Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 11: Lancaster Family: Next Generation

I take us back to Kenilworth castle. This exhausts me, but I'm really not planning on doing magic for a bit anyway. Nobody here knows we're wizards, so we can hopefully go unnoticed.
We do, arriving just when the entire royal party is. This is good in that we blend in. It is disheartening in that Henry IV not only recognizes us from before, but does so in that he immediately shouts orders to us along with the rest of the men. Now, being recognized and ordered around by Henry IV is the worst, because I'm used to his son. His son, for all his malice, is very easily negotiated with because he loves manipulating people more than he loves killing them. This Henry loves killing them.
Prince Hal is better, no longer high on opium he's quite lucid, and pretending he does not remember how he acted while high. Nobody is voluntarily speaking to him. This does not stop him from speaking to them. He's not being allowed to walk or anything, which means the men have to bear him on their shoulders to get him in to a room. This works about like picking up a very large dog, way too many limbs which are way too long, and this creature is far to big to just be lifted places nor does it understand what to do with aforementioned long limbs while being lifted. That said, Prince Hal blessedly remembers it's his birthright to be picked up and carried places and submits to being hoisted and offers (un)helpful advice to the people lifting him, which somehow does not induce them to drop him.
"My mind was affected by the herbs but I really don't remember and I know I've brought this up but I don't recall getting answer and for my own education I would really like to know, father, why, if you have placed decoys on the battlefield, why would you not place a decoy who would also shout that you were alive? In theory long after you were dead? If the idea is to confuse the enemy? That was what I thought I would do but in my inexperience am I missing something that—," this is what Prince Hal is saying as they convey him to one of the first floor bedrooms. It takes four people, who look very happy to drop him onto the bed.
"Lie there, do not get up, damn it—do not get up," his father, completely ignoring the question, making a 'stay' motion like his son is a dog.
Oisin and I wait out in the hall. Pretty soon Hal is going to be very bored and likely to make a deal with us, we just have to wait for everyone to leave. That isn't happening anytime soon, nurses are hurrying in to take care of the Prince who it sounds like is trying to order about anyone who will listen to bring him entertainments.
"I'm going to London for a surgeon, we need him in there, and quiet," Henry IV says to Erridge, who looks much worse from the wear from no sleep and overexposure to the crown prince.
"He's gotten up fifteen times in the past hour, on a moving cart," Erridge breaths.
"I know, I know—the sedatives made him worse I don't—,"
"My lord, I can keep him in there for the next twelve hours," Scrope says, pleasantly, bowing.
"I'm not asking you to remain in there that long," King Henry says, like he's sending the man to the beaches of Normandy and not his son's sick bed. "He may live that entire time."
"My lord, I do not have to stay," Scrope holds up a stack of paper and a quill, "While this occupies him I will get more."
"That will never work, he's not going to want a stack of paper."
"If you will, my lord," Scrope nods to the door.
The king follows him, warily.
"Oh, excellent, I have to catch up on my correspondence have you seen my letters? Thank you, you're indispensable Scrope," Prince Hal says, entirely pleased, and trying to sit up as a doctor pushes him back down.  His face is bandaged but since it's half his face he's bound up like a cartoon Frankenstein, which with his dark curls poking through the bandages, and him constantly talking, is almost comical. The eye on that side of his head is weeping and his skin is fiery red and irritated.
"What correspondence does he think he has?" King Henry breaths.
"Do not question it, my lord," Erridge says.
"Father? If I'm going to be here for the present can I not have Humphrey and perhaps young Holland to come and stay with me? Only I'm very lonely and they're charming companions," Prince Hal says, hopefully. Humphrey's his youngest brother and the Holland boy is his Duke of Exeter, John Holland, they're both like nine or so now.
"The Holland boy and Humphrey have no sense of safety and do whatever it is you say without question," King Henry says, folding his arms.
"I know. That is what makes them charming companions," Prince Hal says, like he's pleased his father understands, but very condescending about it, "You'll not have use for them and I am quite bored here, in fact John's company as well would be delightful, or little Mortimer as he's locked up anyway he may as well be with me?"
"I am not sending your brothers or cousins to you, you are resting, quiet, not one of them has ever been quiet. Now for God's sake Hal, do as the doctor's say, you don't want it moving deeper into your brain."
"Do we really know it's in my brain though? I don't think we know that. The arrow could have had no tip we don't have real proof and the pain is tolerable I am sure I'm on the mend."
"Hal. Half your face is swollen. We'll have to cut it off probably. And put leeches on it. Because there is an arrow head. In your brain. We need to get it out of your brain. And you are going to lie there, quietly, and do as you're told," King Henry says, awkwardly patting his boy's knee, "All right? Stay. Stay there."
"But if I am ill—my brothers—,"
"Your brothers stay in London. Stop arguing with me. And lie there."
"Yes, father," Prince Hal says, quietly, clearly disappointed not to have his siblings.
The King and Erridge leave, some of us follow them, more nurses stay in to fuss over the Prince who has tossed his head back, defeated, a dramatic move that brought tears to his own eyes.
"He doesn't act like he's dying—but my father didn't either, they said he took his mistress to his bed the night before he passed so that one is—," King Henry puts his hands to his face, half in grief half anger.
"They'll mind him, the sooner we find a surgeon, the better," Erridge says, gently.
"There's no way they can keep him lying down, he'll kill himself by moving," King Henry says.
"I found a blank ledger, Scrope! It's fine I've got this—ah, my lord, with your permission I'm going to give the crown prince this correspondence to answer, marriage proposals from Castile," Fastolf walks up, carrying a ledger and a stack of letters.
"We've had no marriage proposals from Castile— for whom?" King Henry asks.
"Ah I forget what I said—oh the princess, my lord," Fastolf says, looking at it, "And that one is for Prince John, oh it's from France as well sorry."
"Where did you get those?" The King is confused.
"There was some paper in there, and an inkpot," Fastolf says, pointing to another room.
"Ah. You're going to give those to my son to occupy him? Lying to him as he's dying?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Carry on."
"My lord," Fastolf bows.
"Wait—wait, if you stay here how long do you think you can keep him occupied? In there? Considering I don't care what correspondence he thinks he's answered?" King Henry asks.
"A very long time. I have at the moment two thirds of things that are entertaining to the Prince, his finance books, some correspondence, I had something else as well—damn I lost it—it was just here—," Fastolf spins around, frowning, it's worth noting he's very sleep deprived, "—the prince bought it a few years ago? It makes him quite happy? He's not broken it yet—ah there it is—,"
He walks halfway down the hall, and from an alcove draws a nearly shivering boy in priest's clothes.
Ah, our young Richard Courtenay. Oisin makes a guttural noise of rage. Henry V's usual partner in crime is looking pretty as ever, with striking blue eyes and wavy black hair smoothed out of his fine face, not a bit of acne, the start of high cheekbones and a strong jawline. He's dressed as a priest, like he's intended to be, though his robes aren't fine and his cross is simple. He's clearly somewhat petrified of Fastolf and winces at being hoisted up.
"He'll talk to this for hours," Fastolf says, just bodily dragging Courtenay down the hall.
"What, a priest? Fine," King Henry takes one look at the beautiful boy and decides he wants less information. "Yes, give it to him."
"Come here you, all right, little bugger, you're gonna go in there, and chat with the prince, and do as he likes, but you will not let him leave, you will not let him get up. I do not care what he says or does to you. You let him get hurt, he dies on your watch? I will break every single bone in your pretty face, very very slowly, and then I will throw you into the Channel is that completely clear?"
"Crystal, my lord," Courtenay nods, obviously petrified.
Sort of brief side note on Fastolf's line there: Bugger is a euphemism for 'fuck' but specifically it meant sodomy. Okay, brief and as PG as possible note on medieval views of sex/sexuality. So, in Catholicism at the time, any sex that was not for the purpose of making a baby, is sodomy and a sin. Period. That doesn't mean anyone cared, ergo homosexuality? That's just another sin. Of course, people have always been homophobic. Ergo, Fastolf was implying a little bit derogatorily that he thinks Courtenay is gay. Because for the past thousand years or so, pretty, neat boys were assumed gay unless proven otherwise. Rumors abound about Richard II's sexuality, mostly based off of him being neat and clean and not some raging womanizer. That said, womanizing and illegitimate children, like I noted before, it's not really a big deal. Just another sin. You're confessing, you're good, that's Catholicism for you.  In fact, it was considered more typical to have affairs, than not, hence the rumors about Richard II, just because he didn't have a mistress. I mean you're supposed to confess sure but nobody's batting an eye.
That said, by a very religious standpoint anything sexual between husband and wife should only be to ah, make a baby. Otherwise it's a sin. Ergo you get someone like Henry VI, super religious, he doesn't even think of sleeping with her unless they are actually trying for a kid. Now, most people, not that religious, they don't care, they're going to enjoy each other's company. However, what Henry IV said earlier, in the memory about his wife banning him from her bed she thinks she's pregnant? Yeah, she was very religious, so she was saying 'I'm already pregnant, so that's a sin go someplace else'. She's not gonna be complicit in sin, going to guess she doesn't overly care if he's off sinning somewhere else.
Homosexuality? You're supposed to confess, then all good, also nothing in the Bible against falling asleep in your buddy's arms while he strokes your hair gently. That's Achillean, it's not gay. Anyway, people are going to be bigoted and racist and homophobic. But point being, Fastolf isn't being overly homophobic, he's just saying 'yeah that's probably going on, not my problem you people are sinning'. Again, there's going to be stigma, but also, eh we're all sinning and for the most we're all Catholics who cares so long as we do penance and confess on Sunday?
"Are you sure he wants that Fastolf?" King Henry has gotten over it and now wants more information on the pretty priest.
"Yeah, it's good at adding things; he really likes it, watch," Fastolf says, cheerfully, going back in the princes' room, simply dragging Courtenay by the back of his tunic.
In the room, Prince Hal is lying on the bed, sprawled very dramatically, convincing people to bring siblings to him.
"If I die, Oldcastle, my brothers shan't get to say goodbye I do want them here, please send for them. Father shan't know it's you and I'll pay you well of course," Prince Hal, actually crying. As a reminder he does not think he's going to die. He's manipulative and he wants his brothers for entertainment. "I'm completely miserable and my head does ache so—,"
"How much are you paying me?" Oldcastle, ready to accept money, but not buying the act.
"Oh money means nothing to me. I can't begin to think of a figure now. I'm quite depressed, you shall be compensated but I beg of you get my brothers I'm feeling faint even now—Richard!" Completely changing his demeanor at the sight of his friend, no longer crying, sitting up, a smile actually on his usually sour face.
"My lord," Courtenay bows deeply, the moment Fastolf sets him down.
"Come to me, however did you get here? I've been a prisoner they would let me send for no one," Hal says, opening his arms happily.
"You're not a prisoner," King Henry sighs, "You're dying."
"That—did anyone else see that? We're just going to let him be like this?" Oldcastle chokes.
"Yes, yes we are," Fastolf says, taking his arm to guide him out of the room, "That will make him happy for the next twelve hours. Now I need alcohol and I need to sleep—THE PRINCE NEEDS HIS REST, EVERYONE OUT."
"Hal, who is this?" King Henry asks, pointing to Courtenay.
"My religious council, father," Hal, knotting a hand in Courtenay's hair because he was about to leave to go bow to the king and introduce himself or something normal. "From Oxford, so god may guide my decisions."
"All right—all right, yeah might need a priest, need a different priest okay—I'm going to London, I'll send back a surgeon, for you," King Henry says.
"Will you come back?" Prince Hal asks.
"I have two revolts to attend to," King Henry says, coolly, "You'll have the best of care."
"Please come back," Hal says, a bit quietly. The tragedy of this is damped by the fact that he's still casually holding poor Courtenay by the hair. "I'd like it if you were here when—if they go at my head again."
"I'll see. Get some sleep," King Henry sighs.
That's as close to father son bonding as they're going to get. King Henry turns to clear the room and order everyone out, instructing a couple of nurses and doctors with a few final words.
"Invisible?" I whisper, to Oisin.
"With that witch about? Definitely, I'll follow that one," Oisin says, nodding to Scrope, who is glaring slightly at Courtenay. I have no idea how he's jealous of that situation. Courtenay is kneeling by the bed, the crown prince's hand knotted painfully in his hair. The crown prince is arguing with people as they leave and making no sign of freeing his friend.
"Yeah, I don't trust him. I'll keep an eye on them," I say. I'd rather let them have their reunion and let's face it these two always reveal more when they speak alone, spying on the murder husbands has never not proved beneficial.
We turn invisible and the room steadily clears. Prince Hal slumps back a bit on his pillows, waiting for them to go. Only once the last aid has left does he address Courtenay.
"How ever did you get here? I did not send for you," Hal asks, actually smiling, shaking Courtenay a bit by the head before releasing him. He puts his hand through the other boy's soft hair to straighten it.
"Word reached us you'd fallen. Some said killed. But other said wounded, fatally wounded, I thought they might bring you here," Courtenay says, straightening up a little.
"You have no idea how glad I am to see you, I wrote to you, but never sent it, no matter you're here now, come, sit with me, I'm not to move, it's ridiculous," Hal says, patting the bed.
Courtenay crawls up to sit at the foot of it, glancing at the door as though fearing that someone will come in.
"Come here, do not dare vex me," Hal smiles a little, motioning for his friend to come closer. Courtenay obliges, sliding up the bed to sit next to him. His blue eyes are soft with concern.
"Better, I've got the accounts I was working on but nothing else they only brought half my cases. I'd have you go and get those but I want your company now we can work on this, also I might be hungry later they're not letting me rise or anything I suppose it's for the best for a bit though I do hate it," Hal, completely calmly getting out his papers to look over, "Scrope brought this I might have to forgive him for being miserable on campaign he acted like he didn't enjoy it. Oh here's blank paper I can sketch you the battle lines if you like? It's much easier than explaining them. But first, how did you get in? Father can't discover you you know—,"
"No, no, I know, I told them that I was a priest sent for last rites they let me in, they thought you were dying," Courtenay says, voice catching. Oh so Henry IV is against sorcery? That fits he had no sorcerer lines at Shrewsberry. Ah, no wonder Hal wanted to hide the blade. And he keeps Courtenay under wraps.
"Well, that worked then. Fastolf will let you in though I've explained you're indispensable also he does anything for money so that's there, though I'd sooner not spend it. He was saying something earlier he said they called you something—The Flower of Devon? Who is calling you that d'you know? You're not a flower, you're not fragile," Hal, not even looking up at his friend as he starts drawing the battle lines.
"I did quite feel it three days ago," Courtenay says, tears in his eyes.
"Why? What happened three days ago?"
"I GOT WORD YOU'D DIED YOU IDIOT," Courtenay about shoves him out of the bed but just resists, sort of shaking his shoulder.
"Ow, I'm ill. But I'm not dead, I will not die," Hal frowns, like not understanding why someone would be concerned about his invincible self being injured.
"I was afraid. I've never been afraid before. I thought I was dying I couldn't breath," Courtenay says, ducking his head, hands clasped.
"I will not die. I will not leave you," Hal says, a bit more seriously, reaching out to gently take his wrist. Just like holding his wrist as though feeling his pulse. "I'm fine."
"Hal, what happened?" Courtenay asks, softly.
"That's what I'm showing you here—so first I'm sketching the battle lines I wanted to do and we'll go through that then I'll show you what did happen so I had—,"
"Yes, but first, Hal what happened to your head, what struck you?" Courtenay, very patiently given the question and the answers he's gotten.
"An arrow, from a longbow, bodkin head, it struck me near the start of the battle. I stayed on the field and when I returned to camp they tore it from my brain. I thought they were tearing my head open it burned so," Hal says, softly, "Why, does it look that awful?"
"No, no, but they said you'd been killed that's all, you're fine," Courtenay says.
"I've not seen it," Hal says, putting a hand to the bandages, "This is just for the dust of the road. It's supposed to come off."
"Do you want it to?"
"Tell me what it looks like? I've not seen it," Hal says, softly, "They said nurses would come after I sleep but—I'd rather it be you."
Courtenay reaches out and gently undoes the bandages from his prince's face. He unwraps the soft cloth and lays it on the bed, one piece at a time, to reveal the open, hollow wound. The hole itself isn't too large, but it's widened by the removal of the arrow shaft, and his shattered cheekbone is causing the most damage, the bone irreparably split, and now sagging, dragging down his skin awkwardly and making that entire half of his face appear sunken. Of course now all the skin is red and irritated and smeared with honey and herbs, all they have to keep out infection.
"It's about here, the arrow, then this is crushed in a bit," Courtenay says, gently laying his fingers on his own perfect cheek.
"They're sending for another doctor, to get the arrow head out, it's still lodged in there," Hal says.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes, anytime I move I feel it. Is there nothing your magic can do?" Hal asks.
"They were checking us at the gates. I did a spell, I'm powerless."
OH YES YES YES YES. Sorry. I've had one or fifteen traumas due to this guy. Well, these two but mostly Courtenay. Anyway, as previously mentioned I can cut off my own and another magic users magic. To actually cut off your own is super complicated, I can do it, no real reason for a wizard to. A sorcerer avoiding detection from clergy would have to do it fully, which is extremely hard, painful, and the magic doesn't always come back fully.
"Rich you said that you didn't know when you'd get the magic back when you did that, if ever!" Hal cries, sitting up more.
"Yes, that's true," Courtenay replies, softly.
"Why would you do that to yourself? It hurts you said and you're powerless now then—,"
"Because I had to see you! All I knew was you were dying and I had to see you, they told me you were dying I had to be here, I didn't care about anything I don't," Courtenay says, tears falling freely down his cheeks now.
Hal frowns, like comprehending the affection with no expectation of anything but punishment. He reaches out and slowly puts both hands behind Courtenay's head, twisting his finger's through the other boy's hair. "Do not weep. I'm well as you see. You've only half my face now that's all."
"It's all fine," Courtenay says, softly, tears stilling running from his blue eyes. "I thought I'd lost you Hal. Lost you. I didn't think they'd even let me see you to say goodbye."
"They will not part us. Ever. I will make sure of that," Hal says, still holding his friend's hair.  "I'm not going to die. God will not take my life."
"I pray he does not," Courtenay whispers.
"Come here, nothing happened. I'm well, just got a bit of a different face now. From the left I'm handsome as ever," Hal says, petting his head with his left hand.
"And from the right," Courtenay says, softly, wiping his tears.
"We're not going to be parted again. It does not matter what they say. Now, I'm ill I can require religious council for ages to talk about my newfound devotion to the God who saved me, it'll last for years or till I'm King, look," Hal sorts in one of his bags. Scrope brought like seven in it was honestly pretty funny as it happened, like a wife sending her husband looking for a particular purse. In fact that's exactly what it was like. That's why there are seven, second try Scrope gave up and brought them all.
"I'll get you what you need—,"
"Shut up, I'm not fragile either. Here," Hal takes Courtenay's hand and clasps something into it.
"I thought you'd sold everything? To fund the war?" Courtenay frowns, looking down at what sits in his hand. A ruby ring, a thick red stone set in a gold band. In about six centuries it will be found on his corpse.
"Almost everything, look," Hal says, sliding an identical one on his finger and holding his hand next to Courtenay's. "You can open it, there's a secret compartment. Swap rings in public, and you can pass me a message or something."
"I can't accept this—,"
"I already told you to shut up. I'm your crown prince you're not allowed to argue with me," Hal says, admiring the ring on his hand and then leaning back. "I always mean what I say you know this. You're not leaving me again. They're bringing a surgeon back to get it out of my head they think. If they do, then, I want you to stay in here all right? If it doesn't—,"
"Of course I'm staying," Courtenay says, shifting to sit a little closer.
"—if it doesn't hurt so much it might take a while I'll want intelligent conversation. And if it does hurt and I can't think again then I want someone clever timing it so we know how long I endure that, yes you're right of course you're staying," Hal smirks.
"Why did you ask your father to return?" Courtenay asks.
"Because I really like him."
They both start laughing.
"God that hurt," Hal laughs and groans, tears running from his eyes.
"We're awful," Courtenay says, helping him steady himself.
"All right no. Not exactly," Hal says, "I just thought of it. When I thought of it—I want him here. This is his fault that happened to my face. He probably wished I was dead. It was his battle, his stupid battle his feud with Hotspur his poorly set up lines. It was a mess I will draw it for you when I've the time my eyes feel funny."
"Close them," Courtenay says, finally reaching out to stroke his hair, "Rest now. I'm here you can talk till you fall asleep."
"When they were ripping that thing out of my head, this is stupid—I wanted him to hold me. Or my mother. Or someone. I wanted to run to someone's arms. But I was being held back. I felt like I was being held back from running to someone. Then I realized I couldn't remember the last time someone had held onto me."
"I'll hold you, just lie here," Courtenay says, sliding an arm around Hal's shoulders.
"If someone comes in I'll have them killed." (Kids, that is not a great method for hiding your sexuality).
"Absolutely not necessary, tell me about your battle," Courtenay says, very carefully letting Hal lean against his chest, his poor bloodied face tipped out and the undamaged side into the priest's robes. Courtenay is slim but he's not small, and he easily holds the crown prince against him, securely.
"It was beautiful. The arrows were falling so fast and thick you couldn't see the sky. I wish you could have seen it my words don't do it justice. The lines were hell and my father's a poor infantry man but damn if it wasn't glorious."
I leave, slipping out of the room unnoticed. That isn't for me. And as usual they did reveal some things, but this time nothing to do with us. I feel a little bad for spying on them (not a lot, see everything they've ever done, to me alone). But now they're quiet, Hal is hurt he does need to rest and he's with the only person who will get him to do that.
I step outside, becoming visible back in the hall. Poor Athena, the mastiff has gotten closed out. No matter, I'm sure Courtenay will go fetch food or wine and let her in. For now she's sprawled in the doorway drooling.
"Scrope's getting drunk, he's not messing with the princes' things namely the sword," Oisin hisses, coming back down the hall towards me, "They still in there?"
"Yeah, but—,"
"Go on knock, we'll ask to buy the sword," Oisin says.
"They're sad! Courtenay was crying he thought he'd lost his boyfriend and now they're cuddling," I say, holding up my hands.
"Don't go feeling bad for the psychopathic child murderers! We talked about this last week, Gid," Oisin sighs.
"But—," I stuff my fist in my mouth.
"Gideon they're the worst people in the country."
"I know," past my fist.
"But you feel sorry for 'em now as they're sad and pathetic and now you want to let them sleep?"
"Yes."
"Okay fine."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah, I'll take a cuddle as well, come on, let's go find a spare room," Oisin says, swinging an arm around my shoulders.
We find a spare room in short order. I tell Oisin that Courtenay cut off all his magic and he cheers up enormously. When I tell him the reason for it he gets cross because I think it's romantic.
"They're psychopathic child murderers."
"I mean, they don't actually kill children."
"Gideon."
"Okay, fine but it's still romantic."
"Gideon."
"I still hate them, deeply, but I can still find it sweet," I say.
I crawl underneath the mattress and quickly fall asleep. In the morning I wake up for a cuddle and crawl up on the bed and use Oisin as a blanket. Oisin likes it when this happens and remains asleep for another hour or so.
We rise just before dawn and hurriedly get dressed. We're not presenting as wizards here, for one reason apparently there's a ban on magic. For another, as a reminder, Courtenay is no friend to wizards. Now, by the 1440s, he and I have entered Hannibal--Clarisse relationship of mild respect and acceptance, not like the later weird bit, just the Silence of the Lambs bit where neither wants the other die necessarily but we wouldn't miss each other? Like that. Anyway, at the moment Courtenay is in his Hannibal the TV show phase. Yeah, he ah, is about to start hunting wizards for parts. He'll slaughter at least seven that I know of in the name of saving his beloved prince. Yeah, I don't call him a murderer lightly. He is. He's as psychopathic as Henry in a lot of ways, showing little to no remorse for his crimes. He cares deeply about Henry, which makes him seem sweet, but there his connection to humanity ends, if Henry can even be considered humanity.
Oisin and I get dressed and head on back to the prince's room. He's too greedy and bored to not admit us. That said we're going to pretend to be other people, not wizards, maybe sorcerers. To that end I can't speak in a Welsh accent, and Oisin can't speak in an Irish accent. He's never successfully gotten rid of his Irish accent so this is going to be funny. Welsh isn't my native accent so it's easier for me to shed. I just adopted it as a teenager after spending most of my time in Wales.
Oisin knocks, I step back tugging my fist from my mouth. I do NOT need either of them recognizing me in the future. We're wearing a glamour which will make our features appear different, but I know my mannerisms are entirely unique.
There's the definite scrabbling sound of two boys and a dog diving across a room and hiding the evil plan they spent the whole night working on.
"Enter," Prince Hal calls, bitchily.
When we step in, he's up right in bed, wearing a bitchy long black silk robe, bitchily sipping from his bitchy little wine goblet, that bitchy smirk on half of his bitchy face, one hand bitchily waving for us to come into his bitchy presence. If I sound bitter it's because I am. God this man makes my life a pain I really wish I didn't admire him and his bitchy little personality as much as I do. Black is the most expensive dye and the robe is silk so he's being very extra. As usual.
Courtenay is standing like in the corner, sort of shifting a little. His person suit is far less well perfected than Henry's and he looks uncomfortable in his distinctly human skin. He'll get better with age, but not by a lot. He'll always just be a note out of place. I almost feel bad for him. Being autistic myself, I sympathize with his just slightly off mannerisms, quick gestures. More than that, as Fastolf pointed out, he's the obviously queer one. He's the pretty boy. Pretty boy, a euphemism for gay. Flower of Devon, pretty boy, he knows what they think. His prince will protect him. But at the moment he's not used to that. They all think he's the princes' plaything. I'm sure he too imagines he may be cast aside one day. But Henry is not so fickle, he has few friends and in the end does value his priest's love.
"Your grace," I bow, deeply like I usually do when greeting him, because he likes it. "We are merchants, with an offer for you."
That sounded really good on paper. But the thing is, I'm not using my Welsh accent, and my english accent just slips into my welsh accent, so I'm using my native New York accent, which makes no sense to anyone here since America hasn't been colonized. I use it because I personally find confusing the murder husbands to be a very relaxing hobby. However, I forgot the affect my New York accent has on Oisin, who has to fully leave the room to cope. I should have warned him. Oh well he's talking to himself I'm sure that's fine.
"What sort of offer?" Henry, bitchily, but he's bored right now what with his traumatic brain injury so he is interested.
"We need to purchase a sword," I say, "The cursed blade you have in your possession. With the blue hilt, it's a hand a half with a—,"
"I know it," Henry says, bitchily looking at Oisin, who returns, rubbing his face, clearly not okay. "Why should I sell it to you? And why should you want it?"
"Our master collects such items," Oisin says, attempting to regain his composure. He's using a very light Scottish accent which is almost working.
"I thought you were okay," I say to him.
"So did I yet I'm not," he says, not even looking at me.
"Who is your master?" Henry asks, bitchily.
"We cannot disclose a name," I say.
"I've never seen them before, your highness," Courtenay, like he's ever left a library in his life up till this point.
"Why should I sell a treasured item like that to you?" Henry asks, bitchily sipping the wine to better bast the deceit, "It's inheritance, from my grandfather."
"Because your father outlawed cursed objects and sorcery. The King doesn't want you to have it. And I'm offering you to name your price," I say, heavily. That is not a phrase that should be said to this kid. I can see little bags of money floating in front of his eyes the minute I say it.
"I couldn't possibly—,"
"We must have it, name your price," Oisin sighs, resignedly.
"Twenty thousand crowns."
That's a completely outrageous price.
"That's a completely outrageous price!" Oisin voices my feelings.
"That is my price. My priest will handle the particulars during my convalescence," Henry says, bitchily, like, that's a normal thing to have happen. He gestures (bitchily) to Courtenay who nods like they discussed this which they did not Henry just made it up.
"We'll need a couple of days," I say.
"If I don't find another buyer, then of course," Henry says, bitchily.
"You're not trying to sell it! We brought it up!" Oisin is so sick of him. He's the reason for my choice of adjectives in this section he says it's the only word that fully encompasses 'how fucking bitchy' Henry is so I let him have this one thing.
"We'll be seeing you, it's been an honor, my lord," I say, bowing deeply again, and nodding to Courtenay.
"That's an outrageous sum! And never speak in that voice again, without warning me," Oisin hisses, as we leave.
"I'm sorry! I forgot that you don't like it—,"
"It's not that I don't like it!"
"Well if you like it why do you have to leave the room?"
"I have no idea I also don't like the way I am, come on, how are we going to get twenty thousand crowns? Rob his father? I like that idea yes, let's do it," Oisin says.
"No, the crown doesn't have twenty thousand crowns at this point," I sigh.
"Then what do the colonizer and his paramour think they're going to do with it?"
"Invade someplace probably, we shouldn't enable him but here we are," I sigh, "No, there's only one person who has that kind of cash, on hand."
"Oh please no."
"He's really not that bad."
"Yes! Yes he is! They are equally bad just for different bitchy reasons!"
"Okay fine but do we have a choice?"