governess and set of nannies. For that reason, a nurse is probably cosleeping with one or two of the little ones. Why? Well, they don't have nanny cams or anything, it's the most practical way to mind the babies when they could get cold, a fire could go out, a fire could start, whatever. So, up to maybe five or six? A noble child is likely cosleeping with a nurse, or their parent. For example, Kat usually sleeps in with one of us still, she's just five, Rhiannon likes to cuddle her when she's got her little girl around, and so Kat's used to it, and again practicality wise it's easier for me to have the baby in with me than across a cold castle hall or an unfamiliar house where she can't find me easily. We did mostly the same with Myrddin, and we'll still put them in bed together if they're sleepy enough not to wake each other up. When Lowri was little, she's bigger now, same thing, if she wasn't with one of us a governess was minding her.
Now, obviously there are good and bad parents but for the sake of the exercise, we're going to assume decent parents who actually like their kids.Richard III and Anne were noted to take turns staying with their ten year old, when he was dying, he was their only child of course they took turns sitting up with him, that's just human nature. Similarly Elizabeth of York and Henry VII kept their kids fairly close, like she'd tuck them in bed personally or keep them with her if they were sick.
If you've got two kids fairly close together like our two, then they might be together till they're six or seven, simply because noble or not it's easier to mind the kids if you've got them paired up. Hal was usually noted as being left with Thomas, his parents contracting one governess for both so she probably was with both of them in the same room when they were tiny. Obviously as the kids, specifically boys, get bigger, then they'll be old enough to go summon help if they need it at night, and would be more likely to bother and play with their sibling than help them sleep, so you'll start separating them.
Long winded way of saying, yeah, children were usually cosleeping even in noble families. Once they get to be older, like logically speaking closer to ten or so they'd likely be in their own room. Girls, as a rule, would probably keep cosleeping at this point with a nurse or governess, and even into teen years might share a bed with a sister or close lady in waiting. Why? Well, as a general rule girls might need assistance in the night. One, a noble girl gets the benefit of someone there to help her if she wakes up with period or cramps, monthly that's something that could happen so she might want the luxury of someone there. Also, strength in numbers. Harder for someone to come along and attack you, in any fashion, if there's two of you together, now isn't it? Why would the lovely princess be locked alone in a room waiting for an assailant? A couple of girls can make more noise, and the like.
This is often retained by women into adulthood for the above reason. Practicality. One, someone to fetch things in the night, if she's not having periods she's pregnant, in general. I have it on good authority from friends who menstruate that you might need a hot compress, or snack, or change of cloth, in the middle of the night and who wants to ring a bell and wake everyone, or wander into the hall to summon someone? No, you want your lady right there. And if she's pregnant then someone needs to be around to fetch a midwife, or something for an upset stomach, or help her out of bed even. Now, they might not always do it, but it's got a lot of practical applications, though all that is going to be up to the individual and their preferences, just like anything.
I'm not saying the ladies didn't use this for romantic purposes, on the contrary I'm sure they did, have you not met straight men? Yeah, I'm sure they were enjoying themselves, but they had plenty of practical reasons to do it so there really wasn't any question. As a rule it would be more common while traveling and the like, or while she is ill or pregnant to have someone there, or when she's freshly in the country waiting for her marriage, her ladies are staying with her. That protects her 'honor' too because you've got witnesses a man wasn't in the room.
What about married couples? Well ah, they didn't share a bedroom. As a rule, it simply wasn't common if you were wealthy enough you had separate rooms for everyone's comfort. Now, again, there's personal preference in there, certain couples who genuinely liked each other were more known for sharing a room, namely Edwards III and IV, who had healthy enough attraction to their wives, and genuinely enjoyed hanging out with them. Edward III and Philippa would specifically room together while traveling, like they mostly didn't care and they got on well and would spend a lot of time chatting and the like anyway. Henry VII same thing, like he'd have late dinners with his wife and go sit with her and the kids in the evenings, like they were kind of sweet. Anyway. In general no, the husband isn't in the wife's bedroom and if he's coming over for a visit the ladies in waiting get lost then come back and make sure she's still alive and stuff. I'm kidding, but like, seriously, those ladies spend their whole lives with their mistress, they are loyal, and they have access to deadly poisons, seriously.
Well, what about the gentlemen? So, again, age ten or so, big enough to have their own room not with a brother, they're likely on their own from then on out. Again, lower class you might share with a sibling longer. On campaign and the like, random nobles and knights would likely share for practicality. On campaign my best friend Dancer thinks that I'm the only available pillow, and will use me as such with no shame. Now, we're both queer but for other people, but that's not the point. Point is nobody batted an eye, we were just sprawling where there was space, minimal privacy yeah use each other as cushions.
Nobles, eh, not so much, campaign a few more bets are off in that tents could be destroyed so you could have to share for that reason and the like. You might have your man at arms or whoever stay in you tent for practicality of donning armor or what have you. Back at home, though the men are more solitary than the ladies, as a rule less reason to need someone that close. If he's ill, then a steward or a man at arms or even maybe a cousin or someone, might spend the night in the room because you know, he's ill, you might need someone to run and fetch something. That's again sheer practicality of no cell phones. Sometimes you need communication or entertainment. For example, once Edward II, paid his loyal steward, Oliver, for 'relieving the king's mind' in the middle of the night. Translation, he woke up his steward to talk something through with him, felt bad, and paid him for the midnight therapy session. Because kings are people too. So, if you're up late and you might want him to fetch something, you'd keep someone, or maybe have a musician play an instrument if you can't sleep. Normal stuff. Not a lot is thought of a servant doing something like that and it's not even going to get written down as a rule it's just practical. A couple of times we've been attacked and all else, I stayed in future Henry VI's room because he was either hurt, or I thought someone was coming, I just slept on the floor like I do. Nobody thought anything of that, I'm technically a servant that's my place, my crown prince needed protection. He's fairly modest and doesn't like people in his room, but he wasn't conscious when he was brought there that time so I stayed till he woke up and was okay. When King Elis of Wales was cursed (long story) Dancer would stay in his room to help watch him in the night. Again, pretty common sense stuff, when Henry VI is ill later in life and on the run, either his wife or his brother is probably gonna be staying at least in the same room to take care of him because he's sick. We don't have a lot of other instances of it, but Courtenay apparently died in Henry V's tent in Harfluer, why was he in the tent? Well he's Henry's main aid, and it's a big tent, he's technically a servant like I am, so practicality wise, he's there because he's working for Henry.
All that makes sense right? Long winded way of saying, eh, mostly it's all common sense with respect to the era and technology.
But, Gideon, you ask, what reason would Richard the Lionheart or Henry V have for inviting a noble of near equal rank, back to their bedroom, in a castle with plenty of other bedrooms?
Homosexuality.
Anyway. Okay, fine, I did that for the joke, but like really. That's it. That's the reason. There is no other real reason, Scrope and Philip II are not servants. And we don't have any real evidence of either monarch making a lifelong habit of having someone in his room (if he had insomnia, or night terrors, or something), ergo this was special. Courtenay gets a pass like I said he's of lower birth he's working for Henry who works all hours, he does technically have a reason to be there (also that was a tent which is a bit different from a private bedroom). Scrope doesn't totally work for Henry and there are plenty of bedrooms. There's not, like, if the rumors about either are true, it's likely a romantic attachment.
All that said. I will put out I'm the first person to say that not everything in life is sexual. I'm a massive proponent of, people can be friends. And if anyone were tugging their friend back to their bedroom just to keep talking about taxes and the like for the next six hours, I would completely believe our Prince Hal would do that. Like that's in character. He would be quoted as saying, supposedly, that "the pleasures of Venus too often softened victorious Mars" translation "you know we can get a lot more done and be a lot more successful at war if people weren't distracted by pleasures of the flesh". Yeah. If he said that, very asexual of him. Anyway, I'm just saying, he may very well have had platonic affection for his comrades. Richard the Lionheart, no, that was gay, fight me.
Prince Hal, I will also point out, is a solid eight years younger than Scrope. Which is nearly into ick territory on Scrope's part though I'm guessing that wouldn't stop him. Not the eight year difference but the Scrope is now twenty three, Hal is sixteen. Later okay, but Hal's still a kid, who as a man will not be bent to romantic aspirations as it is. Does Scrope think it's platonic? Didn't look like it. If anyone is going to tempt our prince to any sort of lasting attachment it'll be someone as clever and interested in money as him.
"I don't like him," Oisin mutters.
"You don't like either of them," I remind him.
"That's true, however, the dog doesn't like him either," Oisin asks.
"He winds up betraying Henry anyway," I say.
"Oh good."
"No not really Henry finds out and has him dragged through the street and beheaded."
"Damn."
"Yeah you don't double cross our Henry and get away with it," I say, "To be clear, the Southampton plot absolutely could have been a test of loyalty instigated and scripted by Henry, that is like, unbelievably in character, however Scrope still fails."
"Hm, even so. I admit I'm not on his side as the colonized however, too bad. Anyway, want to go walk around? He's not falling asleep anytime soon," Oisin says.
"Yeah, all right, no he'll be at that for a couple of hours, let's go haunt camp," I say, "And maybe find food?"
Oisin takes a pie out of his bag, holding it out to me.
"Really?"
"You know I carry food for you," Oisin says, leading the way out of the tent.
Camp is mostly solemn, and businesslike. Their sixteen going on sixty three year old leader has them mostly whipped into shape, and things are running with stark efficiency.
We catch up with Scrope with some of the other men, around a fire outside a set of tents, nobody I recognize beyond Scrope but then I wouldn't especially not in the growing dark.
Scrope has a bottle of wine and appears to have just joined the others, mostly older knights.
"Is there something significant different in his head?" Scrope gestures generally back to his crown prince's tent.
"Yes, we're glad you also noticed," another knight, maybe mid thirties, dark hair, he's currently fussing with a set of chain mail. He grunts it, not really looking up.
"Driving you mad is he?" Fastolf, cheerfully, with some affection. He's taking off his gauntlets, clearly getting ready to eat as well.
"Has he told you his plan? For parlay with Hotspur?" Scrope asks, confused. Again, to be clear, Hotspur, Scrope, and the prince, are all named Henry, as will be the king when he gets here. Ergo I'm calling them the different things. They're gonna wind up calling each other Harry, and Henry, but for simplicity I'm avoiding doing it in narration.
"To offer the other equally mad equally cruel Harry single combat? Yes, he did, that's good for both of them you didn't talk him out of it or something foolish?" The first man asks.
"I'll be telling the prince how strongly you support his plan, Oldcastle," Fastolf says, dryly. Oh, so this is Oldcastle? He's another knight, semi mentor of Prince Hal's, decent friend to him, Hal likes him fine. Oldcastle is a Lollard which Hal isn't against. Hal however has to arrest him for it, but he lets him escape. Oldcastle, for reasons best known to him, chooses to spend the rest of his very short life trying to overthrow the young warrior king, reasons for this are unknown but we assume are based in him having met everybody's favorite sociopath. Anyway, Hal, then King Henry, catches him, has him burned at the stake, not a great way to die. That's all future though, for now Oldcastle will be a loyal knight, like Fastolf he's a minor noble who has some money and land, not a lot, but he's a distinguished soldier so he's here to semi-mind the young prince.
"Hotspur is a brilliant swordsman—he's going to die," Scrope says.
"Probably," Oldcastle shrugs a little, "It's his idea, again, I do need affirmation you didn't argue with him?"
"You don't argue with Hal, you listen to him rewrite everything you've ever thought, no I left," Scrope scoffs, "He's going to get himself killed. He's an idiot."
"Listen to me, Harry. Some men, we're not born or bred to die anyway but the blade. You can clip a bird's wings, it'll still long to fly. You will never ever, keep one like that safe out of harm's way. That wouldn't be living for him," Fastolf says, addressing Scrope a bit nicely.
"So we're just—letting him die at the hands of a much more experienced, much more skilled solider?" Scrope asks. To be clear he's correct, Hotspur is past forty and has been in battle more times than I can count.
"Does he not look happy? When I saw him he looked almost happy. I have established a very simple rule of camp and I did swear you all to it. If that tall thing, looks happy, we leave it be, before it gets bored and makes the rest of us unhappy," Oldcastle says, tiredly.
"So you're just proposing we let him die like this?" Scrope asks.
"If it makes him happy? He thought it up," Oldcastle who is not a great child minder, shrugs. I can see why Hal likes him though apparently his method of Hal-care is letting him do what he likes.
"It does save our men the battle, we'll be slaughtered," Fastolf puts in, "It's the more noble course of action."
"That's not why he's doing it! He's doing it because he wants to, like anything! I don't think he cares for anything, but himself," Scrope says, disgusted.
"Oh he has riled you tonight," Fastolf says, "Why? What's he done? Go on, you're among friends."
"Yeah is this anything we should be aware of, that might inconvenience us later?" Oldcastle has his priorities straight I think.
"It's just—he never has me help with the accounts anymore, he does it all himself he says, but before we left he was letting that boy from Devon check his figures," Scrope says.
"Do you—want to go over whatever it is he's doing? Like is that fun for you?" Oldcastle still does not see a problem.
"No, but it's nice to be asked," Scrope says, "Why would he trust the son of a criminal more than me?"
Oh, fast side note. The boy from Devon they speak of is undoubtedly Courtenay. Now, it's not clear how Hal and Courtenay met, likely at Oxford where Courtenay was studying to be a priest. However, Courtenay's father and grandfather were both knights under Richard II and Edward III and the Black Prince, but Courtenay's father, Philip Courtenay, was something of ah, criminal. He was arrested and put in the tower for embezzling, lots of stealing mostly of money, the like. So, yes, Hal recruited our Courtenay to cook his books, using his familial knowledge. So a bit less of a meet-cute, and more of a scene from Ocean's Eleven where the guy walks in and says 'your father was the best in the business, you want to do a job?' The job is the eventual invasion of France. Anyway. Courtenay isn't going to be looked well on by polite society at this point. He's the son of a criminal from Devon, too clever for his own good and prettier than he has a right to be, they'll call him the "Flower of Devon" apparently he's so pretty. Also, I have no actual birth date for Courtenay, but likely he's Hal's age, or about. His father was about ten years older than Hal's father, but Hal's father had him early. They're both eldest sons, however, Courtenay's father was a bit busier in his youth, and might not have married so early, so on average, we're guessing Courtenay is maybe five years older than him maximum? Could be within one or two years. They appear to be the same age or very close when I've seen them. But it also makes him a bit more of natural companion than Scrope, who is decently older and would be less likely to follow Hal's lead.
"Again, do you want to do the things he's doing? No, they're boring, don't worry about it," Oldcastle says, "You're going to give yourself a headache trying to fathom that one."
"You answered your own question. Hal doesn't trust anyone, you know this, he has our executions for what he deems inevitable betrayal already planed more than likely. Is it or is it not a Prince Hal activity to hire an actual criminal to check his accounts, then check them himself and find an error, then imprison or execute the the criminal?" Fastolf says.
"That's almost ridiculously complicated enough to be true," Scrope mutters, looking at his wine.
"He's not that complicated, Harry. He's a boy. Who wants people to play games with him. Except he's too clever by half so games involve espionage, coded messages, plots against his own life drafted by himself, and warfare as often as he can get himself into it," Fastolf says, smiling a little. Aw, he genuinely likes our prince. He sees him for what he is anyway. The others don't.
"Okay so if they're also saying it, and you said it—how often do we think he orchestrated plots against his own life?" Oisin asks.
I look over at him, "Very."
"Why does he make problems for himself though? Perpetually? How is he not smart enough to know that—hiring a thief to do your accounts—or dueling against a man you've not ever beaten in sparring —will not end well?" Scrope asks.
"He's bored. He doesn't get fun out of —,"
"Drinking," Oldcastle says.
"Women," Scrope scoffs.
"Sleeping."
"Sports."
"Happiness."
"—yeah all right you don't need to go on, point is he's bored. The Devon boy is a current amusement doesn't mean he's forgotten you," Fastolf says, knowingly.
"Have you not seen him? He's pretty the girls faint over him even if he is a priest," Scrope scoffs. Oh he is jealous.
"I'm sure our Hal hasn't noticed, you might tell him," Oldcastle, who apparently likes mess.
"Get some sleep, you need it, I'm sure we're all up past curfew," Fastolf says, knowingly, though he doesn't deny Courtenay's beauty. "I'll put him to bed the next two times."
"I left him with his papers he'll go right out, don't worry, if he had enough sense he'd put himself to bed," Scrope says, dryly. So this is a common nightly counseling session, then.
"You don't have sense when you're sixteen, if you've forgotten," Fastolf says, fondly.
"Want to go see if he is asleep?" I ask.
"Yeah, let's steal this sword," Oisin says.
"I feel deeply like it's not going to be this easy, but yes," I say.
"Who was the Devon boy they were talking about?"
"Courtenay, I mean I assume he's from Devon," I say.
"Great, at least it didn't sound like he's here. Last thing we need is that witch," Oisin says. Oisin, like everyone but Prince Hal, does not like Courtenay. I mean I don't either but. We're like comfortably annoyed by each other now like we're used to each other. It's getting okay.
Back at the Prince's tent, he is just falling asleep, face on his papers, quill still hand. It's easily two in the morning by now.
I sigh.
"Do not feel sorry for him," Oisin says, he knows me.
"He did want people to play games with him! He offered to show Scrope his lines, that's what he likes talking about," I sigh.
"It's not the same as you, he also likes killing people, which is a problem, sword," Oisin says.
"Sword," I sigh, following him.
The sword is hanging in a scabbard on the back of his chair, dangerously close to where the prince sleeps.
Oisin approaches, slowly.
The dog sits up. We both stop. The dog cocks its head, looking at its young master then back at the tent flaps.
Fastolf ducks in, carefully. He smiles and raises a finger to his lips at the dog. The dog lays back down, content. It clearly trusts him to enter.
Oisin and I back up. Surely he'll leave seeing the prince is asleep.
Fastolf walks up, and very neatly kicks the chair out from under the sleeping boy, kicking him not necessarily gently, in the ribs.
Hal wakes up with a cry of rage, sorting for a dagger and leaping to his feet, before he realizes who his assailant is. The dog leaps between them, but not before Fastolf neatly trips the boy again.
"I'll have your head Jack," Hal says, but he's laughing.
"I told you, I found you asleep somewhere this isn't your bed one more time, you'd wake up to my boot in your back,. Now get in your bed, right now, can't say you're not tired you were asleep," Fastolf says, folding his arms.
"Treason. I'll tell my father," Hal mutters.
They both laugh at that one.
"My Heavenly Father, goodbye, Jack," Hal says, rubbing his ribs and clearly preparing to go back to work now that he's up.
"Bed, now, do I need to take all these? You think I'm going to let you challenge Hotspur on no sleep?" Fastolf asks, blocking his access to the desk.
"You're a misery," Hal mutters, but he takes off his shirt, slinging it over the chair, and goes to his cot.
"Yeah I noticed, go to sleep," Fastolf says, folding his arms.
"Did you see Harry? I think he's cross with me," Hal says, tugging off his boots.
"I did, yeah, have you thought of apologizing for whatever you said or did lately?"
"What makes you think I've got something to apologize for?"
"I've met you. And heard how you chose to speak."
"I don't have to apologize. I don't apologize to people. I was merely suggesting you remind him he's lucky to serve his crown prince and ought to value my time more," Hal mutters, leaning back on the bed. The dog immediately crawls up next to him.
"Did you hear yourself?"
"I did. I liked it. What's he doing?"
"Drinking himself to sleep I'll take his wine away as soon as you're in bed."
"Everyone needs clear heads! I did specify—,"
"I said I'd take it, lie there, close your eyes, think of war and other things that please a Harry," Fastolf says, tossing him a pillow that he'd had on a chair.
"Wake me before dawn," Hal mutters, rolling over.
"Put your head down. Close your eyes."
Hal does, laying an arm around the big dog. The moment Fastolf's footsteps recede, however, he sits up a little, withdrawing a letter from inside his cot. He opens it slowly fingers tracing over the letters.
"It's Courtenay's hand," I tell Oisin, "It's in French. I can't read it."
Oisin nods. I suspect it's in code, the way he traces his finger along the letters. He's looking for a code or cypher? Or just rereading his friend's letter?
He sighs a little bit, switching pages and leaning against the big dog.
Fastolf walks back in quickly, "Oh my god, you're as bad as a four year old!"
"What are you doing walking into your prince's tent unannounced anyway?" Hal asks, not looking up from his reading.
"Seriously, I think you're worse than a four year old, go to sleep," Fastolf says, amused.
"You want to go back into Thomas's service?" Hal asks, referring to his younger brother, whom the knight is usually in charge of.
"No, no, it's fine, you're my favorite prince," Fastolf says, smiling. It's probably true. Fastolf himself is as uninclined to the romantic pursuits as his crown prince, preferring warfare, and making money, it's little wonder they're a solid pair.
"I am just going over some correspondence. You can go, I'll sleep after this," Hal says, glancing over.
"Letters from your Flower of Devon?" Fastolf asks, wandering over.
"Who?" Hal frowns, "You mean Courtenay? Do they call him that?"
"They do. People owe me money now, all right," Fastolf says, rubbing his face.
"They owe you money? How much? Why?" Hal, completely alert at the mention of money. Him and his grandfather both, little dollar signs or rather crown signs, float in front of their eyes like a cartoon character.
"Ah, never you mind. You keeping this priest then?"
"I should think so. He writes quite diligently, and he's gotten through the accounts I left him with nearly as quick as I would have. I keep whoever interests me, you know this. Oh, and by the way pack your things I think I'll send you home in the morning."
"You'll go down in history for your wit, highness. I'll wake you at dawn, at which point you had best be asleep, eh? Those, whatever they are, can wait till morning?"
"Just his report of the accounts I'd left, it relaxes me, don't trouble yourself," Hal says, waving a hand, "If you've no occupation I can think of one for you. Like ensuring our men are not turning to drink?"
"I'll be gone, get some rest, even you need it. You're meant to be pretending to be a mortal man as you'll recall."
"I'm doing brilliantly at that. None of them have guessed I'm a god," Hal smirks.
"Keep it that way, and as part of your disguise as a too tall for his own good, too clever for the world's own good, sixteen year old, close your eyes," Fastolf winks, backing to the tent flap.
"I shall," Hal concedes, smiling a little, before going back to his letter.
"At least he's being nice to him," Oisin comments.
"Oh, now who's soft?" I ask, amused.
"Well, war crimes and murders aside he is sixteen, someone should be minding him," Oisin says, "Even if he didn't get him to go to sleep."
"Yeah, at this point we're going to need to try to outlast him," I say, "See who falls asleep first."
Of course it's us.