Violent Ends (Violent Delights Book 19)

Chapter 6: the Death according to Henry, King of England

I didn't always think that Hal was dangerously violent. He was as a boy rash and prone to anger. But I must have known something I didn't want to about my son because when I saw him covered in blood and standing in the rain I wondered what I was going to do when I found out who he'd killed. I never once thought he could be hurt. Not him.
I was home and couldn't sleep I suppose. I don't recall. He can't have been much past eight? His mother was alive. I'd left her bed and gone to fetch wine before going to my own.
And I couldn't sleep so I was stepping outside just to look at the rain for a moment. And I saw a shape standing in the rain, decently far from the main keep.
I thought it was Thomas wandered off; we'd not been hunting like I promised him so I thought he might be cross. Then I all to quickly recognized the lean form of my eldest son. Spindly and hunched like a wolf, and his white shirt soaked in blood.
"Hal?" I said, slowly, walking up. And I looked at his feet to see what he'd killed. A bloody knife was in his hand. And he was standing over freshly turned earth. His face splattered with blood. Dark hair pasted to his face. He reached up with a red stained hand to push his hair away.
"Hal?" I said again, a bit louder. He turned those dead brown eyes on me. Eyes that seemed to look up from a pit of hell. They always had. Forbidden knowledge brewed in their depths.
"Yes, father?" He asked, face expressionless.
"What—what are you doing?" I asked, slowly, wondering about the size of the grave.
"I was watching the rain. I'll go inside," he said, prepared to move.
"No—no, what happened to you—where did you get that knife?" I asked.
"Nothing happened to me. I skinned some rabbits. You said not to keep the bones in my room anymore so I buried them out here. I was feeding the dogs. Even your dog likes me now. He didn't before, that wolfhound you bought. He was skittish. Now he'll come to me and let me pet him," Hal said, studying the blood on his hands.
"You—it's past midnight."
"Yes, it is," he nodded.
"You should be in bed."
"I wasn't tired."
"That's not the point you're not—you'll be lashed for staying out this late. And for—ruining your clothes," I said, struggling to understand why I'd feared for something other than rabbits. He was only eight and lean and small for his age, Thomas looked older than him. Hal reminded me of Richard, small, bones standing on out on his neck and shoulders, delicate as a bird. But he had a terrible hunger in his look that Richard had never held. Perhaps that's why Richard is dead.
"There is a cost to everything I suppose," he said, nodding a little.
"What—what are you even doing out here?" I asked.
"Burying the rabbit bones. You did say specifically that I was not to keep them in my room or in any of the other little rooms I might have access to for my personal things. And so I was burying the bones as you can't give rabbit bones to dogs the bones are too small and brittle the dogs could choke. I did think you'd know that, father, you have an awful lot of dogs," he said, very seriously, staring forward.
"What?" I asked.
"What?" He stared at me.
"Yes, I know I've got a lot of dogs," I said.
"Well, you're asking a lot of questions. I did answer. It's rather late."
"You. Are. The one. Who is. Out here," I struggled not to strike him. I normally would have. But he was holding the knife, "Give me that knife."
"Uncle John gave it to me he said not to let anyone else handle your weapon so I'm afraid I cannot," Hal said, very seriously. Good my brother was giving my eight year old weapons.
"Hand it to me right now. Or I'll go get my knife, and I'll kill that spaniel pup that keeps mysteriously winding up in your room," I snarled, holding out my hand.
"You wouldn't dare," he breathed.
"It's your own fault you know. You never should have let on that you cared for something. Because now I can only take it away. The world can. It shouldn't be too much of a problem for you though, nothing but a terribly stupid dog will ever care for you," I said.
"I'll sacrifice something else," he said, staring at the knife, "A bargain? Name it?"
"Your knife or your favorite dog?" I said, hand still out.
He glared at me, tears bubbling in his eyes, and he lay the knife in my hand.
"You will not rule me," he said, hate leeching into his voice. I'd never heard a child so full of hate.
"And just for that, your dog dies in the morning as well," I said, "I'll cut its throat. Perhaps then you'll learn not to talk back. Your mother has spoiled you."
"Don't speak of my mother."
I struck his bloody face. He fell to the ground, and I turned around and walked away, "I'll have the nurses check your room. If you're not in it, then there will be more lashes in the morning."
I returned to my wife's room. I did need to know if he'd been like this. I knew she spoiled him but I had no idea it was so severe. Thomas was easy to talk to. Just a good boy. My brothers weren't like this as boys. I didn't have a great deal to do with them but they weren't insolent like this.
"Is that Hal—is this normal???" I cried, upon stepping in my wife's room. She was curled up in bed with no less than three of our children, the remaining three boys, all snuggled up asleep with her.
"There's a storm they're frightened is all," she said, hugging them.
"Which is to say it is normal?" I asked, folding my arms.
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'll put them to bed," she said.
"Don't—bother—they probably ought to be monitored. Did you know Hal has a knife?" I asked.
"Yes? Your brother gave it to him he's always been very careful with it and he doesn't play with it so I thought it was all right, why?" She asked, still sitting up despite the mound of children snuggled up with her. There was no way in hell that Hal wasn't usually a part of that. "I hadn't seen him all evening. Is he all right?"
"Never mind. But when he's sobbing tomorrow don't take pity on him. He's being disciplined for once," I said, then I slammed the door and all three boys screamed, which was dramatic. Well. At least I knew no other man was in my wife's bed. Apparently it was just all my sons.
I went back to my own bed to drink. When dawn came I rose immediately to go and find that damn spaniel. I had every intention of making good on my threat. The boy did not need the dog and he had clearly been spoilt long enough by his ever doting mother.
I checked the kennels, the usual place the dog should be, and then I sent word to the kitchens, then finally asked that the master of the hounds be brought up to me.
"The little black and white spaniel, that's always in the house— with brown spots on its legs? Where is it?" I asked.
"Argos? Hal had been training the dog, he's done quite well with it," my kennel master said.
"I don't know its name, yes the one Hal is forever playing with," I said, "Where is it?"
"Hal came and got it from the kennel rather late. His mother said the boy could have the dog loose if he liked so long as he was keeping up with his lessons and the animal's training didn't suffer," he said, "It hasn't. The dog's hunted well and the boy's done a good job training it. As I said your wife said he could care for it."
"Of course she did," I breathed. I would speak with her about that. "Very well. Thank you."
I went up to Hal's room, where the dog undoubtedly was with him. I was hoping to wake him up after his display last night, and was very nearly pleased with how things were going. Far better to drag the dog out of his room than for him to merely discover its death.
And when I got to the room and opened the door, I found Hal curled up in bed with the little spaniel. The dog was contentedly asleep, curled against the boy's naked chest. Hal was awake, I realized. Red eyed and face stained from tears. He looked into my eyes with his dark ones, and moved to stroke the dog's soft fur. The dog opened its eyes and whimpered, and Hal kissed the creature's head. I stepped forward, and realized as I did a dark red stain was spreading on the sheets.
He'd cut the dog's throat himself.
The blood spread on the crisp white bedspread, slowly dripping onto the stone floor. The boy merely watched, gently stroking the dog's head in comfort as the animal twitched. Such terrible kindness after such merciful violence was awful to behold. And the dog's lifeblood dripped slowly onto the floor, and the child's bloody hand caressed the speckled fur once more. The boy's eyes were bloodshot, his ruddy face blotched with tears. He had lain here with the creature weeping the whole night long. And all I could think was I'd never imagined him caring for anything at all.
Hal whispered something softly, kissing the dog's head one more time as the life drained from it. It did quickly, both boy and bed soaked in blood. Hal rose quietly, almost ignoring my presence. In his hand was another, bloody, knife.
"This one's just from the kitchens," he said, holding it out to me.
I took it rather than leave a knife in his hands another moment.
He walked past me out of the room, and down to the yard. Where his lashes were waiting for him. Well deserved lashes but none the less so haunting.
I followed him. And I watched as his sword master lashed his bare back. Hal stood there, unmoved, as the leather fell with sickening slaps on his already bloody skin. The boy's face expressionless as though he were immune to the pain. I could not decided if I'd won or lost. His precious dog was dead. But he had had the last word.
And how casually I looked at my boy's bloody back. Not ten years later, God would make me pay for my calm indifference to my boy's blood.
"He likely will not live," the surgeon said.
"I'm well, father," Hal said, an actual arrow sticking out of his head. He was bathed in his own blood, and that of others he'd been at war. But an arrow had struck his face. Nearly the same manner I'd just seen an arrow in the face of Hotspur. But now my son stood and spoke me with his general arrogance, entirely well for all purposes beyond the arrow protruding from his cheek.
"He will have fits and die. Likely even if we get it out," the surgeon said, gravely, looking back at the sixteen year old who was still trying to issue orders to his men. Poor Harry Scrope looked as bad as I felt, his face all shades of green as Hal leaned in to speak to him and give him some final order.
"Get it out," I said, unable to look at my child's face. My child's face, which I'd watched his dear dead mother kiss. When he was not a day old she kissed those cheeks. Now one had an arrow clean through it. And Hal as ever acted as though he was in no pain.
That changed though. That changed quickly. They began to rip it from him. Everywhere in camp his screams could be heard. I was sure they were killing him. And I prayed to God for absolution. For I had ordered them to kill my boy.
But he lived. We're well. We've had our ups and downs. Fathers and sons do we're both strong willed. That's not a fault. He's stubborn that is but he'll learn with time. I truly believe, perhaps finally, that we understand each other. Joan said he'd been weeping. He finally knows I do value his life, and he cares more for me than any crown or he'd not have offered me his life.
"Father?" I feel Hal's hand on mine.
"Hal? Is that you?"
"Yes it is, the Prince of Wales. And soon king of England," his voice. So calm, and composed.
"Hal," I opened my eyes, expecting an apparition of a devil or demon, or simply my imagination, or anything better than my first born son and heir, completely composed, casually picking up my crown. The room is empty save the two of us, and the dagger on his belt. And my crown in his hands.
"So this is how it ends. You and I. A lifetime of battle and war," he holds the crown and paces, looking off as though he can see Jerusalem reflected in the firelight, "Born heir to the dukedom of Lancaster. A usurper king who spent fourteen years sending his sons to quell his revolts. A lifetime of war, strife, and battles, all of your own design of course. And you die of diseases of the flesh in a humble abby. So poetic. So calm."
"Put that down. You are nothing without me. If I am a usurper you are nothing better. You have no claim to that crown," I growl, struggling to rise.
"Yet it is mine. You've told me yourself, father. I was sent into this world bred up for battle. I'm not a creature made to be loved. I was made and designed, to be king. I, unlike you, am god's chosen king. And there will never be another like me I am a scourge and a blessing. Every part of god's command is sewn into the fabric of my flesh and I am wholly, divine. King of England, Scotland, France, Prince of Wales, Lord of Ireland and the Isle of Mann. I am all these things, and I am, everything," he places the crown upon his head.
I struggle to rise to stop him, but cannot even move, coughing up blood and tears welling in my eyes in pain as I struggle to even sit up. I cannot do that.
He smiles, a terrible, cruel smile that I only ever saw on my father.
"And you? Are nothing. Just as you always were. I'll take care of my England, father, don't worry for a moment. All that is left for you to do. Is to die. That is your command. To die," he says, "As for me? Well, I shall rule the world."
"They'll depose you. You shan't last a moment."
"Oh I shall last for the ages, men will sing my tales to brighten their darkest days. And they shall tell my story till the end of days. And then they shall use the memory of me to battle the Beast," he laughs, arms out.
"You're mad," I breath. I was right. I was right all along. He is mad.
"I am the only way which I can be which is glorious. But. As pleasant as this conversation has been, father. I have work I must see to," he says, taking off the crown and moving to the door.
"You won't stay and watch me die?" I choke, "I would have thought it would please you."
"No. Where were you, when my mother died do you remember?" He asks.
"I—," they brought me news of her death, "She was in childbirth—,"
"Of your child. You had four sons and she bled out and I was in the hall and she screamed our name and I hear it—I hear it in my dreams and because of you. I don't know which one of us she shouted for. But it could have been me, and she got neither of us for you had given word we were not to be let in," he says, voice cold and calm as ever, but there is hate creeping into his looks, "When Blanche died do you know where you were?"
"She was married, she wasn't here—," I say, confused.
"She was a thousand miles away where you sent her. And when my grandfather died you were banished do you know what he did his final days what he spoke of—,"
"Richard banished me—,"
"—and so whose hand have you held as they died, father? Some whore I know not about? Some child I've not met? Some wife I am not aware of? No you have kept to your own. So I give you the same courtesy," he turns and steps into the hall.
"HAL!" I cry with the last of my strength.
"May god deliver you from evil," he says, smiling. Then he closes the door.