The Last Princes of Wales (Violent Delights Book 7)

Chapter 2: The siege, August 1407

According to Rhys Ddu ap Gruffyd

"Who made you king of anything?" I ask, softly, as I stare through the spy glass. Ieuan has gotten me invested in this now. And we have little else to do. It's been two weeks. And they dig trenches. And they wait. They know we're caught in the trap. Helpless. And they're watching us die instead of putting us out of our misery.
So I'm watching the english general stroll through his camp, with the arrogance of ten men. He's not past twenty. How does he carry himself with the confidence of a man of fifty? And they all nearly tremble in his path, the men rush to obey at the snap of his fingers. Where do they get such loyalty for the upstart son of a usurper?
"His father. Stole the crown, gave an army to the brat," Owain is here with us because we got bored of being hungry down below. We both have been refusing meals, to conserve the rations.
"But why is he in charge? Usually it's a more experienced commander, there's something going on there," I say, shaking my head.
"Ieuan is nearly in charge."
"Nearly, it's my garrison, and he's nearly my age," I say.
"We're never going to know, we just hope he doesn't get the satisfaction of killing us," Owain says.
"My  father has an entire speech, my mother helped with it I can tell, they didn't admit that, but I can tell, about how the English usurper child doesn't get to win, and generally I ignore most of it, however I'm starting to agree with the general premise that the english usurper child, shouldn't win," Ieuan sighs, leaning against the ramparts. I look over at him. He's already looking as starved as I.
"How long can we last though?" Owain asks, looking at me.
"Into September, help may come," I say, but I don't believe it myself.
"Aye, they may raise an army yet," Ieuan says, and I can hear in his voice he doesn't believe it either. We're going to die in here. This is how we die. Why are we losing? We weren't supposed to lose. We were the good. The honorable men. Why is the villain winning? Isn't this the part where the hero comes to save us?
"Father, you didn't eat anything yet today," Meredith presses against my side, amiably. I put an arm around his shoulders. He too feels like skin and bones. He's holding half a piece of dried meat. His luncheon more than likely.
"I'm not hungry," I lie.
"I know you're just saying that," he says.
"It's all I have left, let me have it," I say. I just don't see what it's for if this is where they were going to beat us. What's the point anymore? That's what I really want to know. Why we had to do this. Why this happened. Why we were always going to fail striving for the right. I don't know if I'd feel better if I had reason. But it's all I am searching for. Just some reason, some way to make sense of it all.
"Perhaps they'll ransom us. And we can escape," Meredith says, softly.
"Perhaps," I say. But I don't believe it either.
"They likely will not. This is just how the story ends," Ieuan says.
"Why do you believe that?" Meredith asks, softly.
"Because, boy, not all tales have a happy ending. Sometimes the monsters win," Ieuan says, almost kindly, "This time it seems we're the tragic heroes."
"We're not heroes if we lose," Meredith says.
"Of course we are. We've just got the tragic bit in there as well," I say, wrapping an arm around his neck to hug him. I can feel every bone in his chest. I'm sure he can feel mine. "We're dying for Wales. And someday they'll tell our story. And it will all be worth something."
"That's all we are left. A tragic tale," Ieuan says, staring at the trees.
"Help could still come, possibly," Owain says, stubbornly.
"He has over 1500 men, at best they'd have an army of 300. No help is coming, that could even reach us," I say. This castle has become our tomb. We sealed ourselves in. and what's worst, they know it damn well.

According to Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick

"We're digging more ditches," I say, holding up a cup of wine to Oldcastle. There's a cool breeze if you stand here under a tree not moving. I'm bored out of my mind. The entire army is bored out of their mind. We haven't offered peace accords. We're not doing anything. Only two people are having a good time.
"We don't need ditches, does he not know that? The ones we have are fine," Oldcastle sighs, stopping next to me.
"He knows. I told him. He said that it was a good activity for the men, because idle hands are the devil's workshop, or something of that kind, so it's an exercise. So they can dig ditches more efficiently. An exercise he's supervising," I say, sipping my wine, "I was watching but it got painful. He's lecturing them on the angle of the ditch. I was either going to laugh or cry so I came up here."
"He was about to make me get a shovel!" Scrope joins us, red faced and panting, "We've got double rows of trenches now for no special reason. This is absurd we're meant to be at war not doing—field exercises in the middle of Wales."
"Should've come on my raids, lot more fun," I say. I did raids for Henry after Shrewsbury. He couldn't ride for a while what with his head being wide open, so I went and did raids in Wales. Jolly fun skirmishes. I got Glyndower's banner once.
"I have a wife and an estate," Scrope says.
"So do I. Should have come on the raids. Good fun, and interestingly enough nobody spent upwards of an hour explaining the perfect angle for a ditch. I'm not saying he's wrong I'm saying it's straining him being this right all the time," I say.
"That's what it is yeah, but consider it's better than rowing or pretend rowing with the priest?" Oldcastle says.
"Eh—is it though? Yeah I suppose a bit," I say, "I don't know though the ditch digging is rather violent. Was there a row last night or a pretend row?"
"No, he spent the night in his tent, again," Scrope snarls, with malice, "They're not reading over accounts that whole time."
"Oh I assure you they are," Oldcastle says, "I've been invited to join a couple of times yes they're either working in total silence or talking very quickly about taxes, numbers, and funding. Damned exhausting. That's exactly what they're doing I guarantee it."
"Yeah I'm with Oldcastle I personally think he'd be much less hyper and the entire army would be a pleasanter place, if he were fucking something," I say.
"Well I don't know but it's not like—are you both looking at me?" Scrope asks, he has his head in his hands. We are in fact both looking at him.
"We keep you for a reason," I say, shrugging.
"I resent the implication to both of our characters—,"
"He says in front of dinner you're spending the night in his bedroom. Not the worst of the boys' sins," Oldcastle says. He's religious but not exhaustingly so. He's understanding of men's vices especially if they're harmless.
"Yeah we all know that. Everyone knows that," I say. I'm aware the Yorkshire man is handsome enough. I don't begrudge Henry his vices. He's like my little brother though so I'm a bit protective. The priest is far prettier and the man's charming company I don't mind when he pretends to flirt with me. Scrope is generally more sullen and I don't think he's as much fun for our young prince but eh if he wants him. Henry would view importing a woman a waste of time and he needs an advantageous marriage. He's only a soldier. More than that he's only a man.
"I'm not the cherished toy of late, battle is," Scrope says.
"No, but you could try," Oldcastle says, "Think of the men. They're out there digging a second ditch."
"Do you two know what you're saying?" Scrope asks, hurt, like his pretty self doesn't slink around behind our warrior prince like a lost puppy.
"Yeah," I say, nodding.
"We know exactly what we're saying. Whatever it is he and the priest got done last night was probably a worse sin than you if we're concerned about morality if he has nothing to occupy him but occupying the army," Oldcastle says, dryly, "You two weren't there when we searched Sycryth. The prince's mind should not be left to wander too long and that priest only encourages it."
"Courtenay isn't that bad," I say, because against my better judgement I like the man. Not only because he's got eyes the same color as the ocean and a wicked smile, but also because he's charming company I have spent a couple of banquets happily listening to him lie for no reason at all. He's entertaining and anyway Henry likes him.
"They're not good for each other," Oldcastle says, "I think this campaign proved that."
"No, but they're made for each other," I mutter, as Henry approaches. He's in his chest plate and is carrying a helmet he doesn't need, meaning he's sweating so much it's running in rivers into the hole in his face. It would be a grotesque mauling of his noble features, but I saw the arrow go in and held his elbow as he vomited blood, still leading the charge. He's got mercury in his veins, and I'm intensely relieved every time I see him alive after that. I was sure we'd lose him.
"My best commanders standing together in the shade? What will the men think?" Henry asks, but there's a note of humor to his voice.
"That we're having a war council, take that plate armor off do you not feel the heat?" I ask, trapping him in a hug and mopping his face with my sleeve. He laughs and wrestles me off all the same.
"I don't really, it doesn't bother me," he says. Probably reminds him of fire. "It reminds me of fire."  There it is.
"Come have luncheon, I'll tell you my daily reports," Scrope says, so resignedly.
"By and by, dine with me tonight, Harry. I might need you in my tent," Henry says, having won the wrestle match and now is affectionately strangling me.
"As you will," Scrope says.
"What? Are the two you disappointed? Bit better than Shrewsbury eh? Oldcastle doesn't mind the quiet," Henry says, still mauling me as I laugh. Courtenay and Edward and I determined he's got identical affections as one of his mastiffs. If he likes you he'll lean his whole big body against you till you pay attention to him. If he doesn't like you he'll stare at you or lean on you but this time it's to show dominance. We determined this last week, with the help of a lot of wine Henry didn't intend us to have but Courtenay's deceitful tongue got us.
"I don't mind the quiet but the men are getting restless," Oldcastle says.
"That's why we're digging ditches. There wasn't a lot of effort or enthusiasm the first time," Henry says, arm around my throat, resting his head on top of mine. He's so tall that he has to bend down to accomplish this.
"I understand the activity but I will express I'm fond of battle, Hal, at this point I'll joust the buggers one and again in single combat," I laugh.
"I do believe you would, if I let you, which I will not. If anyone is fighting them I am," Henry says, cracking my neck before letting me go. I duck away, laughing.
"When are you sending a parlay then? Demand surrender they're starved and nearly out of arrows," Oldcastle says.
"That's what Scrope is helping me go over tonight," Hal says, then he breaks laughing, "No Scrope's helping me go over other things, aren't you?" He wanders over to rest an elbow on Scrope's head and lean generally. 
"I don't know yet," Scrope says, a little awkwardly.
"You'll find out when I think of it. Anyway. No. They get a few more days. No parlay. No offer of peace yet. Do you know why?" Henry asks.
"Enlighten us," Oldcastle says, unable not to be amused at our young commander.
"When I thought one of my brothers had gone through my room, or misbehaved, or cheated at their lessons. I'd simply go into their room, and wait. I'd say nothing. I didn't accuse them often I had no evidence. I'd just wait. Within a few moments they'd be sobbing and confessing. Sometimes they'd admit to things I didn't even know they'd done," Henry says, leaning his full weight on Scrope who can just about take it. Henry is tall but he's lean, almost unusually so. I thought for a bit it was merely that he was growing so quickly but no, he's still remarkably slim and thin shouldered, despite wearing full plate armor all day and swinging swords with the rest of us.
"You'd—go stare at them in their room till they confessed to some crime?" Oldcastle asks, concerned.
"Sometimes I'd have a torch. Yes," Henry says. It's worth noting Henry's barely four years senior to his youngest brother. When the little one was six he was ten. He should not have been in charge.
"Please tell me you didn't do this very unsettling thing to your sisters?" I ask, laughing.
"No, Pippa and Blanche, and now my step sisters, confessed all when I ask if they've been good, that's all it takes. The boys, the intimidation is the thing and they've never needed lashes," Henry says, pleased with himself. Again he was probably twelve when this was happening he should not have been in charge.
"I think I'd prefer lashes," Scrope says.
"Is that a promise?" Henry asks, tugging on his hair.
"I'm talking of children, you'll have some of your own someday for their sake please lash them," Scrope says, wincing a bit but not fully moving because Henry's still using him to lean on.
"I'll probably have Father Courtenay talk them to death to be honest," Henry says, lightly, "After letting them stew a bit, speaking of. The campaign. In maybe another week, I'll send parlay demands. No point in sending them if they aren't going to agree."
"We don't know how much food they have in there," Oldcastle says, "They may wish to hold out."
"I'm planning very nice, very reasonable demands. Delivered by the most intoxicatingly annoying person alive," Henry says.
"You're having that priest do it?" Oldcastle asks.
"You're making Courtenay walk the demands in? Can I—come?" I ask, amused.
"Probably, I'll need a full report and he lies. Constantly," Henry says.
"Okay but by that description we all knew he meant that priest that's relevant," Scrope says. We all ignore him.
"He'll deliver the demands, they'll agree. We occupy without a fight. We're home before fall, and I attend Parliament on time," Henry says.
"Sounds like a plan," I say.
Oldcastle shrugs.
"What? No doubt? No words of advice you're all senior soldiers," Henry asks.
"No," I say.
"No, I completely believe that priest is so bloody irritating within a few hours they'll just agree to anything you put in the accords they won't even read it they'll sign it to get him to shut up," Oldcastle says.
"Yes, he's like the human version of a back ache it's primarily why I keep him," Henry says.
"Yes, and you're the human version of a thunderstorm, can I have the men practice swordplay, or jousting, or something they deem fun, not you, they, before they all desert or die of heatstroke in ditches?" I ask.
"Ditches are important. It's beneficial for them—,"
"They hate it," I say.
"And they're being paid to be here—,"
"And they will remember that if they enjoy themselves now and then? I'll organize activities for a day and you take tomorrow to do paperwork, all right?" I ask.
"What paperwork?" Henry asks.
"Do you ever, not, have paperwork you want to work on? We were hauling two huge bloody trunks I don't even know of what," I say.
"Fine, so long as you don't let them get drunk," Henry says.
"I won't, it will be productive, we will be productive," I say. Having a nice time and being a bit drunk is productive if you really think about it.