All the World (Hand in Hand Chronicles)

Chapter 23: "Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale"

I said it was a love story.
Not a happy story.
But it's not over yet. I die. I die, and they strike off my head. And they leave my body by the side of the road. Perhaps that's why I'm not at rest. I was excommunicated as well. That isn't helping either. Maybe it's that I didn't want to go. And I wasn't ready.
Either way I'm not really gone.
The news reaches Edward first. He and Isabella are at York. And messengers bring him news that monks have found my body. They sew my head back on and take the jewels that Edward had given me. The monks are from one of his priory's so they take care of my corpse. But they can't bury me as I'm excommunicated.
Edward's grief is so deep he has nowhere to go. It's like a part of him has been ripped out. And he does not know how to react.
"You lie—no—-no, I'd—you're lying—tell me you're lying," he breaths, staring at the messenger in horror.
"My lord they collected his body from the side of the road. Not two miles from Warwick castle," the messenger quivers, "His head was stricken off. These were on the corpse."
He holds out the jewels.
Edward screams. He paces and he smacks the wall. He has no clue what to do. And he can't feel me. I can no longer comfort him. I try. I'm here. I'm still here just like I promised you.
Tears stream down his face. He screams again. Servants come. They love him and they fear for him.
"Why was he with Warwick? He knew better. Why would he go with Warwick he knew not to trust him," Edward sobs.
I didn't go with Warwick, Edward. You know that. I was murdered. You can't face that I was murdered. Sure, blame me. Why not.
"They are caring for his body," the messenger says, gently.
"They should have cared for him! Why? Why? Why—," Edward breaths. Then he falls to the floor simply sobbing. Someone summons Isabella. The young queen is now about four months pregnant with their first child. She's still pale, and looks nervously at the messenger. She's likely never seen her husband this distraught.
She goes to Edward, gently laying an arm around him.
"Perhaps it was a duel. Or an accident?" Isabella offers, trying to help.
"There was violence to the body, my lady," the messenger winces.
"They tore him apart," Edward sobs, just rocking back and forth, "How could he leave me like that?"
I didn't leave you.
I want to scream it. But he can't hear.
I didn't leave you.
"Why?" Edward lets her hold him as he sobs, "Why would they take him from me?"
I can do nothing. I can't comfort him. I just feel his pain.
Next they tell my girls. All of them are at Wallingford. Waiting for me. As promised. But I will never make it there. Aimee knows. I think she knows.
"His body was found by the road. Presumably he was killed in a duel," they say.
"No," Aimee says.
"He wouldn't be dead if he were in a duel," Alice spits.
"No," Aimee says, tears leaking down her face.
Maggie is shaking, "Where is he? I want to see him. Where is he?"
"His body was conveyed to a priory," they skip the part where I lay by the road for days. I think Aimee has known. She looks like she knew but she couldn't believe it, she didn't want it to be true.
"I want to see my husband," Maggie cries, "They killed him."
"The corpse had been there for sometime."
Oh they were saving that bit that's nice.
"It's not clear what killed him," the messenger goes on.
"THEY MURDERED HIM. HE WAS MY BEST GODDAMN FRIEND," Maggie screams, just flying at the man. Alice stops her. Aimee is just breaking down. Hugging herself.  Her worst fears.
"HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND," Maggie falls to the ground, sobbing.
"Go," Alice says to the messenger, "Get out of here."
"No," Maggie sobs, fists to her face, "Why? I want an answer."
"Because sometimes people are wicked. And being good doesn't mean you'll win," Aimee says, trying to breathe evenly.
"Let's go see the girls, I need to tell her," Alice says, biting back tears. She has to tell our daughter.
"Yes, come," Aimee says, helping Maggie up. The girl leans on her, still shaking.
The nursery is hastily set up. They've only just made it here themselves. Flower leans in the doorway, waiting. Tiny creature in a little white dress, red hair and sweet dimples like her mother.
"Is Papa here?" She asks, very quietly. Then she sees her mother's tears, "What's wrong mama?"
Alice runs to her and scoops her up in her arms.
Aimee is clearly trying to keep herself all right. I want to take her in my arms. But I cannot. I'm gone.
Maggie goes to the cradle where our daughter lays. I haven't seen the little girl in weeks. She has dark hair like me, and her eyes are fading to green. Maggie picks her up, pressing her face into her child's soft hair.
"Your papa isn't coming back," Alice says, softly, balancing our daughter in her arms.
"Why?" Flower asks, frowning.
"He got hurt, and he died. So he's looking after us from heaven," Alice says.
"He was excommunicated," Maggie whispers.
"What?" Flower frowns, unable to comprehend it. She's never had someone in her life die before.
"Do we know if that's official though? Canterbury just said that," Aimee muses. She has a point. But I'm not really gone.
"They're not even going to bury him they can't," Maggie says, rocking our baby back and forth, "What are they going to do now, come for this child too?"
"No, we'll fight them," Alice says.
"We have no course of action. The king will send for us. Or we go to a nunnery," Aimee says.
She's right that is all they can do now.  They didn't even bring them the jewels I had, which technically they should have.
"I have this castle in my name. And I have income. Before he was to be exiled Piers put what money he had into estate for our child, regardless of it being a son. Joan is his heir. And we're not leaving," Maggie says, firmly.
"I don't think the king is going to just leave us here," Aimee predicts, "And it's already obvious that laws, and rightful heirs, have no bearing on these men's actions! If they were playing by the rules my brother would be alive! He was no criminal, they simply murdered him. And I will not let them kill his daughters."
"Why can't papa come back? I dream about monsters he said he'd stop them," Flower mumbles, tears on her cheeks.
She still has nightmares. I told her I'd fight them. When she goes to sleep that night I try to go to her. I hope she knows I'm still watching over her. But I don't know if she does. I don't know if any of them feel me.
I think Edward is losing me. I can't find him. He won't admit I'm gone. The girls do. They hug my children. They cry. And they wait.
Edward has my body kept at Oxford. But he doesn't bury me, just having the friars dress me in a cloth of gold.
And so I must wait in the Oxford priory. Waiting for what? I don't know. I can't end. I'm an invisible ghost and I'm forever simply watching. I don't know why I'm not always with them. But I'm not.
Aimee comes to my body alone. Edward does not. I don't think he can.
Aimee walks around the table. They sewed my head back on. But even though they washed me they couldn't wash away the injuries inflicted before death. My feet clearly had been bare for days, they're cut. My face bruised. Knuckles bloodied. The corpse of a man who fought to the end.
"I can still feel you," Aimee says, kneeling on the stone. I am beside her and try to take her hand.
I'm right here.
"I miss you so much," she says, hand curling slowly around mine, "Why are you still here?"
I don't know.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers.
I'm sorry too.
"I'm so sorry we couldn't save you," she whispers.
It's okay. I'm glad of what I got. Have a good life now.
I don't even know if she ever heard me. Or we both just knew what the other would say. And wanted the other to be there.
Edward takes charge of my estate. Of course he does. That is something he would handle personally. And now my daughters are in his custody. As Maggie's next male relative, he holds her estates.
Why are you sending my daughter to a priory?
"Why are you sending my daughter to a priory?" Maggie asks, holding Joan in her arms. The baby is now seven maybe eight months old. And hauntingly similarly to her poor handsome dead father. Green wide set eyes, dark brown hair, the start of high cheekbones and pitted cheeks.
"Because they murdered her father. And I didn't think they'd do that. Or I'd not have left him. So I'm done. Expecting that good things can happen. They cannot touch her there," Edward says.
"He wouldn't want that," Maggie says.
"He's dead," Edward says, voice bubbling with anger.
But I still don't want her locked up. We were supposed to be a family.
"You took Alice to mind your nursery, with her baby," Maggie argues, "When the child is born—,"
"The world needs to forget his daughter exists. Or they'll do to her what they did to her father," Edward says. "You can remarry. But I will not let his daughter suffer the same fate. That is not a risk I'm taking. I take no risks anymore."
"Do you really think he would have ever lived his life in a cage? If he'd had the choice that fool would have done it all again the same," Maggie says, voice shaking.
Oh. So Maggie knows me. Very well. Is that good? I'm going with yes.
"He wouldn't want his daughter caged up either," Maggie says.
"Well he's dead. So he doesn't get that choice," Edward says, bitterly, "She is going to the priory. I will mind her affairs. You may visit her as you wish till I arrange a marriage for you."
"You didn't learn anything from him, did you?" She asks.
"That's enough," Edward says, tears are in his eyes, "I loved him."
"I loved him too," Maggie says, holding our daughter, "Just let me keep her here. Give me my estates from him, he left money for her we'll be fine."
"My decision is final," Edward says, and then he leaves.
Don't put her in a priory, Edward. I know you're scared. But don't do that.
It's not unusual for an orphan to be raised in a priory where there are family members, cousins and the like, to care for it. However, it is unusual when the mother lives, and has every ability to mind the child's care, and when Edward himself will have an established nursery soon. There's little reason Maggie and Joan couldn't live with him and Isabella at least for the next few years until something else got sorted.
Richmond gets the news last. I'm surprised I feel him. But a messenger simply relays that the King's favorite has been killed, by the Earls. They are saying they put me to death for my crimes, a thin guise for murder.
"Goddamn it," Richmond breaths, a hand to his face.
You were always kind to me. Thank you.
"Oh god Piers," he sighs, pacing away from the messenger, "Not you too."
Help Maggie if she needs it. Or Aimee I don't know where she's going to go.
I don't know where I'm going to go either.
Edward keeps my body for two years. He refuses, stubbornly to bury me. Till his revenge is complete? Till I'm no longer excommunicated? No. He tells no one why. But finally he has my body moved from Oxford to Langley, where he'll finally put me to rest. I wonder if I'll be at rest now. This endless, sleepless existence. They reach out to me but I can't reach them. It's a quiet torture, and Edward does not speak to me or visit me. He simply pays others to pray for my soul. Of course I'm right here.
It's the middle of winter and a few nobles come. Including the Despensers. Aimee isn't there, where is she? Where is my sister why is she not at my funeral? And my daughters where are they?
Also Hereford is here. He's one of the ones who was with Lancaster that awful day. So he has a lot of nerve. Why is Hereford at my funeral, Edward?
Isabella and Edward act as though my funeral, two years late, is normal. My coffin is sealed, the corpse rather decayed after this time. Maggie is not here. Is she safe? Where are my girls, Edward?
I finally get my answer. I don't know if it's my torment or if Maggie finally looks for me.
But she's in a priory. Her hair is loose as though she no longer cares what people think. She can't be yet twenty.
"Joanie," she kneels, holding out her arms. Our daughter runs from nurses into her mother's waiting arms. The little girl is beautiful. Her hair thick and a bit curly like her mother's. But she is still my copy, more feminine perhaps, but even in girlhood she has the same sharp eyes and shape to her face as I did in life. Even her hand gestures, eerily the same. I only met her as an infant. I wonder if this is why Edward keeps her locked away.
"Here, I brought you something from your sister," Maggie says.
"Can I come play with Aimee?" Joan whispers.
"No, your sister will come see you in a few weeks," Maggie says, fishing something from her pocket, "Here, she wanted me to bring you this."
One of the toy carved horses I gave her. She's giving it to her little sister. "Your papa made these for her."
"I want a toy sword but the nurses said no," Joan says, clutching the horse possessively.
"Hm, we'll have to see about that. When you get really big, I've got your papa's real sword you can have," Maggie says, "You know when we married I made him get me a sword."
"I like swords."
"Of course you do," Maggie grins, kissing the little girl's head, "I'm here all week. Do you want to play knights?"
Joan nods her head so hard her little curls flop.
"Then that's what we'll do," Maggie say. She carries the little girl out to the yard and they find sticks for swords. The nuns clearly disapprove but Maggie ignores them. She play fences with our little girl till the child is happy to fall asleep in her arms.
She stares up at the clouds passing overhead, holding our daughter who is contentedly asleep.
"We're okay, Piers," Maggie says. And I swear she sees me.
I knew you would be. I just wanted to be there with you.
I don't know where Edward is. He isn't trying to find me. Or I simply can't reach him. I hear Flower's laughter. She's not a baby anymore.
"This is where my father's buried," she's a girl still, perhaps thirteen. Red curls like her mother, but thin and getting tall like I was in life. She's wearing a now muddied dress and is leading a little boy. The boy is grubby, and holding a toy sword. He's maybe seven? I can't tell. He has gold curls and blue eyes, I realize this is Edward's child, clearly it's his boy.
"It is?" The boy asks, cheerfully, looking about.
"Yes. They won't find us in here," she says, rubbing dirt from his face with her sleeve, "You're a mess Lionel. When are you going to stop running off from your tutors?"
"When my father lets me go jousting," the boy bounces, "Did your father joust?"
"Yes," she smiles, "My mother says he was good."
They walk over to my tomb. It's splendid. Usually Edward has people praying here for me. But now it's quiet, except for the naughty children.
"Bet he'd have taught me how to joust," the boy says, leaning on the tomb idly.
"Probably. When I was little he'd hold me up and let me play jousting using him or the dogs," she smiles.
You remember that? You were tiny. I used to put you on my shoulders with a toy lance. You loved it.
"I remember we were in Scotland I think, I'm not sure," she says, "He died before you were born."
"Jousting? Is that why my father won't let me?" The boy asks.
No, he's always been like that.
"No, it's because he doesn't want you hurt," she says.
"I'm not going to get hurt," the boy scoffs, "You're not going to tell my father I was trying to run away to the tournament—are you?"
"No. I caught you. And I don't think it would do much good," she says, smiling, "No, if my father were alive he'd probably have been sneaking off with you."
That I would have.
"He had a warhorse, he'd let me ride in front of him on it even when I was little. I'd pretend we were jousting," she smiles.
"Father's never going to let me enter a tournament is he?" The boy winces.
"Probably not, I'm sure you'll work it out though. And you'll probably blackmail me into covering for you like usual," she grins.
He does too.
"Father if you can hear us, help our new Prince Edward get into a joust sometime, eh?" She asks.
I'd love nothing more.
"Thank you. And stop my father from finding out," the boy says, patting the tomb.
Yeah, Edward doesn't need to worry about that. You're busy being a little boy. Keep him guessing.
They both laugh, and she wraps her arm around his shoulders. She remembers me. And she is happy. She's in Edward's household. Playing with his kids. She spoke of her mother, so Alice lives? Or lived for some time after me? I don't know. She didn't mention my sister, where is my sister? And why doesn't Edward talk to me? They didn't mention Joan either.
Joan is still in the priory.
She's kneeling on the stone floor, of a little room. It's a fine room, with expensive tapestries on the walls, and a lot of furs piled on the bed. She's in a fine dress and her dark hair is braided back. But she still clearly is my child, other than her nose which is shorter like her mother's she is obviously related to me, same dark brown eyes heavily layered with green. And apparently the same habit of closing one eye to focus.
She's holding my dagger? Well I did tell Aimee to get her that. She has the one Edward gave to me. All those years ago. By now she is what? Thirteen? Something like that she's getting tall, but she's still clearly a child. So more time has passed. Edward why is my daughter locked up in a priory?
"I'm sorry if this would make you cross," she says, looking at the dagger, "But I sort of don't think it would. And I'm going to do it anyway."
I'm not cross with you. But what are you doing? And that was just the sort of thing I'd say.
She's looking at a letter. It's from Edward, or rather his scribe.
"I'm not going to marry him," she says, quietly.
Edward why are you arranging for a marriage for my little girl? She's not fourteen. Just because we were kind to our wives doesn't mean other men are.
She folds up the letter and puts it under her pillow. Then she picks up another note. This one is to her mother. So she knows where her mother is she's just still in the priory. I assume Maggie's been visiting her.
"Sorry mum," she kisses the letter and puts it on her pillow. Child are you running away?
She takes my dagger, and rather expertly cuts off her braid, short at the shoulders. Then she tosses the hair into the fire.
What are you doing?
"I really really have to do this. Please don't be cross," she says, to my dagger. Then she crawls under the bed and pulls out a roll of clothes.
Joan Gaveston I will find a way to tell your mother what you are doing —what are you doing, child?
She's changing into—a tunic, and a pair of practical boots. She's dressing a boy that's why she cut her hair. To run away from the priory all right. That's clever enough.
She straps on my dagger onto the girdle, patting it happily. Then she puts a purse about her neck.
She sorts now under her bed. She has a couple of letters saved. One is in my hand? Her mother gave her some of my old correspondence to see? I suppose that makes sense especially if it was my letters to her from exile. There would have been some from when Maggie was carrying her and I was professing my attachment to her and our child, so that I suppose was nice that she kept it. 
Joan checks one, one more time, and then tucks it into her tunic.
Then she goes to a window.
There's a perfectly serviceable door. I don't know what I expected.
She crawls out the window and onto the roof. She has to escape the priory. That makes sense I suppose. But where does she think she's going?
I don't know where we are. Or where the priory is so I don't get my answer. Joan seems to know where she's walking, though, and quickly lies her way aboard a cart to the coast. Is she in England still or did Edward move her?
I lose her for a time. Then she speaks to me again. And once more I'm there. As there I can be now.
She's approaching an estate. She's a bit worse for the wear with a couple of bruises on her face and dirt on her clothes. But she's walking up to a castle. It's summer. It looks like people are jousting.
"You'd better be telling the truth," she says, looking at a letter. It is mine, I know my hand, and it's addressed to her mother. Please be going to your mother. 
The keep is clearly occupied. Men are training, jousting and the like. Joan wipes sweat from her face.
"I need to see the Earl of Richmond," she says, to one of the pages. She holds up my letter, "I have a message for him."
You do not? Also does he still live?
He does. Richmond is standing in the shade watching knights spar, idly, sipping a cup of wine. He's older than I recall, with white through his hair and more lines upon his face.
"Earl Richmond?" Joan asks.
Richmond takes one look at my green eyed, arrogant, clearly saucy, offspring, wearing my bloody dagger, obviously having recently been in a fight, and that man finishes his entire cup of wine. Pours himself another. And drinks that. Then he answers.
"Yes?" He asks, as though he didn't just do that.
"My father said you were like a father to him. Well I want to be a knight. Will you let me be a squire?" Joan asks.
You want to be a knight. Of course you do. Maggie please don't blame me it is my fault but you're the one who wanted a sword as a wedding gift.
Richmond pours himself another cup of wine, drinks it then, says, "Your name?"
"Gaveston."
He breaths deeply, "Does your mother know where you are?"
She nods.
Liar.
"Liar," Richmond says, "Go inside. Write to your mother."
"I want to be a knight. I have no mother really. I'm a bastard," Joan says.
"I actually knew your father. I also knew your mother. That's your father's weapon, I know it well," Richmond says.
Joan withers a little, "Please my lord? In his letters my father said you could help us."
Please.
"That was over —yes. Yes, Piers, I'll look after her," he says, very quietly.
Thank you.
"Yes of course you can be a knight. Why not," pouring himself more wine up to the brim of his cup.
"Thank you," Joan bounces, "I'll be very good, I'll do whatever you say."
"I doubt it," Richmond says, but he nearly smiles. His eyes drift up and for a moment meet mine. "We'll be fine."
Joan smiles once more. She's happy. He'll make sure Maggie knows where she is. He said Maggie still lives.
So they don't need me anymore. They never did I suppose. But I did like being there.
I'm almost fully gone. They reach out less and less. I wonder what will happen to me. Is this how death feels? I'm getting weaker. And weaker.
Edward is sitting on a hillside. Overlooking the water. I don't recognize the cliff. It's not England, Scotland perhaps? I don't know. He's—he's so much older than we were. His hair is nearly all grey. And he has a scar I don't recognize. Once strong limbs are thin with age and time, and there's lines upon his face.
He's looking out over the water.
Why can't you feel me?
"I can always feel you," he says, quietly, "I wanted to hold onto you."
You kept me here.
"No. I never held onto you. You were holding onto me," he says, looking over at me, "I've missed you so much."
I swore I wouldn't leave you.
"You didn't," he says, tipping his face to mine. He winces, clutching his chest.
You're hurt.
"I'm dying, Piers," he says, "Finally I'm coming to you."
I didn't want to leave you.
"You didn't. We'll be together," he says, softly.
I don't know what's going to become of me.
"Let go now," he says, softly, "You've held for so long."
"I missed you," I say, feeling my hand curl around his as we sit on the rock.
"No longer," he says, hand gripping mine.
"I don't know what's going to happen," I say.
"Nor do I. Let's find out together, eh?" He asks, gripping my hand in his own.
"Yes. Together. I'd like that."

The end