Seat of Mars

Chapter 4: ...my body shall make good upon this earth

Richard

The rest of the day is shrouded by smoke. We get word the Lancasters are fleeing London, which means we can move in to help put the fires out. Exeter takes his men around the city to secure it from the Lancasters and capture any remaining troops. I direct Kent and Roger to have their men work to help stop the fires, and to evacuate those who were displaced. I command a couple of Lancaster houses for the purpose of housing those who were put out by the fires, simple enough, though the logistics of all of it takes an age. I spend most of the day riding through the smoke filled streets. The rain does us some good and by the time dusk is beginning to fall the fires at least aren't spreading.
I'm actually soothed by organizing the defense of the city. That is my father in me, I am calmed by the routine of directing the men, solving the odd problem, and ensuring the city is secure for the night. We're going one day at a time now. The Lancasters are likely fled to Kenilworth, which is impregnable but I fully trust Bolingbroke is simply dumb enough to come out and fight me again. And now I'll have a larger army, the more time I have the more people I can win to my cause. My cause being the rightful king of England.
Even so, how close I am to defeat is remarkably sobering. I'm well aware there was a vast element of luck that let me win today. London itself is clearly on edge, they experienced the whiplash of assuming I started the fires, to realizing I was sending people to put them out so possibly not? Some people don't get to the second bit and I have to tersely point out that I would hardly set the city on fire then have all my men put out that fire rather than pursue the usurpers who probably started the fire.
I don't get it out that clearly. I stammer. A lot. I'm not having a really brilliant day and I'm articulating clearly for my men that's enough I'm not good off guard.
"Why would Bolingbroke start the fire though?" Someone shouts.
"Stupid?" Is all I get out, which isn't enough, but it does answer the question. However the lack of hesitation and the immediate response causes Roger, who was previously waiting to tell me they'd found a sixth ruined building, to burst out laughing.
Exeter, Roger, and I have little time to contemplate the cause of the fires but at the moment I'm assuming it was unintentional, and simply spread. It didn't help Bolingbroke and honestly I don't think my cousin is stupid enough to set a city on fire when that's where he was going to flee to and his children were likely staying.
I make the decision to return to Windsor for the night, with my personal guard. Windsor's easier to secure, and London isn't fully secure they'll be working the whole night to clear it. For now Bolingbroke and I are both metaphorically and literally licking our wounds. I'm coughing from the smoke and he was in battle so he could be injured as well. Exeter says 'we can only hope' to that and then I have to struggle not to laugh. He's not king he gets to say things like that that I'm thinking I don't know what other monarchs do with without brothers.
We take a boat back to Windsor as it's safer than the ride through the dark. I'm never too tired to ride, that is my father in me, but I know this is the more practical move and that's my mother in me. I stand with my warhorse, a large white dapple, from my father's line of spanish warmbloods. It's disappointed not to get to gallop home but is good for the barge. My men are exhausted, as am I, and we have the almost comforting camaraderie I usually only get on campaign. We've all worked all day. We're all exhausted. It's no longer me telling them what to do as a monarch, it's like a parent with a sleepy child. That's it we're getting on the barge we're going home, and they're all just relieved. I've been wearing plate armor for over eighteen hours now and my very bones ache. Someone takes my helmet and of course my great sword but I'm still wearing a hand a half sword and dagger.
When we dock at Windsor it's full of life, despite the late hour. Torches are lit on the road and there's general activity. Partly it looks like my servants who were in hiding are coming back, some of whom lived in London, also some of my old staff might have either moved to London or the like and now they came home after all the trouble.
My party disembarks to join the chaos, as a rule the crowds part for me because, well, I'm king. Now though there's the less urgency that's usually seen in a camp than on my front lawn. I hardly alter that, even if I do want to go inside and get cleaned up and for god's sake have a bath.
For this reason, I barely see Isabela before she's flown directly into my arms. I can't recall the last time someone embraced me without bowing, and that, plus the absolutely tiny girl with her arms about my neck, reduces me to stammering tears.
"You're all right!" Isabela cries, happily, in her native haughty french accent, which is just so precious especially when she's acting like a little girl. She's about as mucky as I am, dressed as a page boy presumably for travel, but seems completely in one piece.
"You —you well then?" I ask, holding her easily in my arms, hers still flung about my neck. I'm filled with immense relief at seeing her here, safe. We really did win.
"I'm perfectly fine, are you?" She frowns, touching ash on my cheek.
"Fine—fine—precious girl, you were so brave I'm so—so—so sorry," I stammer, kissing her cheek and giving her a good squeeze. Precious little creature she is delicate as a flower.
"The bastard tried to lock us up but we got out it was uneventful," she says, smiling sweetly which means she's probably lying. The issue is, it's just, intensely funny to me when this proper, perfect little princess of a child cruses severely, in an language, with her tiny posh accent and big puffy baby cheeks.
I laugh, "I do—do doubt that. I'll not—I won't let that—that happen ever—ever again."
"No, we stick together," she says, hugging me tightly.
"Yes, we do," I say, kissing her hair.
Philippa walks up, smiling. She looks worse for the wear but she's grinning and quite alive.
"No trouble?" I ask.
"A little, we're fine though," Philippa says, coming over. I hug her with my other arm, "We just got here as well."
"How?" I ask.
"Roger knows the most lovely people," she says.
"Oh my god," I breath. I did put Roger in charge of that. Roger does not know lovely people. Roger knows terrifying people. It's bad, he's just like our father, really, walk him into any tavern here or france, he'll just wind up gravitating towards the most disreputable, depraved looking individual there who turns out is a personal friend. I'm not saying it's not useful. I'm saying I'm afraid of these people and I am a very tall man who is king of England. They are small women. "I am so—so so sorry—so sorry—,"
"No, that wasn't sarcasm, would be, his friends are disgusting, but we made it fine," Philippa says, squeezing me past my armor, "The fellow evaporated the moment we reached the gates but."
"Sounds like a friend of Roger's," I mutter. There is, almost no way that this person isn't a wanted murderer. Three days from now Roger will be loitering in my office door asking for a pardon for the fellow I swear it. It's good to be home.
"Oh, very typical, yes," Philippa nods, "All right, your majesty you want to come in and get cleaned up?"
"Go on, I have to change too, we'll have dinner together all right? It might be late you tired?" I ask, rocking her back and forth. She's almost ten but again, just a tiny little flower of a child, her head is on my shoulder, the poor baby looks tired.
"No, I want to hear about the battle," Isabela says.
"I will tell you all," I say, smiling.
"Yes, you have to tell your husband about an ear," Philippa says.
Isabela glares at her, pudgy forehead wrinkling in annoyance.
"What?" I tip her head to check her ears, making her giggle. "What?"
"Oh nothing," Isabela says, sweetly, "Yes, I want to have supper with you."
"Okay, you take Math with you now," I kiss her forehead, before setting her down. She bounces back to Philippa's side, taking her hand.
"Thank you," I mouth to Philippa who nods. I know for a fact she's been keeping the baby girl safe this whole time.
"Go on, go with the girls," I say, petting the loyal dog's head. He lopes up to Isabela and starts licking her face, she laughs, petting the giant dog which is as tall as she is.
I sigh, watching them walk away. I'm so tired, I'm sore on my feet and my head is spinning. And I feel, oddly safe, now. Yes, this is a feeling of safety, one I've not felt in weeks since my world was turned upside down by Bolingbroke's return. I can't even believe that at least for tonight, we're safe.