Violent Ends (Violent Delights Book 19)

Chapter 8: the Death according to Henry, Prince of Wales

Twelve cannons would be ideal. The Messenger is divine if I can fix the King's Daughter and probably rename it that's two heavy guns on either side of any city I care to siege. We fire all day, at regular intervals using the schemes I've designed. We'll burn France to the ground. I can't wait to watch it all burn. It's so close I can taste the ash on my lips. I'll watch all of Normandy go up in smoke, take France in five short years. Castle upon castle, siege upon siege. I've mapped it out, Calais to Harfluer, the entire way up the Sienne cities ripe for the taking. All so woefully undefended. No match for my longbows or my guns.  My schedule is perfect. My files nearly complete my bookkeeping second to none.
"Did you want to see those arrow quotes or no this is just what I ran through last night if we get the feathers as you predicted," Richard says, his mouth full. I sent for breakfast for him now that he's up because my elbow contacted his head. He's sharing most of his food with the dogs, though. They've learnt he can be bought easily by droopy big red eyes and sit in small circles around him. That's good he has many dark dealings I should devote some time to finding or training a dog to follow him permanently he's not very great with weapons and he's very annoying.
"Yes, definitely, we can't run out of arrows, or gunpowder but that's a bit trickier," I say, pleased he's here now. I'm usually pleased he's around even if I'm the one who sends him away. That's why this disgusting excuse for a man might be the closest thing I have to a true friend.
"That's here actually, and yes so far I have two weeks of fire, six cannons, which is what we have," Richard says, giving a large piece of sausage to the biggest dog whose head is on his thigh.
"You know if you keep feeding it, it'll get worse," my uncle says, a little resignedly.
"I know but I'm quite fond of dangerous creatures," Richard says, petting the dog before going back to work.
"I've told him they'll only beg more he can't be taught," I say.
"I noticed he can't be taught. Yeah," my uncle says, idly.
"We're —not going to talk about this?" Humphrey asks.
"Absolutely not, now we're watching how long it goes on," Beaufort says, "Because we lack other entertainment."
"I'm with him, yeah," John says.
"These are some drafts of terms for France tell me what you think?" I ask, offering a set of letters to Richard, "As in we're probably doing it anyway but you're going to be the one reading it aloud more than likely."
"I do love saying impossible things but you may as well have me declare you're Christ reborn it'd be less offensive," Richard says, scanning the page quickly.
"Wait, do you think that or was it hyperbole?" I ask, picking up my own cup of wine.
"It was close to all honesty; I'm not saying I'll not do it, I'm saying it'll be my best performance yet," Richard says, handing them back.
"Hold up— he did not just read those that quickly," John says.
"Yes he did, it's annoying," Humphrey says.
"Yes he did, it's primarily why I have him," I say.
"Yes, yes it is why I'm employed, the only reason really, I'm ill on the eyes, terrible company, and poor with dogs," Richard says, lightly, trying to fix his quill while the dogs all try to lick his hands.
"See? That's what you get for feeding them from your plate," I point out, "Is that really all the gunpowder?"
"That we can fund now, yes," Richard says, "And against my better judgement I like the creatures."
"I can lend you money for gunpowder I know how you like fire," my uncle says, idly.
"Oh this is counting on your assistance, if I could predict wool experts with greater accuracy that would be something — it is already a warm summer," Richard says.
"It is, my predictions are over there just—run numbers for each eh? We've got the time," I point out.
"Yeah, all right," he takes the paper that I was working on, turning it up right and frowning.
"We're really not going to talk about it?" Humphrey asks.
"I mean, we talk about everything eventually," John says.
"He just strolled out here with the crown of England, went back to eating eels and talking about numbers, and we are all not even going to ask if our father's dead?" Humphrey asks.
"Oh, he was alive when I left," I say, "Why?"
Silence.
"No reason, Hal," Humphrey breaths.
"No reason, yeah," John says.
"Richard, I'm awake enough to deal with what is before my eyes, hand me those letters I'm likely going to be involved in delivering —-oh this is going to be good," my uncle laughs when his eyes fall upon my papers.
"It is you'll do marvelously," I say.
"HENRY OF MONMOUTH!"
"Lady Joan?" I ask, innocently, looking up at my step mother's entrance. She has her arms folded.
"Go put that back right now," she says, pointing severely back at the Jerusalem chamber.
"Are you referring to my crown?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.
"Listen to me and listen carefully. We've been here for almost a month. We would all like to go on with our lives. With you as our king. You'll do very well. And if ANYTHING can prolong a Lancaster's life. That is rage. Rage will keep him alive. So you go put that back where you got it, if he's awake, you cry. And then you will leave and let the rage leave his body. So he can die. And you can be king, because I for one would like to go home, is that understood?" she asks, just pointing down the hall.
"You don't expect me to believe that pure rage will keep him alive?" I ask.
"He was nearly sitting up when I got in there!"
"Damn," I sigh.
"Henry. Now. Go put it back. Then you get it for the rest of your life for so many years that isn't even your favorite crown you like the one with the ruby from Castille because it looks better with your complexion which is true," she says.
"Nearly sitting up you say?" I ask, surprised she noticed which crown I like best.
"Very nearly he passed out in a fit now go put it back while he's asleep and if we're lucky we can pretend it never happened and you can have a tearful reunion again for his priests," she says.
"Just what I wanted, to weep," I mutter, standing up, "If he's deceased when I get there I shall marry you to an Italian."
"If he's deceased when you get there we'll all have a pleasant summer in separate houses," she says, hand to her face.
I pick up the crown and return to the chamber. The doctors are milling about but I scatter them with a wave of my hand. My father lies in his deathbed, bleeding from everywhere, skin slipping off. Such an unfitting death for a king. No battle but with his own body, infirm and miserable for years. Sure enough he's passed out, but fitfully.
I set the crown on the stand by the bed. It doesn't do any good if he's not awake.
I collapse by the bed, sobbing bitterly. When that doesn't wake him I smack him firmly in the stomach then go back to weeping.
"You!"
So his mind is still intact.
"Yes father it is I, your son. I came when you summoned me but you could not wake to speak to me. I did think I'd never hear your voice again," I say, wiping tears from my face ineffectively.
"Wh—what?" He breaths.
"I've been here with you. Did you hear me trying to speak? I wished to tell you of my love for you," I say.
"You did?"
"You don't believe it?" I ask, tears washing down my cheeks.
"I only want you to be a good man. I trust you can do it but, live a holy life my boy, that is why I called for you," he says, voice rough with the illness.
"I believe it," I say, holding his hand, "Do you not see now a son you could love? One you could gladly pass the crown to? Who you would grant a blessing upon?"
"I do, my boy," he says, softly.
"Well it's a bit late for that. Isn't it?" I ask, wiping from my face the last of my tears and picking up the crown.
"You'll never be a king. They'll end you just like I ended Richard," he says, voice immediately returning to pure malice.
"What will you do at the end of days?" I sing, softly, spinning the crown in my hands, "Will you be weighed and found wanting? Such idle threats father. Such a quick turn from proclamations of love."
"I pray your son takes your crown from your dying hands. That he taunts you with his youth and cleverness, as you lie dying a forgotten king."
"Oh so do I. If my son takes my crown and has the lust to rule and the gall to survive. Then I've done my job as his king. You see that's where you're wrong. I'm not your son, I'm your king. And you raised, against your very will, and got, against your very will. A king," I say, carefully placing the crown on my head, "In a few moments you'll grow too weak again. And I'll call them. And I'll weep. And tell them of our tearful reunion. And they will believe all that I say. For it is my days in the sun. And your memory? It will be condemned to shadow."
"Why? Your mother didn't raise you to be this sort of man. Why do you stray from scripture and dishonor your father?" He coughs.
"Because, once I was weak. I was a child. And you delighted in your power of me. I'm only returning the favor, father. Blood for blood. Your care returned to you in kind, I did think you would enjoy it," I say, with mock confusion, "Is it not pleasurable on the other side?"
"Your mother is lucky she did not live to see what you've become," he says.
"Really? Her? That's all you've got? You can't even fight your own battle now. Here at the end of days. Just trying to make it a properly violent end to the violent tale you woven for yourself," I shrug, "It's what you should enjoy. You have everything you ever wanted."
He breaths something else but I can't make it out.
"I'm sorry I can't, that was a bit faint there. It really would be dishonest you know, if I kissed your cheek again and wept for you. You wouldn't want lies, not after all this time. You get a marvelous gift. You get die, knowing, exactly who your son is. Not many men get that, think of it, you end knowing your legacy is in the hands of your children that should be comforting don't you think? Why would you think ill of our intentions it's not as though you've done anything to alienate us let's see—I won your war in Wales only to be thrown out of court twice, Thomas spent eight years starving in Ireland that reminds me I need to write to Fastolf again and remind him of my love ah—John you've never had the time of day for him no titles no honors, and Humphrey you wouldn't allow to learn to be a solider as he wished. Our mother dead bearing your child, our sisters gone one dead, Philippa probably met you twice. No, I don't see anything for you to be concerned about at all. We're going to be fine you should be rejoicing," I say.
He mutters again, something else I can't hear then, "Your son will hate you."
"My son who doesn't yet exist, bless him. We'll have fun times. And my mother. My son and my mother those are your two main attacks? Grandfather would be disappointed is this all that's left? That's how you're going to get the crown back? Oh no one else to fight your battles for you, no brothers to usurp a crown for you, and no sons to fight your rebellions, sad isn't it?" I ask, "It's really very sad. I'll think on weeping."
"You've never fought your own battles, you trick others, as my father did," he coughs.
"I will stand in the middle of France and dare them to fight me and I will tear them apart one by one. For I have the strength of ten thousand for God has granted me this holy office above this scared realm, our England. I am our avenging angel and our guardian. I am eternal. And I believe all that I say and so it is true. The truth is that which I write. And now I dutifully transcribe your death as you disappear a footnote on my story," I say.
"Just let me die, if this is all that you are then let me die," he chokes.
I smile tipping my head, "I am sitting vigil, with my beloved father, who imparts to me sacred wisdom. They'll write songs about it."
He says no more. He tries but the words catch in his throat. Once his eyes have closed again and he's struggling to breath, I take off the crown and place it on the stand by the bed.
Then I go and summon the others back in.
"He wouldn't wake for me, I spoke to him," I weep.
He does wake for that. He can't speak. But he wakes as I sob.
"I do hope he's proud of me," I say, weeping fresh tears as the priests surround him, "His final words were to entreat me to lead a holy life."
My brothers come in the room, and my step mother. She takes my hand and comforts me, well aware I'm well. Humphrey stands by me quietly. John is nearly solemn. My uncle comes and comforts us in turn then sits by his brother's side. He looks at the position of the crown then my hair as though guessing something close to the truth. My face betrays nothing. I weep. But inside I feel little but contentment. I thought there would be joy, but perhaps peace is a better word. We are onward to France. On to glory. Because finally I'm free.