Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 9: This deceitful breed of men

Locked up safely in the room, I prepare to run back the spell. I've done a few like this, shouldn't be too hard. I just want to witness when it was changed over to Prince Hal's ownership.
I kneel on the floor, the paper in front of me, as I whisper the incantation.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, a mist is clearing.
I'm staring no longer at the bedroom in Windsor. I'm looking at a weapon's room of some sort. But. I don't recognize it. Kenilworth maybe? It looks like maybe, but I've been wrong before most castles look similar inside.
The cursed sword is lying on a rack, among other fine weapons. The blade is long and deep grey steal, with the incantations carved on it.
A man and a boy are looking at the weapons, the man is older, maybe forties or fifties, with grey through very curly black hair. In his arms he holds a boy, maybe four at the most? Flushed red cheeks and wavy, dark brown hair, big, focused brown eyes studying the weapons as the boy knots his fists in a white nightshirt.
In a flash I realize this is baby Hal, and the man holding him—his grandfather? John of Gaunt? Yes, he's a tall man, easily six three, and broad, even at this age clearly strong, his thick arms easily hold the chunky baby up to his chest, affectionately crushing him.
"What's that?" Little Hal points to the cursed sword.
"That, your Uncle Ned got in France, we fought there," John says, patiently, "You can't touch that one. It's cursed. It can only be wielded by the owner."
"Can I have it when I'm big?" Little Hal asks, softly.
"Sure you can. All these will be yours one day," his grandfather says, tolerantly.
Okay, that is a very loose way of passing on a sword I'm just saying. Like, the kid is tiny that was a blanket statement.
"That one?"
"Cursed as well, it could kill a wizard—that one your Uncle Lionel got in France—and that is one of the broadswords, I trained your father on, you think you could hold that?" His grandfather asks, amused, walking him over to a long broadsword, beaten, clearly more of a training thing.
"Yes, grandfather, I would like to," Hal says.
"You would would you? You know my father, taught me to fight with that. When I was probably your age, he came home from battle, and he'd let me try to lift his sword. I think you're a bit too small for that one yet," John says, clearly amused at the child's interest.
"Not for long," Little Hal whispers.
"Oh not for long? You going to grow into that sword quick d'you think?"
"Yep. I will."
"Good job. Which one's your favorite?"
Little Hal points at one of the smaller hand and a half swords, it's clearly been heavily used.
"Why?"
"It's seen battle. I could trust it."
"Very good, how much do you think it's worth?"
Frowning, "A crown?"
"Try fifty, that's one of my father's swords, he used it at jousts, it's a solid weapon. I have my own jousting regalia in the next room, we'll get you some when you stop growing for a minute," he says, still easily carrying the boy over to look another set of weapons, "See that flail? I got from a nunnery in Castile."
"Why?"
"They were using it against me, I took it back. It wasn't worth as much, as I thought it could be, kept it here."
The door slams behind them. Little Hal frowns immediately and sinks back into his grandfather's broad chest.
"There you are Harry," John says, unconcerned as his son walks in. Harry Bolingbroke now, Future Henry IV, and our little Hal's father. Just, I realize there are so many Henries, I'm trying. I am.
Right now he's barely past twenty, with bright red hair and a short red beard. He's dressed in fine clothes, and carries a cup of wine in either hand. His eyes are red as though he's been drinking. Upon seeing his father and his son together, he immediately turns around and walks into Erridge, who was trailing him.
"Go, tell my wife Hal is in bed, with his nurses, we've found him, thank you," Harry Bolingbroke says, nodding. Erridge scurries off to obey.
"Were you looking for him?" His father asks, unconcerned.
"No, I was feeling dull so I thought I'd see what sort of fun things you're hiding down here," Harry says, dryly, making no attempt to greet his son who is now entirely silent and glaring at having his little tour spoiled. "Why? Were you looking for him?"
"No, I was looking for you, and found your son and heir where I expected to find you, touching something sharp and daring it to cut him," John bats his drunk son's hand away from a razor sharp knife he was about to touch, "And don't roll your eyes Henry, this is your boy where else would he be?"
"Outside with the hounds? Hiding under his mother's bed? Playing under the stairs? Getting locked in a cupboard because he was stealing food? He's driving the nurses mad. A year ago I was despairing he didn't talk. I didn't believe his mother that it was full sentences after nothing, but it seems he could speak all the time and now he won't stop," Harry says, sipping his wine.
"That's good training for his nurses, and his mother," John says, squeezing Hal a little more to try to make him smile. Hal is staring his dead, murderous stare now that he's not being entertained.
"It's good training for him to stay in bed for once, you hear Hal? I'm telling your precious grandad what a naughty thing you are," Harry says, toasting his son with the cup of wine before finishing it, "I'll leave you with your grandad this time you know. And he'll sell you. Perhaps to the Gauls. You'll enjoy it they're mad as well."
Hal continues to stare at him, face unmoving, trademark emotionless glare with nothing behind the eyes. He'll perfect it in the future, and learn to hide it, but now his resting face is as cold as ever, too little to fully mask the bored indifference.
"You're in a bitter mood tonight, what's gotten into you?" John asks, frowning as he shifts to hold the boy more securely and less like a sack of potatoes. The boy is no longer hanging in his arms amiably but it stiff and sullen. "You slipped away from the other young people quite early."
"Thomas and John are asses, what else is new? And Richard's a bore tonight," Harry says, going to his second glass of wine. I don't know who the Thomas and John are, could literally be anyone. His cousins? His brothers? Other random nobles? All of the above. Seems like a holiday or something since everyone is here. Richard, for the record, I'm assuming is Richard II king of England. But he's Harry's age and cousin so he's Richard to them. John of Gaunt half raised Richard like, that's his nephew but in some ways he's another son.
"Your cousin has a pretty wife you can't blame him for desiring her company, Harry," John says, gently.
"He was married before I and he has no son; he doesn't want her bed, father," Harry says, disdainfully, "He spoke to her all evening. I can barely hear her voice. Then he left with her, not speaking to any of us. Whoever's bed he goes to does not give him an heir, I'll notice."
"And why does it bother you? Do you miss his company?" John asks.
"Everyone's driving me mad. I should go on campaign again. They're all idiots," Harry says, idly, walking away to look at weapons, "Why were you looking for me anyway that you found that thing?"
"Well, you nearly came to blows with your brothers at dinner, that was there. I miss finding you down here, when you were a boy do you remember your Uncle Ned and I, found you down here, you had a shield and said you weren't coming out," John asks, smiling a little.
"You both laughed at me. I was so cross. Do you always have to talk about the past, father?"
"I'm old, one day the past will be insurmountable to you, there's so much behind you, time, stretching out. You won't know what to make of it either. And you'll be telling this one tales of how you and I found him down here, planning adventures," John says, kind of trying to bounce Hal who is completely stiff and refusing to be comforted or participate in human emotion.
"I doubt it. I think I'm going to be taking a break from speaking to him by then. Or he'll be dead, he'll probably be dead before we get to telling tales," Harry says, drinking his wine.
"I don't die. You'll die," is what Hal chooses to say.
"See? I tell Mary it was better not talking. I've met children that's not normal," Harry says, not even looking at his son.
"You're very dramatic tonight Harry. You were verbal as well, nor would you sleep as I recall. He's as fascinated with weapons as you, Hal, show your father which sword I said you could have?"
"Oh god, don't give him weapons! Dad, he's a baby!"
"There," Hal points to the cursed sword.
"When he's knighted, he'll have it if he likes."
"Assuming he lives that long," Harry says, but like he definitely might be the one who kills him.
"I don't die," Hal repeats pressing his face into his grandfather's shirt.
"Everyone dies. God, he's exhausting are you going to get drunk with me or no? I'm half way there and my wife's banned me from her bed, so I've got the rest of the night long."
"What've you done that you're not in her favor?" John asks, almost sympathetically.
"Why do you assume I've done something?"
"Haven't you?"
"Manner of speaking. She's ill she swears she's with child again, then she was fussing over the baby and losing that thing," Harry mutters, "Better give me another boy. I've got a good buyer lined up for the first one it talks all the time. And drools."
"You wouldn't dare," Hal snarls, but it's like not threatening because he's tiny.
"I would. Get a really good price for you, buy a new little boy who doesn't talk all the time," Harry says, but he's smiling now, he comes and takes Hal from his father. The boy does not go willingly, still completely stiff and stone faced. "You're nice and fat. Take you to the butcher, might get more than a crown."
"Stupid," Hal says, glaring at his father.
"I'm very funny, I don't know what went wrong with you, but I'm very funny. And you're very naughty, and should have been in bed hours ago."
"I'm not tired. I want to look at swords."
"One more time, Harry, that is YOUR boy," John laughs.
"Shut up, father, shut up—if you aren't good for your nurses, I'm gonna sell you, I don't care who, the dog track, the butcher, and I will buy a nice little boy with red hair and it'll be very very boring, but we'll manage, somehow, with out your glorious presence, all right?" He asks, walking to the door, child just tucked under his arm like a sack of flour or something equally emotionless and white.
"You know if you present that one to his mother as you having found him, it might get you back in her good graces, mothers are quite fond of being reminded the children you gave them are still alive," John says, smiling a little, but there's sadness in it. He's lost this one's mother. He's buried children, his father, his mother, and his older brother. He's seen his share of death enough to want to enjoy this evening of peace with his son and grandchild.
"Absolutely not. I'm cross with her as well now, I did make the plan for the evening very clear and it is to get as drunk as possible if you're not on board with that then I'm perfectly capable on my own thank you very much—Charles—yes—there, put this back in the nursery, thank you—,"
I let the vision fade. That was it. That was, all their was. I flop back, annoyed. That wasn't formal at all! That was very easy.
"So?" Oisin is siting on the bed.
"Okay, like, it's his yes, but it was very loose. Like, okay, his grandfather was playing with him when he was a little, and said he could have it. But like generally in that he's the oldest grandson, of course it was gonna be his. It's nothing official," I sigh, "The sword took it though. It worked. It's a very easy to use curse I'm just saying."
"Then we use that to our advantage. If all it takes is saying yeah you can have that, then we—trick him into saying it to us, somehow," Oisin says.
"It'd never work, ever. Henry never says anything he doesn't mean to," I sigh, staring at the ceiling, "Unless—,"
"What?"
"We get someone else to do it."
"What do you mean?"
"Someone else who owned the sword, in the past, says we can have it too. Trick the cruse," I say.
"We're not time traveling to yet another time period. That's insane."