Feast of Fools (Violent Delights Book 15)

Part 5: December 24, 1445

According to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester

"Why won't you talk to me anymore?" I ask, staring at the dagger on the floor. Not daring to look up.
"Why doesn't he look for me?" Hal asks, walking slowly behind me, to tug my hair up, "And why do you shudder when you're the one who's summoned a ghost?"
"I didn't summon. You haunt me," I whisper, my voice shaking, "I'm the only one left. I'm not supposed to be alone like this."
"Answer me! Why doesn't my son look for me? You were supposed to raise him. You didn't take him to war," he pushes me back onto the floor, pacing to the window.
"I tried. He doesn't listen. He's only your son."
"What does that mean?"
"Hal, when did you ever listen?" I ask, sitting up slowly, "You don't understand. You don't know what it's like to grow old."
"I didn't get the chance."
"You don't know what it's like to raise your son."
"I didn't get the chance."
"You didn't want it. You wanted to burn out. So you did. You left me," I choke back my tears, "You left your precious son."
"I didn't want to leave him. I fought. I fight everything," he says, staring at his hands, "You didn't even try—,"
"I should never have had to raise your son!" I shout, crawling to my feet.
"I should never have had to raise you!" He pushes me backward. I stumble. "Why doesn't he think of me?"
"Because he doesn't know you. I tried my best."
"Your best wasn't good enough. They'll kill him."
"What is it you want?" I sob, leaning against the bed, "I'm old, Hal. I'm old. I have nothing. Nothing but your legacy and stories to tell of you do you not know how that feels?"
"It must, feel something, like better, than only living through stories. That's all I am anymore! I was supposed to found a dynasty, all there is is one frightened boy," he cries, gripping the front of my tunic.
"He's weak, because he didn't have a father. He's scared because he had no father and no mother who loved him," I growl, trying to wrestle free, "If he'd had a father—,"
"That was supposed to be you!" Hal cries.
"No it was supposed to be you! You bought his mother, you got her with child, you were supposed to be there," I snarl.
"I tried," he says, voice shaking, "Don't you think I fought it? The illness that took me. I fight everything. Everything."
"And you lost. It wasn't ever supposed to be me," I say, as he slowly releases me.
"No. But you were there! You were there, he's not ready. You can't leave him like this—," Hal shakes his head.
"You left him like this."
"You don't look for me for my council. You look for me to hate me. You want to so badly to hate me. So you have someone else to blame. But there's nothing there."
"No. It would be easier if you lived. If you were just off at war again. I could hate you. I could truly despise you then. But you are not. You're gone from me. And that's worse. I don't have love anymore. I just have hate and nowhere to put it."
"This isn't what I taught you. I raised you to be stronger than this. When you wanted to go back to Oxford I let you. I let you fight with me at Agincourt—,"
"I was fighting for you! Because I thought if I let you go out there alone then I would never see again," I sob, "So I stood with you. I've spent my whole life chasing you. But there was no reward. No happy ending. Just an endless quest. I thought I was a hero. But I'm Atlas, doomed to hold the weight of the world with no hope of relief."
"I know why you have to hate me. But I don't understand why you took it out on my son," he says, softly, "It wasn't his fault."
"No. But he is your son. Dare to look on him sometime. His, stupid French, mother, bred a fop, a weakling—,"
"He's not weak."
"He forgives anyone, anything, he has bloody York's son, here at court with him. He takes in his mother's bastards. He's forgiven me, he pardons anyone who asked. And he pours his heart and soul into setting up colleges—,"
"Enough."
"You need to hear it. He took a wife not for war as you did. But for peace. He's afraid of her. He hasn't bedded her yet, let along gotten her with child in the first half a year, as you did. He'll hear anyone's case, he employs Owen Bloody Tudor who was fucking his mother before you were cold in the ground, who took her from him! He wept for his mother's death when she didn't even love him. Your son, your precious son is a weakling—,"
"Enough! Your words go to show. You know nothing. You learned nothing from my life, and worse you learn nothing for him. I watch my son. I see his every move. And I tell you this, you have no idea the strength it takes to be kind. I should know. I preyed, on men like him. Like De Gaoucourt, like the Bastard, like Blanchard, every one. They defied me with no hope of reward. They walked to their deaths for the hope of saving men whose names they'd never know. Starving themselves, allowing me to torture them, so that maybe, maybe perhaps France could be free of me. Weak men give in. Because kindness kills you, the kind don't survive. And they do it anyway. That is a strength you will never know. That is the strength in my son. I'm not even angry that I died. I'm angry, that you don't deserve him. And you never did."