Diana's Foresters

Chapter 1: To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon...

Isabela

I run down the sunlit halls of Windsor castle. It's a warm spring day, and the mid morning sun already streams in the tall windows. It's the day before Easter, so tonight we feast, finally Lent is over, and summer shouldn't be far away. The entire castle has an air of cheerfulness as we all anticipate a great feast and merry making. Well. Almost the entire castle.
I skid past two guard dogs that flop their tails at me, and fiddle with the office door, causing Holland who was following me to nearly run into me. Then I get the door open with the key I recently acquired, and open the door triumphantly.
"I'm not to be disturbed." The lean boy sits at his desk, paper in hand, face smudged with ink, papers spread out in little stacks about the room and pinned up to the tapestries. His cowardly wolfhound, predictably, whimpers and walks behind him, before recognizing us and wagging it's tail. The animal's tail nearly upsets a stack of papers.
"Holland, tell the Duke of Lancaster that Queen Isabela needs to speak to him," I say, folding my arms.
"Ah—Harry, Isabela says—," Holland is still panting.
"I heard, what?" Harry asks, looking up finally, hazel eyes flashing with irritation at having his concentration broken.
"Do you reliably know what day it is?" I ask, staring at him.
He makes a helpless motion, before rescuing his papers from the dog's tail, "Clearly, I know that."
"Hm. Then you know it's the feast today?" I ask.
"Damn!" Harry cries, tipping his head back, "Yes, I was aware."
"You've been in here for three days," I say.
"Hello then. Oh look he is alive. To be clear, I didn't stop them because I didn't want to, because it's been three days and I don't want to be the one that finds your body when you finally suffocate under a mass of paperwork 'cause I don't want anyone saying I killed you," Porter, Harry's not too terribly serious knight, wanders up behind us.
"Thank you," Harry breaths, looking at all of his work, eyes bloodshot.
"Clearly he's alive he's been getting wine," I say.
"I don't know why you think Green wouldn't deliver wine to his corpse, to prevent being the one who finds his body, to prevent being blamed for killing him," Porter says.
"Can you have this scintillating conversation elsewhere?" Harry asks, clearly going back to work.
"No, I still need to talk to you. Feast. Tonight," I say.
"What of it? My presence is far from necessary in fact I've been informed social functions are more pleasant without me besides if it is feast day Devon's coming up today so I'm sure we'll have plenty to go over—,"
"Ugh—out," I turn around and motion Porter and Holland out. They obey quickly, backing out, and nearly tripping over the mastiffs that guard the door.
I close the door behind them.
Harry glares a little, making a quick gesture that I didn't need to do that.
"You're coming," I hiss, walking in front of his desk.
"Look, do you want to take France this summer? Or not?" He asks, gesturing to his paperwork, "My dukedoms won't administrate themselves, arrows won't supply themselves, and cannons don't grow on trees."
"Obviously we're taking France," I say. I'm the eldest princess of France, eldest child. By rights it's mine when my father dies, besides which fact Richard has a claim anyway. So we thought we'd do that this summer. Tell my parents that that's happening anyway and have them name me and by association Richard their heirs, and probably leave Harry here in France to quell any revolts because honestly he really wants to involve himself in combat he's quite aggressive.
"Well that's not going to happen overnight," he says.
"We haven't been seen to publicly row, since you last surfaced to act like a person, which was 39 days ago," I say.
"It's 36–oh I've been in here three days," he nods, "Yeah."
"Yeah," I nod, "Court cannot imagine we get on. Much less that we're having an affair I have a reputation. And we do things like this and live together more than enough as it is. We must appear to row in public and give them something to gossip about, otherwise they'll think of something to gossip about. For both of us."
"No, you're right," he sighs, hands to his face.
"Devon will be here to go through this while you're out there. You need to stay the whole time, or most of it. They're already leery of you because you're cleverer than them, you don't need to give them cause to think you're plotting something—like you are," I say, looking down at his papers.
He puts his hands slowly through his hair.
"You think they're going to trust you in France, or as Regent here in England, if you're forever disappearing like you're plotting something sinister? Cause I've tried to tell them, but, no one is going to believe you're doing your own bank accounts because you're boring," I say.
"Yes, all right, I know. Ah—yeah I just didn't know it was today. All right," he nods. We'd be fools not to get on. He's Richard's most powerful duke, even if he's not yet sixteen, in terms of land he is, and I'm Richard's very young wife. We're going to have each other for the rest of our lives, we are both too clever to not work together. Doesn't mean we don't butt heads now and then. But as an added bonus, we both want the same thing. We both enjoy power but have enough self-preservation to keep the other as a friend. Harry's just three years my senior, so again a suspected affair might be natural, and I do not need that, my reputation doesn't need to be tarnished, and despite being a man his reputation would take a blow as well. To await that, we row, in public, and give the other little slights so that everyone can gossip about how we don't get on. It's far better they think we're fools than realize what we actually are.
"Do you want to plan the row or shall we improvise?" I ask, bouncing a little.
"We planned last time so I think it's your turn," he says, dryly. He likes having a script. I like improvising because he likes a script.
"Yes," I smile, "See you tonight."
"See you tonight," he says, clearly going back to work, "Oh Izzy—ah was Edmund looking for me these past—three days?"
"No," I say, "I told him you were being boring he was pleased not to be involved."
"Right," he nods. Edmund Moritmer, a little nine year old, he's Harry's cousin, and Richard's heir apparent. Naturally we both have a vested interest in the fatherless boy, who is spending more and more time at court. He follows Harry around like a puppy.
"He'll be at the feast," I assure him, going to the door.
"Right, see you then," Harry says.
"I'm going to look prettier than you," I say, opening the door.
"You will NOT," Harry mutters, under his breath so he thinks I can't hear it.