Violent Ends (Violent Delights Book 19)

Chapter 5: the Death according to Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester

I prayed that I would not have to bury him.
"Not you too," I say, softly, looking down at the letter in my hands. And of course, extensive instructions. With more to follow. I'm very glad Henry got to do this. Planning his own death is probably quite nice for him.
But I didn't want to be the one to live on, when all the others are gone. I've buried my parents. My brothers. Now my favorite nephew. The only son god granted to me. Damn boy I did not want to lose you. But I did know I likely would.
He was possibly six. We were at my father's house. My brother had brought his wife and children. And my father and I were simply watching my brother have a very long, very violent, argument with his probably six year old son. Tiny Hal, just this slender, weedy creature with shocking dark hair and eyes, cheeks flushed red with anger, black eyes staring into infinity like they always do.
And my brother. The adult. Not yet twenty five years old with red hair, freckles, handsome as anything, tournament champion. Just, arguing with his six year old. He paid people to do that normally but accidentally he and his first born had been exposed to one another. Hal was holding his hands just, so condescendingly before his own face, and my brother was clearly resisting slapping his child into the next century.
"You'll have to bury them both you know," my father said, watching his son and grandson with something like melancholy amusement.
I looked over at him. I was still at Oxford then, he'd not married my mother I was Henry Bastard of Lancaster nothing more.  But to him I'd always been his son. Even so the commandment startled me.
"You don't know that," I said.
"I do. I'll be lucky if I don't have to bury Harry, he can argue with anything. And that boy. You can't bottle lightening. He'll start the world ablaze and burn out mark my words," my father said, "I'm sorry to leave you with them both. But you are strong."
"If I lose my mind I'll have words for you in Christendom," I said, dryly.
"That's your curse, you can survive anything," he said, shaking his head a bit as he stared at the argument which was still going on, "I had hoped to tame Harry by now. But he cannot be taught. Nor can his son it seems."
"What—are they even arguing about dare I ask?" I ask.
"It started with the Latin word for death, mors as opposed to nex, and which was preferable. It has now moved to whether or not the six year old actually knows Latin, who knows Latin more fluently, and if the child should be allowed to continue Latin lessons. Quite amusing if you're me who told Harry to exit the conversation a quarter of an hour ago, they are now stuck on ira as opposed to odium, and the precise meaning," he said.
"Who is right?"
"Neither of them are. That's not going to stop them though," he said, "They never shall. As I said, you'll be burying them both one day. Hopefully not because of one another."
"That's a bit dramatic," I said.
"The boy is now insulting his father in Latin, claiming to be quoting scripture but it's really just a string of insults. Harry does not yet know this which is why the boy still lives," my father said, amused.
"I'll mind him," I said.
But when I said I'll mind him, what I meant was, I'll become dangerously attached to him. And what that meant was, I'd wind up enabling him because with enough wine and a lot of time, I decided the things that boy wanted to do to the world, were the best entertainment I was going to get. Because I was glad my father took the time for me as a boy even though I was always different. And as the years went by it went from saving Hal from his father, to simply saving him from himself. And I began realize when he first burned the Lollards that the awful truth was he might not be worth saving. But the even more terrifying truth was, if he wasn't worth saving, then neither was I. And so I didn't look back. Not even for a moment.
And that is how I wound up on a peace keeping envoy to France, with the most duplicitous person I'd ever met, attempting to instigate war while looking like I was instigating peace.
Things were complicated. Hal came as a packaged set with our Bishop of Norwich, Richard Courtenay, some boy with no apparent interests in life but telling lies and helping Hal. I liked him inspite of myself and of course I helped the boys with their precious war.
And that is how I wound up on multiple missions to France to gather information in manners which are rather clandestine. I far preferred lending Hal cannon money, however, my life had gotten rather exciting.
I never really asked Hal for anything though. I lent him more money than my positions ever made me. Only once did I beg a favor of Hal, and ironically nobody would ever accuse me of it. So that was pleasant.
We were freshly back from France. Courtenay had as ever melted off to Hal's side and likely bedroom. They did not mind being parted but I did not begrudge them whatever quiet reunion they wished.  And Hal was not about to change his schedule merely to receive us, so Courtenay became his very good impression of Henry's shadow to go and speak to his monarch before Parliament when we were to actually meet him. I knew he was going to do that and normally left them to their dark corners, but I needed Hal.
He arrived, mostly followed by his train including Courtenay, but his face was red and he was rubbing it with obvious annoyance.
"I need a word," I said.
"Speak," Hal muttered, not breaking stride.
"There's going to be presented before Parliament, a motion from the Pope to make me a Cardinal," I said.
"Damn, I need you here, ah well—,"
"Block it. I wish to be here," I growled. I had a young daughter. I had him. I didn't want to go to Rome.  "Just block it for me, please."
"Why the devil does the pope want you for a Cardinal anyway? You've never done any ecclesiastical duties since I can remember," Hal said, tiredly, "You don't qualify you've done nothing as a Bishop why would people think you had?"
I pointed at Courtenay who looked other places, "You do recall your majesty— you sent me places with him."
"Ah," Hal said, biting his lip, "That would do it."
I nodded, "Just block it. Think up some good excuse, I don't care."
And Hal got up before Parliament. They all voted for me to become a Cardinal. And in his most arrogant voice Hal simply said, "I deny the request." With no explanation whatsoever. I did say I didn't care how he did it. But then I had to spend weeks pretending I was disappointed and pretending to be going to ask him about it. He nearly got cross with Courtenay over the entire envoy to France, but that was avoided because in the end we both found the things that came out of that man's lying lips rather funny.
"Let me get this straight," Henry said.
Courtenay winced, "It was a long time—,"
"Shut up. So far as France is concerned I—have taken a vow of chastity. Do not sleep with women. Pray many times a day. Have no taste for war. Desire peace above all else. Because I am dying?"  Henry asked.
"That. Is it yes," Courtenay said, playing with a tennis ball.
"Put that down."
"Yes," he handed it to a dog.
Henry put his hands to his face, "When I said drive them to distraction—,"
"He delivered a three hour sermon on peace," I said, leaning back in my chair, "They were listless."
"Christ, have you ever delivered a sermon before, Rich?" Henry finally broke down laughing.
"I had not," Courtenay said, smiling his innocent smile, "That doesn't mean I was poor at it."
"Two people were crying. This was before we delivered the final demand of a higher dowry," I said.
Henry nodded, hand over face, "I'm sending you two places more often."
But he didn't get the chance. We lost Courtenay a few weeks into their invasion of France. I don't think Henry has been the same. Courtenay was a poor excuse for human decency, but before that Henry didn't simply delight in killing people. Now he doesn't seem to care. The world took something from him so he'll make the world pay a terrible price for it.
And now he's gone. I don't care what they say. Campaigning every waking moment. He hasn't slept a full night in probably seven years. Spending the winter in Meaux like that. I'm sure he got a disease. He was asking for it. He tested his immortality one too many times. Like a cat perpetually sleeping upon a vaulted roof. He exhausted his lives, Shrewsbury, Agincourt, every siege where he was exposed to all manner of illness. Jousting in those damn mines.
"If I move he wakes, it's been four days," Courtenay nearly snarled. They were at a table. Henry had his face resting on the priest's arm, probably uncomfortably. Henry was completely out, pressing his poor scarred cheek to his companion's hand. Courtenay for his part was working with his other hand, hair falling into his face, but cheeks flushed with concern. Even with me. He didn't want it to be known. It couldn't be. The world couldn't know.
"You couldn't get him in bed?" I asked. We were at Southampton. They sailed in a few days.
He blushed harder, not even denying that that was within his realm of duties.
"He needs someone about making sure he sleeps. He deserves to stay alive," I said, "He listens to you."
"He listens to the voices of gods of old inside his head," Courtenay said.
"I know you'll look after him but—I'm just telling you he needs you. Even if, when, he doesn't act like it," I said.
"I will always be there," Courtenay said, quietly.
And it turned out I lectured the wrong member of the pair. Courtenay died not three weeks later. And I was getting a very official list of the dead and I saw his name. My heart stopped in my chest. I did love that man. He was a son to me as well and I cared for him for his own sake not only for Henry's. And his name. There among the dead like he was just another man and not a part of our whole.
Then a very official letter from Henry. No note. Nothing personal. Just his usual rapid fire commands for burial. Trusting me to perform his funeral rights. At least he gave me that.
Now I'm getting a letter from Henry so calmly announcing his own death. The duties he expects of me. Very fine words for such a terrible thing.
I realize I'm weeping as I walk through the halls of Windsor. Calmly making my way to the nursery. Where his son is. Henry's son. The last thing I have of him. And his final request. Look after my son.
In the nursery the ladies are somber. They are used to my occasional visits. A few have wept clearly.
"I trust you've said your prayers for our king," I say.
They murmur their assent. He hired most of them, personally before he left. It's typical for husbands to staff the nursery. I was of course the exception, my mother was the governess to the legitimate children of course she was in the nursery, she nursed us herself, though I think that was by choice for my father was not miserly with his care of us, we had rockers, tutors that manner of thing.
The royal nursery is different. A governess, a couple of rockers. A few wetnurses. Soft fur rugs and a clean white linens. All practical. Henry is as ever careful with money. But I see tapestries on the walls, relocated from some of his rooms. A couple of neat wooden toys.
And our baby Harry sits up on a rug. Blissfully unaware of his father's illness. Soft baby skin, blotchy red from the summer heat. He is carefully stacking some wooden blocks and staring at them.
"Hello Harry," I say, sitting down.
He reaches out an arm lazily, not looking away from his toys. A fine, healthy child, so far. He's already got his father's features, small and lean, with the same exact set to his eyes and curve to his mouth as he refuses to smile.
"Your father is very sick," I hear my voice break, as I take the baby's hand in mine. "Don't worry, he's making sure you'll be looked after."
But he never met you. He'd have made a fine father, he was good enough with his brothers. But he never came home to meet his son.
"You and he would have had such a fine time, you know that? He'd like you," I said, quietly. The serious, steady child, so very like his sire. "Been putting swords in your hands soon as you could walk. Argued with you about Latin."
I feel tears on my cheeks and wipe them away, carefully.
"You're going to be a very good king. Because you are going to survive you hear me? You be strong, and you survive," I say, lifting the child into my arms. He wiggles a bit, then sighs, settling in comfortably. I put his toy in his hands and he goes back to clutching it. "You don't get to leave us all right? You get to be wild, but I'm not losing you." I won't fail you like I did him. The only way to let him live was to be free.
The baby waves his toy gently then finally turns his serious eyes on me, a soft smile on his lips.
"You're not going to listen to a thing I say are you?" I laugh, even though tears are still in my eyes, "No, you're not are you Harry? You know what? You do that. Be wild. Be a wild, mad Harry. I'll be there anyway. Long as I can. No matter what. I'll be there. If you run away and leave me too, I'll just be waiting for you to come back. Sound like a deal, little king?"
The child smiles, unaware of his father's agony across the sea. Unaware of the torment in my heart.
"Go on, be a Lancaster. You are going to have the best life, just like your dad did. You're going to rule the world someday," I say, kissing the child's forehead. Baby Harry smiles, patting my damp cheeks. He'll not meet his father. Because that wild Harry finally found a monster he couldn't defeat. I hope he's happy. Dying as he lived, fighting wars across the sea. Controlling everything, even as it slips through his fingers one last time. He had his wars. Siege upon siege just as he wanted. I hope as he dies he at least has the comfort that he won. He did what he set out to do. He took France. We'll tell the tales of his victories for generations. Just as he always knew we would. I hope he's happy in the end. Sleep now, Henry. Rest. You've won your day. And dream of battles once again.