All the World (Hand in Hand Chronicles)

Chapter 20: "I fear me he is wreck'd upon the sea"

I am exiled. For the third time. That's a phrase no man should have to say.
"All right, before we get down to details, is this a record?" I ask, over a supper which will turn more into a debate.
"Not one we're proud of," Aimee says.
"I think it is," Alice says.
"We'll go Ghent. That's not far. I can ride," Maggie says.
"You cannot ride," we all say, in unison.
It's end of August and Maggie is five months gone with child. She was always slim and the pregnancy is obvious on her, making riding and transportation in general a hazard to her and our unborn baby. She's finally feeling better and eating better, which is good, but the fact remains she's too far gone to ride long distances. Besides that, my daughter is only just old enough to sit before me on a horse, and even then not for long periods. A litter is required for both of them, and that will take even longer.
"You're not coming now, they'll set a date in a few months you'll be near full term," I say.
"But—," Maggie begins.
"Let's do this logically. You two are a hell of a lot more good to her than I am at the moment," I say, "Let me go somewhere. Arrange a house. Then I'll send for all of you come spring. That's easy enough to do me, as one person. And how would they know if I set foot back in England? I can come myself and tell you of arrangements make sure we agree. You're in confinement. I've by then altered my appearance they shan't know me. I hide with you for Christmas and the baby's born. I leave and send for you, you come in spring you can travel with a few months old child. All right?"
They look at each other.
"He's right," Aimee says, taking a deep breath.
"But where are you going to go?" Alice asks.
"I don't know yet. Richmond gave me an Italian lawyer. My best case scenario is I go to Italy, appeal to the Pope in person and get permission to go on a holy war, and Edward joins us for that, that's a terrible plan I know but its all I've got. That gets him out of England too. We just never go back," I say.
"Don't come back over the holidays. It might come early and—once you're gone just stay," Maggie says, hand on her belly.
"No. I'm being there," I say, flatly. I'll be damned if I leave her to have our child alone. "You're not doing this alone. Not a discussion."
"It's getting ridiculous," Aimee says, "She's right. We need to go. I know you love Edward—,"
"I'm not leaving him either. Or giving up on him. But I admit a tactical retreat is in order," I say, "What do we say? Italy this go? We've done islands. Just work our way around Europe being exiled?"
"It's not even funny anymore," Alice sighs.
"It's a little funny," Aimee says.
"I mean, it's that or we go mad," Maggie says.
"When I someday tell that baby about the, please dear god, maximum three times I've been exiled, I'm going to tell it funny," I say.
I make financial arrangements in October. I'm planning to be gone at least five years. I get safe passage to London to put that into motion, and to arrange for my household to be returned to England from Scotland. That involves a litter for Maggie and our Flower, and a baggage train for our belongings. Richmond and I confer and he agrees that's a safe bet. He also offers whatever aid he can in caring for Maggie while I'm away.
"Oh, you are not planning to do something romantic and come back for that child's birth. Tell me you are not that stupid."
"Oh I've a feeling I am," I say, smiling.
He covers my face with one hand, and finishes both our cups of wine.
"I agree, it's time to retreat," I say.
"Piers, I love you as a son. These people will end your life if you break this exile," he says, "It is in law that they can. They can now legally kill you. Do not let them. You do not do that child or its mother any good dead. Do not give them a chance to harm you."
"I will not," I say, gripping his shoulder.
I'm,  of course, once again, not the Earl of Cornwall. I make a little joke about an Earldom not changing hands this many times in history and all the nice records I'm breaking. No one finds me funny, but I do, so that's the main thing really to focus on.
I do, however, put Wallingford Castle in Maggie's name. Before the Earldom is revoked and Edward sees that it stays that way. She now owns it clearly. And she is not exiled. Our plan is for her to join me. But now she and the rest of the family have somewhere safe to live until the baby is born.
I appoint attorneys to handle my affairs in England for five years. Ideally, I'll have removed all ties within a year, but for now I have a small child, and an unborn child, here whose interests need to be protected.
I say my goodbyes at Wallingford at the end of October. By now, Maggie is heavily pregnant, with only two months left of the pregnancy we weren't a moment too soon getting her here for the remainder of her time. She's feeling less miserable, now hungry constantly and packing on baby weight. She's soft and thick in my arms when I squeeze her goodbye.
"We'll be okay," she whispers, as I hold her.
"I will see you soon," I say, kissing the top of her head. I kneel and put my face to her now huge belly, "I'll see you as well, be good for your mama."
Aimee and Alice are also crying. I've now been crying for days. They both launch themselves into my arms.
"I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. We're gonna laugh about this all right? Record breaking three exiles?" I ask, squeezing them.
"Don't you dare make me laugh," Aimee says.
"We'll be good, just be safe," Alice says.
I kneel down before my little Flower. She's in one of her nice yellow dresses, tears plump on her pudgy cheeks.
"I'll be back. I promise. I love my girl," I say, making our hand gesture that tells her I love her. She does it back, sniffling.
"I love you papa," she says, hugging me. I pick her up, her little soft arms around my neck.
"You are the bravest little girl in the whole world. Papa loves you, you take good care of your mama and Auntie Aimee and Auntie Maggie okay?" I ask.
"Yes," she nods.
"I love you, I love you," I kiss her cheeks.
And with a few more tears, I leave for London, and Edward. I can't look back. For years they're all I've had. And once more I'm alone. For the first time probably since I was fifteen. Without my family with me, or even a step behind, I feel so truly alone. Even when I came to Langley I had Aimee. Now I've got nothing. And more than that, I made it all worse. I'm leaving Maggie carrying my child, my little daughter, and my sister has no where to go. And I am alone.
And Edward? I fear for his sanity. He's nearly lost his crown. He holds it in name only. And perhaps worse. He's losing me too. I meet him one last time in his parlor at Windsor. I'm to leave on the 1st of November, from Dover.
"Just stay. Stay with me. You said you'd stay with me," he nearly shakes me.
"I have a four year old daughter. A sixteen year old. And an unborn child. And I have you. I cannot die on any of you," I say, Richmond's counsel keeps me strong. I'm right. I can't throw away my life on them. My daughter needs me alive. Maggie needs me alive she can't be made a widow and her baby an orphan. "Do you hear me? My life is cheap in England now."
"I won't let them take you. I'll bring you back. That's all," he says. "I'll wait a bit I can charm them again."
"Okay," I sigh.
"You don't believe me?"
"Edward. Three times," I say, so tiredly.
"Fine. Go. You want to leave me then go," he says, walking away from me.
"No, you don't get to put this on me. I don't want to do this. You think I fucking want this? I fucking wanted to be knight. I wanted to be a tournament champion I wanted to joust. I didn't want to be a goddamn fugitive where my fucking sister is praying for my life!" I cry.
"Then don't leave me!" He cries, "Stay with me—just stay. You're the one who wants to leave."
"This is tearing me apart! Don't you fucking blame me! This isn't me. This isn't you. This is them. And I don't want to go," I say, tears running down my face, "My life is a disgrace. I'm ruined. For you, I've ruined myself. So you don't get to hate me. I'm walking away from a woman who is having my child in two months. From my baby girl who cries when I leave for a couple of days. From my sister who's stuck by me god knows why since the first time I fucked you! And for the first time in my life. I want to hate me too. They've done all that to me I don't know who or what I am anymore. So fine I guess. Fucking blame me too. Everything else does."
"I lost my kingdom for you," he says, tears streaming down his face, "My father, tore chunks of hair from my head. When I told him I wasn't going to stop loving you."
I stand there, tears on my cheeks.
"I told him I could not," he says, moving his hair to show the scar.
"Well there's the difference. I told him I would not. And this is where it's fucking gotten me," I say, spreading my arms out.
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't quit! I won't leave you. I choose you time and again, I destroyed myself," I cry.
"Where are you going to go?" He asks, voice shaking, "When you leave me?"
"I'll tell you when I get there," I say, turning around to leave.
"Don't leave," he whispers.
"This isn't just you anymore. We're not fifteen, Edward. I can't skip out of sparring to come rowing with you. Right now. I have to leave. I have no choice. But I'm not leaving you. So when you're pouting. And feeling sorry for yourself. You don't get to think that I left you. Or that I quit loving you. You get to think. About how someone. Loved you so much. He ruined himself. His life. His name. His family. His future. For you. And because he's fucked in the head. He still loves you, even when he hates you," I say, pointing at him with a shaking hand.
He sobs bitterly into his hands.
I turn and leave. He calls my name and for once, I don't turn around.
I'm supposed to leave on the first of November from Dover. Nobody told the ship schedules that. I am on foot with a bag on my back. I am taking no real property. So the next ship is the second of November. I spend the night on the docks.
And I sail down the Thames.
The ship docks in Flanders. I've never been. But most docks are the same. I find a tavern.
For months I've been growing a beard, and my hair is nearly to my shoulders.
I shave myself clean, and cut my hair off till it's so short I look like a beggar. I'm still wearing two of Edward's rings. Protection, advice from Richmond so long ago to protect myself with some pawnable jewelry.
I string that onto a chain around my neck.  Then I take the razor to one of my eyebrows. I cut thick enough chunk from it the hair shouldn't grow back. One more solid slice down my cheekbone and I'm suitable scarred.
I don't recognize my own face so changed. I've not been fully clean shaven since I could grow a beard, while usually I kept it shorter than Edward. I could pass for a boy of sixteen with the smooth cheeks. I haven't eaten since I left england and take nothing but a sip of wine. After my time doing relatively little in Scotland I've grown heavier, with a smooth layer of fat obscuring my past muscles. It's not uncommon for a knight not in war. But right now I need to look nothing like the man I was.
I'm unrecognizable to my own self with a few weeks of fasting. It's just December. I dare to send the first messages home. And I have a meeting. Finally I leave my tavern looking mostly a new man. I'm wearing worn clothes of a laborer. And thanks to Edward I've spent enough time around laborers to pretend to be one. And so I head out to the appointed meeting place. Just a public market, praying I won't be stood up.
"Arnaud?" I recognize my brother almost before he does me. Of course clean shaven I look more like the boy he bid farewell to over a decade ago.
"You got tall," he says.
"You got fat," I laugh.
He looks the wealthy landowner, with a rich red tunic, and thick beard and belly.
"I can't believe you came," I say, approaching.
He steps back as I move to embrace him.
"Nor can I," he says, looking me up and down.
"I see," I say, stopping, ice in my veins.
"There are rumors of you," he says, quietly.
"All the rumors are true. Well. The good ones," I say.
"Damn it, Perot, what have you done to yourself?" He asks, softly.
"I think you know."
He looks at me with utter sadness. Like my life is already over.
"We always knew you were different, when you were small mother used to put flowers by your bed because you coughed at night. You'd pull them down and play joust. The nurse got cross, but she said you just wouldn't be tamed," he says, softly, "Why?"
"Why what?" I ask.
"Is it true what you've done?" He asks.
"Are you going to help me or not?" I ask.
"I asked you. Is it true?"
"That will judge if you care for me? You need to know that first?" I ask, frowning.
He sighs.
"Yeah. Yes. I love him. There you are. All the rumors are true. I'm a bloody, filthy little sodomite. Dirty. Freak. Pick your adjective. I own them. I've gotten older but no wiser. I'm as much of a mess as always or I wouldn't be standing here. But consider when you find it exhausting to try to help me pick myself up one last time, consider how terrible it is for me to keep on being me. I think it's obvious I can't help myself," I say, spreading my arms out. "And yeah, better not touch me. You don't want to catch it."
"Why are you like this? Still, stubborn as fuck Piers—,"
"Because I love him. That's not wrong. Find me some law some verse that says my love is wrong. It is not. It's the only thing I've gotten right," I sigh.
"You can't say things like that," he shakes his head.
"Love. Love is free," I say, "It's not contained in any of your laws or in any part of Scripture. I get to love him. There's nothing sordid in that."
"He's the bloody king of england, Piers! I realize you're—fucking like this—but why in god's name did you have to choose the king of bloody England to be fucking?" Arnaud despairs of me.
"I didn't choose. I fell in love with him. I still love him. And if you can't at least get by that then go. I haven't seen you in ten years. I've been to hell and back because of this—,"
"Doesn't it occur to you maybe God's punishing you?" He asks.
"Oh. You think all of England is hunting me because God told them that this little freak got fucked up the ass, better hunt him down—mmm," he covers my mouth so he does touch me. So I nearly win.
"You're mad," Arnaud slowly moves his hand.
"Yes. I am. I'm mad to think you could help me," i say.
"What is it you want?" He sighs. There are tears in his eye but he blinks them away.
"My wife is pregnant. She's due in January—,"
"Hell, you're married?"
"Yes. Move on. My wife's heavily pregnant. I also have a daughter. She's four. Aimee still lives with me she's not wed. She and my daughter's mother, and her, and the baby, and my wife, need to come and join me. I'm exiled again like I explained," I sigh.
"Yes, how has this happened to you three times—,"
"I don't even know. But the girls need to come and join me. I need to let a house somewhere near the coast. So we can easily get here with the babies," I say.
"You have a little girl?" He asks, softly.
I nod, "She's four. Pretty, red hair like her mum, she can count things already, smart as anything."
He sighs again, "I can't do it."
"Let me a house. They won't look in your name, they're hunting for me," I say, "Please. I need a house let on the French coast, just for a year or so while I work things out. I'm going to Italy but while the baby's little it can't make the voyage, that's long."
"What do you think you're going to do in Italy Piers? Fuck the Pope?"
"Fuck you, but that was funny," I say.
"It wasn't meant to be," he sighs.
"I know. I'm finding it funny. Come on, Arnaud. Are you really going abandon me like this? I'm your brother. I've got the money I just need it let in your name," I say.
"You've made your bed, Piers."
"I'm your fucking brother," I say, hearing my voice break, "You're supposed to be my family."
"I'm sorry," he sighs, "It's god's judgment."
"Then why did god make me like this?" I ask, gripping my chest.
"I'm sorry. I still pray for you," he says.
"I have a child and another on the way what do you think good prayers does them? We need somewhere to live," I beg.
"Where is our sister now?" He asks
"With them. I secured them somewhere in England till the baby's born," I say.
"Why can't they stay there?" He asks.
"Because those children bear my name. I'm wanted in England. Imagine if I have a son, born, he'll not be safe. And I want my family," I say, wiping my face with the back of my hands, "Those kids aren't supposed to grow up not knowing their father."
"You should have thought of them when you were doing all else with the king of England," he says.
"That is not fair. I have committed no sin but love. What sins have you committed in the name of love that's not fucking fair, Arnaud! You didn't say that about me having a child out of wedlock nobody cares about that," I say.
"Because it's a woman."
"It's still unholy!" I cry, "I'm not asking you to accept me. I'm begging you to help me. My children shouldn't suffer. Fine, for what I did. Fine. I'm the villain. I'm not the hero any longer. Probably true, heroes don't lose this often. I'm the fucking villain then. But children aren't. They deserve to be safe. If you can't help me for me, help me for them."
"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, taking a step back.
"I've got the money. I just need help finding and letting it," I plead, "Please. Please. Please. Don't do this."
"In your last letter, nearly seven years ago you said you weren't going to change. Well looks like you haven't. This is all your fault," he says.
"Apparently but I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. I truly don't. I'm exiled for my love. I'm cast out for love. I can't do anything my hands are tied. Every game I play is rigged. Everything is broken. I can't fix it anymore, but I'm trying. Please, I'm trying. It's terrible and fucked up and it's not even working but I'm fucking trying," I say.
"You made your choices. Now you live with the consequences," he says, taking another step back, "I'm sorry."
"Then why did you come?" I sob.
"You're my brother. I had to see if the rumors were true," he says, "You deserved that."
"If I am such a sinner don't I deserve compassion?" I ask.
"I'm sorry," he says one more time. Then he turns and walks away into the crowd.
I fall to my knees, sobbing bitterly. It's over. He truly has forsaken me.
But it seems God hasn't. I give up on the idea of renting a house. It's mid December and now I need to focus on getting home. The baby is due soon.
Instead I prepare to let a place in Italy. And I arrange to charter a ship. We'll sail once the baby is strong enough, perhaps next summer. Till then I'll hide on the coast. But I'll slip into the country for the child to be born.
I'm surprised to get a letter from Edward with my next set of correspondence.  It's curt at best, but welcome.
It says this: