216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 28: The siege according the Bastard of Vaurus, January 26, 1421

One hundred and thirteen days. Two thousand, seven hundred, and seventeen hours. We are doing this. My god we are doing this.
I work day and night. If I'm not picking up patrols in the Market then Louis and I are tag teaming sorting through debris from the artillery fire. We're all on strict rations. Louis and I were both lean to begin with, but Denis and Guy who had some bulk to them are now skin and bones. None of us properly fit in our armor anymore. And worse the more weight we lose will mean we start to lose muscle, and we'll grow weak. We are all getting weaker and we know it. If people keep dying at the same rate, well, I've counted. We'll make it to summer on these rations. Except of course none of us really believe we'll even see spring. Henry has all the time in the world to plan. And marooned as I am. I'm running out of ideas.
Days have begun to mean little. Midnight. Twilight. Daybreak. Another day is just another day gotten through. Tempers run high and my own temper was never low. Twice Denis has to stop Louis and I from coming to blows primarily due to my smart remarks about essentially everything. And my impression of a reasonable person has long since worn off. The fangs are out. I move too swiftly. I never stop fidgeting. My expressions are too quick and there's nothing behind them.  And shut up as we are they all know it now.
The depression comes in waves. Mostly at night. Then I sleep too late and nearly miss patrols. Sleep abates hunger but little else. Nightmares only come.
By now I am sick of it. Henry's men bombard us day and night. Cannons. Arrows that barely reach the shore. Morale on our island is at the breaking point. And I don't know what to do. I am the governor here. But the people always were good at supplying their own happiness. They had holidays, and festivals, and they danced in the street. And the children would play chase and run into me then scurry away when I pretended to be cross. We were all well with that system. Me being the person who tells them their fun isn't safe. Who dives in the Marne to tug out a child who can't swim then chastise her brothers for not watch her. 
I can protect them. But I'm not good at making them happy. Left to my own devices I sink into my own nightmares. I don't know how to pull them out of theirs. But I have to do something. I'm very good with clever schemes. But when I wake up this morning, wearing half my armor and slumped at my desk writing letters that won't get sent, I think perhaps I don't need some clever scheme for this. Nothing involving Henry. Just something simple. I sit up, rubbing my face. It's a warm sunny day. Warm for January.
I get up and take off my armor. Just a shirt and my cloak. I never walk out like this.
"Come on, we're going to play," I say, petting the dog's ears. It sits up, cocking its head. "Yeah, play. Come on."
I descend the stairs quickly. One of the knights is just back from patrol, taking off his mail shirt.
"Jean, isn't it?" I ask.
"Governor," he looks me up and down, as though surprised to see me not wearing half a dozen weapons. I'm wearing none.
"Go and get five of our English defectors, and the Irish ones if they like.  And as many of your friends as you like. Meet me in the yard. Ten minutes."
I realize after I say it like that given my reputation they definitely think I'm going to kill them for food. I do not realize this on my own. Denis shows up with that face he has when he's worried about me. His resting face when I'm about.
"What are we doing?" He asks.
"Take your armor off. Our English friends are going to show us how they play football," I say, holding up a ball. I paid an urchin two francs for this.
"Really?" Denis asks.
"Yes. Really. We're having fun," I say, smiling, "Fun. You remember it?"
"Before the siege yes," Denis says, "Do you speak English?"
"A little."
"Do they speak French?"
"Not at all it's going to be fun."
When I was a boy, I was familiar with certain ball games that were played using sticks and your hands. Trying to bat the ball into a bucket or something. For reasons to do with how I hold my face and conduct my person, I was not usually invited to these things. Though the rules as I understood them had some nuances, like not letting the ball touch the ground.
I'm delighted to learn the English have no such rules of engagement. The purpose of their game is to get the ball to whatever goal. We make it one end of the market and the other the other end of the market. And you have to get the ball there by any means necessary short of killing the other person though apparently maiming is encouraged. I do admire the English sometimes. It seems they do not just come to France to kill people; they do it at home for recreation.
"We're not actually injuring each other, because that would be bad for my army," I inform them, cheerfully, "But if that's the only rule then I think we've got it?"
Between my and Denis' broken English, and their broken French, we get across the no bodily injury rule, and the English get across that there are no other real rules. The Irish get nothing but are as ever happy to participate.
We divide into two teams, I split up the English so we aren't mean to them, and make Denis go on the opposite team as I am. He was attempting not to play but we force him into it.
"I'm too old for this," he laughs.
"We're not getting any older," I wink at him. He laughs at that instead of being cross with my usual macabre humor.
I thought the game sounded somewhat simplistic and a bit stupid. But after about, two minutes, I'm face down in the mud, laughing with the rest of them. I had no idea how quickly and how eagerly the men would chase a worn ball. They dart through the streets, completely entertained.
After a few minutes Denis and I both realize they're all too afraid to tackle me. My team attempts to use this to their advantage, but Denis has no problems tackling me and proving that for the moment I'm tame.
We both land completely in the sticky, snowy mud. I'm laughing, and can't breath because he tackled me into the mud. So I just drop a clod of mud into his face as he laughs. I was aware that is how mud wars get started. But I didn't know it would happen this soon.
I get the ball back and then three of the not at all small Irishmen tackle me because they think it takes three of them. It does in fact because I nearly slip away by wriggling through the mud. I wind up surrendering the ball because I'm laughing too hard. And it occurs to me lying there face down in the cold mud, completely slick with mud, that this may be the happiest day I'll have for the rest of my life. And I don't even care. At least we had this. Give me one good moment I'll bear a thousand more dark ones. I'll be strong. Just let me be weak today.