Seat of Mars

Chapter 5: ...with inky blots and rotten parchment bonds

Devon

"I'm petitioning to move. Again. I have much research to complete and I simply cannot focus in such a turbulent environment. Student housing is meant to be a place of worship, and repose, and I have many important items on my coming agenda and I really think it would be in Oxford's best interest to allow me to work at my maximum potential—," I begin, earnestly, holding up my neatly worded proposal.
"My child, my child, in French," the old Bishop says, looking me up and down twice two times too many, as I cradle all my important papers and rolls that I need for today. I was speaking in English.
"But I do express myself better—," I say, in English. I know French very well but I don't need him to know that. Not knowing French was the cornerstone of my argument that I didn't curse one of my lecturers in French yesterday.
"French. You must practice."
I sigh, and say, "It is hard, to find the proper words to express myself in a foreign tongue, but—le dumbfucks que je cohabite à regret avec le sabotage de mon travail, le vol de mes recherches et la destruction du caractère sacré de mon seul lieu de refuge dans la mer agitée qu'est Oxford et que j'exige d'être déplacé immédiatement ou je serai forcé d'écrire au pape à ce sujet matière grave."
He stares at me, "You don't speak French well, eh?"
"Not very no," I say, completely seriously.
"My son, we are trying to find more courses for you to take and you're on three committees. Isn't that enough to occupy your time? Why are you in my office at dawn?" He pours himself more wine, "Every day?"
"Because I need better living conditions. And to report errors in administration," I say, clutching my rolls, "It's your job. And the other boys in my building broke into my room again when I was working and they upset my ink and broke the pot and I only have so much ink and parchment and I have much to accomplish."
"Your housemaster said you had candles in your room again."
"It's not forbidden for anyone else," I say.
"No but your lecturers were tired of you handing in all your assignments early we had to do something with you, child," he sighs, "Please. For one day. Just one. Go to classes. Do your studies. And leave us all in peace?"
"I'm out of quills I need permission to order more," I say, putting down a paper, "I have the money." I don't.
"Get out of my office. Go outside. Play. Drink, do something else with your time," he sighs.
"I need more quills I've got writing to do I'm funding a library I can't sleep if I don't write. And they broke my inkpot and I only had one."
"Then take it as a sign from God that you are to rest. Even god rested on the seventh day, when was the last time you—let's go with slept, my son?" He asks.
"I'm not your son," I say.
"What did you say to me?"
"I'm not your son, je ne suis pas ton fils. Non sum filius tuus. No soy tu Hilo. Ich bin nicht dein Sohn. Non sono tuo figlio. I am not your son do you need it translated again?" I ask, contempt growing in my voice.
"Always a Courtenay. Is your father still in the Tower for his tongue?" The Bishop just laughs at me, he walks around the desk, towering over me. I clutch my papers, stopping tears from welling my eyes.
"My father is innocent," I say. He's not I know he's not. But he's still my father.
"Oh yes, what's the family motto? ubi lapsus sum quid feci?" he laughs.
"I am a student here it's my right to quiet living and I just want to replace my personal items," I say, quietly.
"Where do you get off thinking you'll ever become anything?" He asks, tipping my face up with a soft, fat hand. Cold clammy fingers. He strokes my cheek. "A scrappy little creature like you. Do you really think you'll get ahead by doing all your lessons early and spouting your cleverness?"
"This is how I am. I'm not trying to do anything," I say, eyeing his desk. He has an inkpot.
I tip my head, tears bubbling out of my eyes. I back slowly up to the desk. "I just want to do my work. Let me do my work."
"Your work. You'll die hunched over paper someday. Or in prison, like your precious father. Tell me did your mother send you to the church so that wouldn't be like him?"
"Yes," I say, slowly inching my hand behind myself for the ink pot. Yes.
"The Flower of Devon, it'll be your best epithet boy, you might as well use it," he says, hand still on my face.
"Oh I am," I say, sliding the inkpot into my pocket. That'll stain these clothes but they're not mine. I grew out of mine so I stole these so I'll steal more because I get by because it's what I do because we have no money ever.
"Tell me why do you want to be that man's son? A thief, and a liar?"
"Because he's still my father," I say, quietly. Because he knows they call me the Flower of Devon, because I'm a priest and not a solider and I'm nothing like him and yet we've got the same sense of humor. And he laughs at my cleverness and tells me I'm going to change the world even though I'm an underfed boy who steals inkpots and —oh why does he just have coins on his desk? That was dumb. Really one shouldn't leave this sort of thing lying about. If you think about it critically I'm doing him a favor.
"Well thank you very little it's getting late I will be late to lecture," I say, moving swiftly away from him, goods tucked into the pockets of my too large tunic, "I have to get there early I help answer questions about the last assignment and make corrections as needed."
"Yes. You wouldn't want your peers to enjoy your company or anything. Yes, go on," the Bishop says, not really moving to let me go.
"I'll tell Bishop Beaufort you're considering moving me thank you!" I say, darting past him. This time he doesn't stop me. This time. I don't usually invoke Beaufort's name but it got me out.
"Beaufort? He's back!"
"Yes!" I lie, hurrying out into the early morning sunshine, trying not to upset the ink pot in my pocket. There will be hell to pay for that lie, unless Beaufort is back, which he's not. I don't use his name to get favors but he does really like me he gave me an entire project to fund a library and I'm enjoying it nobody's ever given me such a terribly fun project, and he took me to help tutor his nephews which was great fun. I didn't think it would be I thought it would be dull but I had a lovely spring up at Windsor, they were my age just and we wound up actually playing games and such for hours. I hadn't had friends before. And anyway Beaufort really likes me he's quite nice I helped critique a presentation he had this summer without me he'd have had it all in the wrong tense. Perhaps he'll be grateful enough to get me out of everything I've said he's said, while he's gone. Probably not. It's a lot.
I carefully empty the ink pot into the street and then hurry on, rolls clutched in my arms, precious ink pot back in my pocket. And I've got coins I can get more quills.
"Master Richard Courtenay of Devon."
I stop in my tracks. I should have kept walking. But everyone knows that's me. Yes, three pedestrians I don't know are pointing at me. God what have I done? Lately? That someone official would really care about? I mentally assess the amount of contraband on my person and don't like what I come up with.
"Yes?" I ask, nicely, turning around. A young man is standing by a horse, he clearly road here, dressed as a knight.
"You're requested at Windsor Castle," the man says, "Now."
"What?" I frown, making my face as innocent as possible, "Me? If it's trouble with my father I assure you sir—,"
"Him! Right there! Someone snatch the Devon boy he's robbed me—!"
"I'll come with you now then," I say, coming over to the man.
"Right—do you not—right," he sees the very old man hobbling down steps towards me. I bolt over to the horse. The knight sighs and just lifts me up in front of him, and then swings up himself behind me.
"Hold on," he says, steering the horse down the street, just ignoring the cries of "You there that child is a thief!"
"I like you," I say, "Who are you?"
"Will Porter, call me Porter. I'm a steward of Harry of Monmouth's he's sent me to fetch you," the man grunts.
"Harry?" I ask, eagerly. Harry's my friend, I'd say my best friend but probably my only friend. I was supposed to tutor him in Latin, he's Beaufort's nephew, but it wasn't tutoring it was having extended debates and word games in Latin and develop a secret code and read old books completely quietly and devolve into a series of mind games over the course of several weeks. So he's basically brilliant he's my favorite person alive, truly, we write to each other now and then or we did while he was on campaign. He's a knight and everything and very brave and all that that he's meant to be and more.
"Yeah, he's requesting you—do you not have clothes or things in your room?"
"No, I want to leave," I say, hugging my rolls, "This is my important research to work on."
"Okay—I suppose. Nothing for at night? No night clothes or anything we should go pick up?"
"Oh no, I don't plan on sleeping much, I really just need to write and read," I say, happily.
"Oh my god there's two of them," Porter breaths, he doesn't sound happy. That's odd because I'm completely happy. Harry's home.