216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 2: The siege according to the Duke of Exeter, October 6, 1421

It's really a beautiful day. The snow just drifting down. The smell of freshly turned earth from the trenches.  I didn't think we'd get to be doing this again, so soon. After being left in Paris, myself, managing things. We were doing all right. But it's not the same as this. I thought things were changing though. Henry's married now. That's different. Well, it was always a part of the treaty. But I really didn't think about it happening.
Perhaps because he didn't talk about it happening. But he did marry her. And it did happen. That was a very odd day for me. I finally thought things perhaps might change. He has a wife now. We're meant to come home from war sometime. It occurred to me, then, him getting married, that I have absolutely no one but my cousins. My father and brothers dead, I'm not married. I hadn't even thought much of women till then. Of course Edmund's married, but one can't figure Edmund.
So the night of the wedding, after Henry had gone off to his bride, I got as drunk as I could manage. And I seduced some serving girl. She giggled and called me handsome and I hated that. I just kissed her because I thought I should. When it was over I paid her which felt sordid then I went to find Edmund. I told him everything, and he felt sorry for me. I told him I felt more miserable than before, and asked him if marrying someone felt different. He said no. I told him I felt more alive at war and he agreed and brought me back to his wife.
She kissed both of us which was very odd. I didn't mind it that much though. She then told us both to get out so we did. And we went off to get drunker. I asked him if we'd go home from war now. Or if Henry would contract me a wife. Edmund said it was better to marry someone first that way he couldn't and that was what he'd done, but he didn't mind her, but they had no children as he really couldn't be bothered to be around her.
We drank and I asked him if he felt alive when not at war. He said no. And I asked him if he though Henry did love his wife. And Edmund reasoned the girl is pretty and that's usually what men say. Then we both concluded there was nothing we could do about any of it if Henry had lost his heart to a pretty girl.
And then Henry found us, apparently he'd been looking for us for some time. It was his wedding night. And he spent the next hour giving us a very stern lecture on being as drunk as we were and what little good it did when he had tasks for us. And he had ink on his hands like he usually does so he'd been about for a while and apparently he'd been looking for us for a while. He didn't let us go to bed despite being so drunk, nor did he ask us why we were that drunk. I was worse. He was just ashamed. And for some reason I didn't tell him about the serving girl or anything and that's odd I usually tell him things he's usually helpful.
Perhaps I didn't want help.
Anyway, he's still married now. And despite that night I did assume that things would change. He smiles at his wife in public and everyone says she's very pretty. She's a woman I suppose. And he acts quite charming to her, but then he can be charming when he likes. So I didn't think anything of it much as he was planning to come back to me in France immediately. But Edmund says John says that she's expecting a baby. Henry's wife is. Which I thought might mean Henry wouldn't come and see me. But he did, and he hasn't really spoken of it. Which is fine I suppose I don't know how most people are, but this is how we are. And I'm glad it hasn't changed at all. I do enjoy this.
"Beautiful day, isn't it Jack?" Henry asks, idly, pausing as we walk along the trenches.
"I was just thinking that, my lord," I say, agreeably.
"The trenches will be finished by nightfall, if these men would dig properly," Henry scoffs, looking down at the ditch nearest us.
"I'll stay out if not, with torches, best get it done," I grunt.
"If you would, that snow isn't stopping anytime soon," Henry says, looking up at the sky. Then he casts his eyes back down, "Is that man dead yet?"
"I was thinking so but he twitched," I say, holding up the deserter by the leg. We caught him earlier. I cut  the veins in his wrists, then have been dragging him by a foot, while we have a pleasant walk along the trenches and I think about the past year. It has been an odd year for us.
Henry looks, as ever expressionless, dark, heavy eyes narrowing only a little in the afternoon light as he studies the corpse. "We'll think of someplace to put it. Warn the others."
"Stake?"
"Unoriginal, but effective. They need to remember—probably beheaded though. Do you have your axe?"
"I always have my axe."
"There's a good fellow. Behead him, toss the rest in Marne, put the head on the western boundary of camp, there, where I can see it from the Abby," Henry gestures. He'll be up in the Abby, as will we if the weather gets bad. I'll probably stay down here with the men to be honest.
"My lord—what is that?"  Arthur hurries up, nearly tripping in the mud. Arthur doesn't want to be here. We don't want Arthur to be here. It's a beautiful relationship. Nobody likes Arthur being here or the way Arthur is, including Arthur. However, he's Henry's step brother and he's pledged allegiance to us and when he breaks that we'll have a nice excuse to kill him. So that's keeping us going.
"Is Arthur speaking to me?" Henry asks, not looking at Arthur.
"Your Majesty," Arthur bows properly.
"I think he might be speaking to me, because I'm carrying something," I say, lifting the corpse by the foot.
"Ah, you could be correct," Henry says, not moving or acknowledging Arthur as well.
"Could go either way. I could be the 'that'," I point out.
"True" Henry says, idly, looking.
"Your royal majesty you asked me to watch Meaux and there is something I think you should see," Arthur, still fully kneeling in the mud, head bent. Rust brown hair hangs into his face, and he's clearly glaring past the red marks that obscure his features. He claims he was born like that we think someone set him on fire.
"Your Majesty, Arthur wishes to show you something," I say.
Arthur breaths heavily.
"Does he? Ask him why," Henry says.
"Pray tell, what do you believe his royal majesty King Henry, needs to see?" I ask. We're not always this formal. It's really just for Arthur. We do not want him here. We are enjoying ourselves and he's not at all suited to warfare or sieging and it quite dampens morale.
"Something disturbing happening in the Meaux Market which he asked me to watch so I was and now I saw something and now I'm telling you," Arthur growls, not at all nicely.
"Where?" Henry asks.
"There," Arthur points towards the city.
Henry holds out his hand and I hand him a spy glass. Then I take Arthur's.
We look towards the city.  On the outskirts of the Market, there are rows and rows of men lined up. Our deserters, to be specific. I recognize some of them. A lot of the cowards bolted from the army, as we were marching this way. And some left me in Paris.
Now they're lined up in even rows. The French garrison commanders are standing by, watching, along with their own soldiers. The commanders are three, two have dark hair, one fair. One looks older than the other two but not by much, they're all easily past forty.
A younger guard walks down the line. He wears a blue shirt and leather armor, like an archer. He's small and wiry, with dark brown, thick curls. I can't make out his face for he tips his head toward the men he's inspecting. He has a coil of rope in one hand.
I realize after an instant he has a dagger gripped in the other hand. He stops in front of a man and raises it, slashing the man's throat.  The victim falls, gasping. The Frenchman picks up the corpse by a foot, and walks away, dragging the corpse, leaving a blood trail on the cobble stones. He proceeds to an elm tree on the edge of the market.
Expertly, he ties a noose around the neck of the corpse, then throws the rope up into the branches of the tree. With obvious practice, he leaps into the tree, making his way to the end of the rope and stringing up the corpse with expert precision.
Then he hops down, and walks calmly back to the line of men.
"That was our spy," Henry says.
Another throat is slit. The Frenchman is splattered with blood.
"And that," I breath.
We watch in fascination as the Frenchman goes about the same ritual, very calmly stringing up the body in the great elm tree. In full view of our camp.
"Who is that man?" Henry asks, dragging Arthur up by the back of his cloak.
"Which?"Arthur asks, holding up his hands and wincing.
"The one slaughtering all of my spies," Henry snarls, anger flashing dangerously in his black eyes. He smashes the spyglass into Arthur's face, "Look."
"I can't see like that, actually—ow—if you want me to see just—there—who?" Arthur looks, Henry hauling him completely off the ground.
"The man slaughtering my spies, one by one," Henry says, his voice dangerously quiet, "Who is he?"
"The governor," Arthur says.
Henry drops him.
"And? His name?" Henry asks.
"The Bastard of Vaurus is all they call him, my lord. He's Meaux's cruel governor, has been for two years now," Arthur says, not bothering to crawl to his feet.
"My spies couldn't get his name," I clarify, "The other three are Denis of Vaurus, then two other nights, Guy and Louis? They're no one. So is he, he's just a bastard."
"He is not no one. He is systematically executing my spies, and he wants me to see it. He wants me to know it was him," Henry growls, looking back through the spy glass.
Four corpses now hang in the tree.
"Why do that when now; we know who he is? He's a bastard why not flee the city?" I muse.
"Because he wants me to know it's him, and no one else. He's taking the credit for it," Henry says, watching, "Making sure I know he found my spies. And hanging them in the tree. To mock me."
"Not for long," I say.
"Tell me. Everything you know of him. You've been in the French court," Henry says, kicking Arthur, without looking down. Arthur shifts away, still kneeling.
"He's been Meaux's governor for a couple of years, he's known for being, needlessly cruel, and merciless. Word is that when a young man couldn't pay his debts, he strung him up from that tree, and his pregnant wife too. The girl gave birth tied there, and the wolves heard her screaming and came and ate her, and the baby. In short, he's mad," Arthur says.
"He's not mad," Henry says.
Seven corpses hang in the tree now.
The bastard goes about his work, calmly. The lines are now shifting but they hold fast. The bastard walks down them, moving unnaturally close as he casually studies the men. Then, in a flash, his blade is up and slicing another throat.
He lets the blood wash over him. Not repulsed. Just going about his business. Then he climbs into the tree, nimbly, hauling another prize. He's small, and quick, the way he so easily scales the great elm tree.
Just a common man. He's some low noble's bastard son. Why give him a garrison? And why are the older men standing by and letting him do this?
"How can he—there's no way he can know," I say, shaking my head.
"He clearly knows," Henry snarls, "He's getting them. One by one."
"First row, he skipped two," I say, "He passed them. So he doesn't know."
"He didn't skip them. He's going back," Henry says, disgusted with my reasoning.
"How do you know that?" I ask.
"Because it's what I'd do."
Of course Henry is right. Henry is never really wrong.
The bastard goes about his bloody business, one after another. He makes no hurry of it. Very calmly, just walking the line, selecting his next victim as they all quake in fear. Of course, only the spies know why they are being chosen. The others would not. The bastard isn't a tall man, but he's remarkably strong, at one point dragging two at once to his horrible tree.
The elm itself leans in the wind. Branches twisting as though in protest of being used as an instrument of death.
Within an hour, seventeen bodies are hanging in the tree.
And as Henry predicted, the bastard very calmly walks back to the front line. Where the two last spies wait. And he slits their throats. The second one actually loses his nerve, stupid man. He tries to bolt. The bastard pounces upon him like a dog upon a rabbit. Eager to have something to chase, and merciless. The bastard snatches the much larger man up by the hair, slicing his throat cleanly as he undoubtedly begs for mercy.
And then it's back to the tree. The last two victims he drags through the dust. By now the cobblestones are smeared with bloody snow.
"Fascinating," Henry breaths, staring through the spy glass.
I shrug. Not the word I was going to use, but he's the king. The man is mad.
"He can't have known they were our spies," I say, "He's just a butcher."
"He knew. Somehow he knew," Henry shakes his head a little, "No matter. Jack, go and find Edmund. I want him to see the tree full of bodies."
"Yes, my lord," I say, nodding.
"Immediately."
"Yes, my lord," I say.
"Arthur, go tell Cornwall I need to see him, hurry, go," Henry growls the last bit as Arthur struggles to his feet.
I nod to him and move on. Edmund is on the other side of the city. I do wonder what he'll make of the tree full of bodies.