Violent Ends (Violent Delights Book 19)

Chapter 1: the Death according to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester

The halls of Vinneces are hot. The entire castle has the smell of death hanging in the air, I'm sure of it. I was sobbing bitterly now I'm just standing here with no tears left, trying to remember how to breath.
It has been three weeks. I don't have the will to live anymore. Everything feels, hollow. Like funeral dirges are playing over and over in my head.
"How are things in there?" John asks, leaning on the wall across from me. It's his gift to be calm. It always has been. He's got the calm for all of us brothers. I find it aggravating. Everything is aggravating to me now.
"Typical," I sigh, forcing myself not to take out harsh words on him. I'm well aware my aggravation is internal.
He nods a bit, "You all right?"
"Do I—honestly look all right?" I ask, rubbing my face, "It's been three weeks, John. He will not live. And the doctors can't even tell us what it is that's killing him. I just can't stand it in there and that's selfish too. I should be able to bear to be by my brother's side in his hour of death. And yet. I'm weak. I'm a weak man."
"Everyone's weak but him it happens. That's what makes it so awful," John says, gently.
I put my hands to my face, a sob escaping my throat.
Mortality hovers around us. But so does love, and lust, and all other human ailments. Henry was untouchable, or so it seemed.
A particularly long siege left him a bit weak. He'd grown thin over the winter. I thought little of it. His endless confidence. My strong big brother. He was always unbreakable.
But summer didn't cure his ills. Smallpox hit our army. And before June was over he had blisters on his arms, a fever he couldn't shake. And he'd lost not only weight but muscle. Doctors were called. Finally he was in too much pain to ride. A slight turn for the better meant he could keep food down. But it was only a slight reprieve. Blisters on his arms and legs, he's in pain he can't admit or tell us where beyond in his chest. Such sharp pains they take his breath away. He was hit with the flux but now it's not clear if that's passed since he can not keep food nor water down.
At the beginning of August the doctors gave us the grim news.
They could do nothing.
He can't keep down any medicine they cannot treat him. He loses more weight everyday and is in severe pain at any movement.
The king is dying.
My brother is dying. We don't even know why. But he is. Simply his life is ebbing away from him in the slowest, most agonizing manner possible. He who took an arrow to the face at Shrewsbury. An axe to his head at Agincourt. The pain that would actually cause him to admit he could not ride is brutal. Clinging to his favorite charger's neck sweat pouring down his neck, face lined with pain. As he finally admitted he could not ride for the pain.
The animals are completely upset, which makes everything worse. Just when I think I've recovered enough to function, I see another goddamn dog moping in a corner, starving itself in solidarity with its master. His horses are depressed, off their food, completely distraught that their king cannot ride them. They think it's their fault. And worse, someone let Henry know this. I blame that sniveling Porter but I don't have proof.
"I think this is the last dog, I don't know, I just think that, is there a reason we're outside?" Jack comes up, leading one of the mastiffs which is balking at the leather lead.
"I'm taking a little rest don't feel the need to join us," I snarl.
"Stay a minute, Jack, have you slept?" John asks, gently.
"No. I can't sleep," Jack sighs, rubbing his chubby, tear stained face. Jack isn't clever but he is loyal. I don't like him but then I don't like most anyone. He's really quite stupid is the major thing wrong with him.
"Try to get some rest yeah? Doesn't do us any good if you're not in fighting shape," John says, gently.
Jack hangs his head, "I just can't cry in there, so I go and I cry someplace else then come back."
"Oh," I didn't think of that. That might actually be clever.
"Isn't that what you're doing?" Jack asks.
"No! I'm out here working up the strength to back and in and face him," I sigh, "I left Warwick in there now. I'll go relieve him in a moment."
"Oh. Well I'm bringing the dog," Jack says, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
"Look, while I've got us all here, it's getting rather awkward—should we not bring up Lady Catherine?" John asks, holding up a hand.
"No," I despise the woman.
"He's dying," John says, "Perhaps just for the look of it we should suggest he send for her we're meant to be helping him think of things."
"He does not need help thinking of things he's doing fine," I breath.
"He's not asked," Jack says, "But he is very ill. You're right. I'll offer to go and fetch her."
"No, don't do that we're not upsetting him," I say, "It's his death."
"Yes, yes it is," John sighs, "I don't understand it. Father lived ten more years, and he was very ill. How could god take Henry from us?"
"It's all very odd," Jack says.
"That's Hal's fault," I say, face in hands, "Other deaths aren't like this. Our father wasn't like this. Our mother wasn't. Thomas was in battle so there wasn't any of this."
"We should really all just be grateful we get to say goodbye," Jack says.
We both stare at him.
"I love my brother and I want every moment with him but this is torture. This is nothing to be grateful for," I say.
"It—really is. I mean it's very typical and I can't say what I expected but—," John says.
"Let's just go back in," I say.
"Yeah, he may have taken a turn for the worse," Jack says.
"This is a turn for the worse. It's just having no effect," I mutter.
Together, we enter the sick chamber. A fine bedroom, with lovely high ceilings. Curtains about the bed but courtiers have been shifting in and out, along with servants, doctors, and my brothers' confessors, and of course his various clerks.
Henry lies in the bed, mostly propped up. He's a mere skeleton, skin ruddy and peeling, simply wasted away as though his body has long since died and begun to decay and yet his spirit still lives. He's slippery with sweat and his hands shake so he can barely hold a quill. No food has passed his lips in weeks, and water he quickly vomits up as well.
But that is not stopping him.
"Warwick, as you know I'm entrusting to you my son's education, Humphrey being his guardian under John, but you'll monitor his regular lessons I've set aside a number of swords at the boys' disposal and I'm setting up a schedule I'm suggesting on which he takes command of various parts of his kingdom. By then Charles will have passed if he does not before my death, and we'll crown the boy king in Paris. As for the allocation of funds from Wales, and the duchy of Cornwall that's an excellent place to start ideally to fund his lifestyle was well as a few choice charitable projects, as for amusements maintaining my lines of war horses will be an excellent occupation and it needs doing I have instructions here—John, Humphrey come, Warwick we'll continue this in a moment," Henry says, waving to us with a skeletal hand. The effort clearly pains him. But he does not stop talking.
"Humphrey did you bring me those papers I asked for? The allocation on the tolls in Normandy I wanted a second look, and Rouen yes—John did you not get the morning's correspondence from Paris? I know Charles is unwell we may still crown me king of France yet—," Henry is fully prepared to go on. I don't know what's worse. Seeing my brother in this infirm state, unable to rise or even move his hands without pain. Or watching him behave exactly as he always has. It's no different. This is such standard behavior I want to vomit. I still can't keep up with him. Even now. And with such a force of will we all thought he'd go on forever. So did he of course.
"See Humphrey? It's easy. If I pay the ships using this tax I levy on Cornwall for six months then relieve right before crops are harvested I can still pay the dues on them and supply the troops with the funds here to pay their indentures—are you listening?" Hal asked, face stained with ink. Thirteen years old, sitting before the fire. We'd all been sent to bed hours ago.
"What are we doing?" I asked, so tiredly.
"Finishing the war in Ireland. I just left I can pick it back up. It'll be fine, father will have to listen this all makes perfect sense," gesturing to an array of papers around himself, clearly happy.
"Not to me," I said.
"That's because you're tired, it's all very simple. I'll start again," he was about to continue speaking.
"No please," I held up a hand, "No one is going to follow that."
"It's really quite easy if you apply yourself," he said, disdainfully. Cheeks full and unscarred. Face flush with youth and glowing in the light of the fire. My unbeatable big brother.
Now he lies in his deathbed, unable to move for the pain. That scar looking like some demon's mark upon his flaking skin, cheeks sunken. A thousand deaths upon his hands. He's just thirty five years old.
"It's really quite easy if you apply yourself, simply focus," he says, voice rough from the illness but no change in his tone.
I can't do it that's what he always says. I think I'm stopping breathing.
"It's all right," Jack pats my back ineffectively.
"Humphrey, please compose yourself," Henry says, not concerned that I've nearly collapsed sobbing.
"Humphrey, please compose yourself," tugging me underneath the great bed, with Thomas holding John. Both of them striving to stop giggling. I was what, four years old? I was giggling uncontrollably at the game. It was a cold winter afternoon and a storm had forced us inside. And with the holidays approaching our mother had canceled everyone's lessons but Hal's because it would have upset him. And we'd roped him into a game and he was taking it terribly seriously.
"You'll give us away, remain calm," Hal said, hand over my mouth. My formal brother only made me laugh harder.
The door creaked open. All four of us shrank into one another, trying to stop giggling.
"I hear—naughty little boys!" Our mother dove under the bed to tickle us. We tried to scatter, but she got Hal and I. He finally laughed, collapsing into her embrace as she tickled him under the arms. Beaming, all of us leaning against her, more than happy to be caught.
"Is he all right or do my doctors need to attend to him? Actually, they probably should. As an exercise, they are not providing accurate or helpful estimates as to my time remaining perhaps it would do them good to evaluate a healthy man, Humphrey, see my physicians—,"
A physician, nearly driven to insanity, "Your majesty with neither food nor water you have but—days—,"
"Yes, how many? I do have much to complete. Both my kingdoms must be managed, and my son is but a child," Henry says, practically, reaching for some papers and wincing. Jack hands it to him.
"Thank you Jack—that isn't the dog I asked you for. The one with the white ear, all black, I've not seen it about and it likely isn't eating it was always rather emotional and evaded the keepers, fetch that one for me thank you," Henry says, his voice rough from lack of food and water and life, as he takes the papers he was looking for, "John these are the next ten years projected taxes and colonization of Normandy I wanted to go over this—,"
"Humphrey's going to help me find that dog aren't you? Come on then," Jack says, leading me out of the sick room and back into the hall. The smell of death fills my nose and I'm still struggling to stop crying.
"I seriously don't know what dog he means? His hound's master doesn't either," Jack says, "He says he's brought all the dogs up but they were growling at the doctors."
"I know," I sigh. When Henry fell from his horse that last time two dogs wouldn't let me near him. He had to call them off himself before Warwick or I could approach, and one of his men had to hold the horse for it was deeply disturbed. Our great warhorses are well trained, and Henry rides his often. They know better than to bolt if their master falls they are trained for war. And now the horses are depressed their royal master hasn't visited them. Nobody's told him that. He'd probably suggest he be brought out to visit them or worse, he'd again insist he can ride. I can't stand to remind him he can't ride.
"Look, I don't know what dog it is and it's what he's asked of me," Jack sighs.
"I don't either I don't remember a dog with white on its ear he has to have all black ones or black masked," I say. It admittedly makes the war dogs look fiercer. My brother has also maintained an aesthetic his whole life the colors of his war horses and dogs had to fit into it. That is they had to be dark colored to set off his own fine robes. He's draped in purple silk cloths now.
"Nor do I," Jack sighs, looking close to tears.
"Well the hound's master should know that's his job isn't it? I'll shout at him for you," I offer.
"I did; I can be frightening he said that he'd given me all the guard dogs to lead up," Jack says.
"Balne—Henry's cook. He's forever feeding the dogs perhaps it's not a war dog and he simply means a stray?" I ask. My brother doesn't generally befriend the strays though he's not opposed to them and perhaps while he was ill on siege one hung about?
"Good idea, we'll ask him," Jack says, nearly cheering. He claps my shoulder.
Together, we progress down to the kitchens. Henry has of course a whole kitchen staff but one personal cook who he's rather fond of. The fellow who gets woken up at night to make something, who is trusted with the oysters. Happens to be a bit terrifying of a person. I'm not clear where Henry got him but it was likely the Tower, he's been with us for years, his son Jacob works for us now. William Balne is nearly as tall as my brother, cruel, and tough. Originally part Welshman, he fought with us at Agincourt, and Meaux, taking prisoners both times.
He's predictably in the kitchens, mostly staying out of the way. His job is to serve the king. Henry has not been able to keep food down for weeks now, not for Balne's lack of trying. The big man is slumped just outside the doors, avoiding the rest of the staff who have the rest of the household to feed. Not that most of us are eating much of anything but we're keeping our strength up.
"Does the king want something? Has he thought of something that might soothe him?" Balne asks, hopefully, putting down a knife he'd been toying with. We didn't have to come down and find him but the thing of it is we're not really doing much else. Well, Henry has activities for us but I'm exhausted with his endless death duties.
"No," Jack says, sadly.
"I've made another broth anyway—I know the doctors said it did no good—,"
"It doesn't," I say, darkly, "He can keep nothing down."
Balne nods a little, clearly somber.
"Thank you for trying we—have another errand. This is a bit odd, but the king's asked about a certain dog? But the kennel masters said they didn't know of it. Have some strays been hanging about, you'd fed perhaps?" Jack asks.
"We know you throw them scrap meat, did the king note any of the spaniels or something?" I ask.
"No, the kennel master would know," Balne frowns.
"Said it was black with white on its ear," Jack says.
"A greyhound or something that someone had given him?" I ask. I've been about but he's had me in command of his siege this last month while he's been getting sicker.
"No, all I've been doing is trying to make something he can keep down honestly," Balne shakes his head, "That and arguing with doctors about what he actually likes, that's it. I don't know of a dog."
"He said it'd been skittish is all, so I'm to find it," Jack says, prepared to give up.
"Wait a minute—white ear you say?" Balne snaps his fingers, "I know that dog. And so do you."
"What?" I ask.
"You were—it was bred at Kenilworth—it came with us to Harfluer," Balne looks at me, pointedly.
"I do know that dog, it is a mastiff," I sigh.
We were at Kenilworth. That was just before we were to go to France, the great council was finally ended and we had the castle to ourselves. Through with courtiers and thoroughly planning war. As usual Henry had all those of us who were in his inner circle working late into the night, and we were having a private supper where naturally he went over our assignments for the morning.
"I need accurate estimates of all men mustered from the north, it must be impressed upon the commanders that every man is required to bring three months of food supply with him—what are you doing?" Henry asked, looking up from the paper he was reading off.
Richard Courtenay was sitting at the table, diligently taking notes, with a great mastiff puppy sitting in his lap. The pup was solid black, with a white star on its chest and a white spot on one little floppy ear. It was happily licking the handsome priest's chin.
"Taking note of Royal commands," Courtenay said, very seriously.
"With the puppy?" Henry asked, fully prepared to argue it.
"Puppy?"
Henry stared at him.
"Oh. You mean this puppy. It's very clever. Kept chewing my things because for some mysterious reason it winds up in my room every time I leave. I'm not very good with dogs so I put it somewhere else, but it shows back up anyway. I'm naming it Leek," Courteany said, waving one of the puppy's fat feet at Henry, "Look, it knows a trick."
"You're moving its paw," Henry said, flatly, "We are having dinner, put that down."
"I'm afraid Leek is in custody to prevent further damage to my personal possessions," Courtenay said, very seriously.
"Leek is a terrible name for a dog," Henry said, hands on hips. I was just glad he was letting me eat in peace and had paused his memorandums.
"I did think so yes," Courtenay said, very seriously, kissing the dog's head before setting it down on the floor with a bone from his plate.
That big dog would pad around after him. It was Henry's dog officially but it would follow Courtenay everywhere, sleeping on his cloak at his feet. After he died at Harfluer we couldn't move it when we packed up the tents. It walked about mournfully and wouldn't come, not even to Henry or the kennel master.
"Leek," I say, quietly, "That was what they called it."
"Yeah. The dog went with the Duke of Clarence's army out of Harfluer, but it hardly ate not till it got back with the king. It would listen to him, no one else. He pretended he didn't know what we were on about. Said it was a skittish useless dog, but I've had my Jacob off looking for the thing if he's not seen it in a day. It bolts here in France a bit but it always comes back and winds up in the king's quarters just waiting," Balne says, nodding.
"Was that the Bishop of Norwich's dog?" Jack asks.
"It was Henry's but yes, it was fond of the Bishop I think he just fed it to be honest," I sigh. Henry gave it to him or something, probably to guard him.
"He did actually, I think the king feared his spying. But the Bishop said he didn't know how to handle dogs so the King left that one with him. He was always asking me for bones for the dogs so they'd not eat him he said, but they all liked him. Anyway. That dog has never been right since Harfluer. It's old now and nearly blind," Balne says.
"Damn, so it could be anywhere," Jack says.
"Nah, if it's missing and we're not near Harfluer, then it's in with the King's trunks," Balne says.
"Right, thanks," I say, turning to go.
"Surprised it left Harfluer, if it missed the Bishop that much," Jack says, as we head back for the stairs.
"Well, he wasn't buried," I scoff.
"What?" Jack asks.
"What?" I frown.
"Bishop of Norwich, wasn't he buried at Harfluer with the others dead from the flux? That's what the king told Edmund he'd done," Jack says.
"What?" I say, frowning.
"The Courtenay family asked for his effects. Edmund had to tell them it'd been burnt and he was buried in Harfluer with the others dead of the flux. I know because they asked Edmund years later as they'd not gotten his body," Jack says.
"What?"
"You keep saying 'what'— I've explained," Jack says.
"We sent Richard Courtenay back to England. His entrails perhaps are buried at Harfluer. But his bones Henry returned to England," I say, leading Jack back inside because he'd stopped walking.
"Well the family contacted Edmund somehow saying they'd not gotten anything ever and would like to see his tomb," Jack says.
"Oh they don't—oh god Henry," I growl. A fitting tomb for his beloved spymaster, a secret crypt in Westminster. I know because Bishop Beaufort oversaw it being done and did his burial. I did not go. Nor did Henry we were at Agincourt then Calais. When we got home Beaufort said something to Henry saying he'd done it but Henry cut him off and walked away.
"What?" Jack asks.
"I was under the impression at the very least his family knew where he was buried. It's been seven years—yes we buried him home in England," I say.
"Where?" He asks.
"I don't know," I lie. It's in Westminster. If I've paid half attention to my brother's rather epic funeral arrangements and designs for his own chantry, the unfortunate bishop lies in the very crypt Henry selected for himself in the Hall of Kings. I don't know that for a fact but I've put a few things together and apparently paid attention when both my uncle and brother spoke. But it's obvious Henry did not tell anyone this directly he just did it. At least I think that's what he did. Henry, it's been seven years. He's long dead.
"We buried him, Henry arranged it so I'm sure it was inexpensive," I mutter.
"Where?"
"I don't know specifically nor do I care. He was only a Bishop," I say, briskly. My I'm protective my brother's heart. I didn't know I had this much care left in my own grief stricken mind.
"He was kind to me is all I'd like to go sometime," Jack says, sadly.
"Well, I'm sure Bishop Beaufort knows he was the one to receive the body," I say. There Beaufort can do what he wants with that knowledge we're apparently not meant to have.
"Oh. I'll ask him whenever we're back in England."
"Jack you idiot, we're back in England before September's out we're going home with my brother," I breath. My brother's body. We're taking him home to England. To the son he never got to meet.
"Oh," Jack says, softly, and I hear him begin to cry. I don't care because I'm nearly crying again myself, and we're just to my brother's rooms.
Not the sick room he's in. No, the rooms he'd be occupying if he were well. His things are here. Harps, for once untouched. His trunks and cases, barely open. Only a couple have been unpacked, so solemnly, to get to the odd thing he might want, mostly his precious papers.
And, sure enough, a big miserable mastiff is curled up on a cloak its dragged out of a trunk.
"You stupid dog, get up," I sigh, pushing the big animal. It growls at me and I growl back.
"Humphrey don't, he's sad," Jack says, petting the dog's head gently and putting a lead on it.
"It got into his clothes—Henry why do you even have this it's old?" I mutter, picking up a dusty, rather worn wool cloak. It was once fine but it's clearly seen far better days nor has it been cleaned probably in the last decade. "What, is this your creeping around in the dark to mind cannons cloak?"
"No, that's nicer," Jack says.
"I'm so glad we're not even discussing the fact that he definitely has a creeping around in the dark to mind cannons cloak," I mutter.
"No, he has that, and it's nicer, that's probably extra," he says.
"My brother doesn't wear old things," I say, laying it back in the trunk. It was with his night things? Maybe it is for sneaking about.
"Right, well this is the dog, let's get back there," Jack says.
"Yes," I sigh, "Let's."