The Boar (Violent Delights Book 17)

Chapter 3 - 1461 "Second Battle of St. Albans"

Richard (eventual King of England)

We are kept in Burgundy in near seclusion. I expect to plead our case at court but it isn't to be. We are instead swept to servants quarters, and George and I are shut up in a room. It seems we're an inconvenience and little else, the sons of a now dishonored duke. But even George is quiet and good. We're given food in our room and one bed to sleep in.
We're quiet and good for perhaps a day. Neither one of us are used to sitting still and nobody much seems to even care we're here.
"You're lucky the Duke has said you may stay," our servants tell us.
But that doesn't do too much to occupy us. The fast is over there's feasting, and yet we still get warm fish and little else. I pray twice a day and re-read my prayer book and still I'm bored before the New Year comes.
"All right, I think we should go look about," George says, folding his arms. He is older and supposedly in charge.
"I agree," I say, also folding my arms.
"I think we should go and find better food," he says.
"I think we should go and find a library," I say.
We stare at each other for a moment.
"How about we each do our own things?" I ask, gesturing between us.
"Excellent idea I was about to say that. Try not to get lost."
"Try not to get killed."
We go our separate ways. Him in search of food. Me in search of library. I've spent enough time wandering about grand houses to know quite well how to get into a proper library. I haven't had a good read in weeks. I wonder if there will be any more stories of King Arthur? Or perhaps records of Agincourt?  I'm not even hungry once I get in I can perhaps read all evening.
"Excuse me, my lady, I'm supposed to be fetching my lord a manuscript?" I say, catching a servant in the hall. I say it in my best french, which I hope is good enough, "Which way's the library? We're only here for the feast I'm lost."
"Two floors, up, on your left," she points me on.
"Thank you!" I say, bouncing a little, before hurrying on the way. Nobody notes me, I'm dressed like one of the pages, which is well. But I feel a spark of jealousy.
Court is beautiful. It's far grander than anything I've ever seen in England. And I'm the son of a Duke. I want to be dressed in nice silks and things too. Not to go to the feast or anything no, but to go and sit and read comfortably in my own room and have someone bring me wine and whatever book I need next. That would be nice.
I find the library in due course but there's a couple of footmen hanging about outside.
"Where are you going, boy?" One of them stops me, rough french accent harsh.
"I'm supposed to make up some of my lessons I missed? My mum sent me," I say, in my best French still, hanging my head. I'm just eight years old but I'm little I know I can still pass for six. I know this because this isn't the first lack of proper reading emergency I've found myself in.
They clearly consider.
"That's all right, I'll tell her I couldn't she's probably through with the Duchess," I say, taking a step back, all too eager to run off.
"Go on then," one of them growls, "Be quick."
"Yes, of course," I say, bolting in happily.
It's a grander library than I've seen. It's probably a grander room than I've ever seen. Warm fires going, and rolls upon rolls of parchment. Tables for studying them, soft cushions by the fire. Rugs of fur. There's a few tables for scribes to work but it's all closed up now it's the feast days. No one will be in here. And no one is looking for me.
I hurriedly find a cushion, and drag it to a corner. Then I go to the books. There's no copy of Chaucer I'm sure that's in English. I can read French quite well, but it's not perfect. I'm about to settle for a set of prayers, looks like the book was a gift from England. I can't find any knight stories. Then I see one. A book of looks like Greek —myths but it's French? That's got to be an adventure.
I carefully take the large book and go back to my cushion in the corner, far from the fire, far from the light, where no one will notice me if they come in.
Within a few moments I'm quite absorbed. The french takes me a while but after a few moments I'm getting it. It's about heroes setting off on an adventure which is entertaining enough.
I'm so absorbed I don't hear the library door open. I do hear the footsteps though and freeze a little. But I can hardly get out now, better to act like I thought I was supposed to be here. Or better yet hope I'm not seen at all.
An old man walks in. He's quite old, older than my mother or my father, with white hair and a saggy face. He's draped in very fine silks and furs.
Perhaps he won't notice me? No he's looking at the cushions by the fire, one of which I took. His eyes rove to my corner.
"Come on out now," he says, leaning on the table for support.
"My lord," I close the book carefully and scurry out to bow, holding the book firmly rather than lay it on the floor. I bow properly though, holding the book or no. I choose to turn the bow into kneeling, since he looks quite important.
"Well who might you be?" He laughs, clearly amused.
"Richard, of York, the son of the Duke of York, a guest of the Duke of Burgundy, my lord," I say.
"Ah yes. There's a couple of you isn't there?" He asks.
"My self and my brother, m'lord," I say.
"Not lurking back there is he? No just you. Do you know who I am?" He asks.
"No, my lord," I say.
"I'm the Duke of Burgundy, your host," he smiles.
"I'm sorry my lord," I say, bowing my head.
"Oh get up, do—Richard you say?"
"Richard, called Boar," I say, standing up.
"Why do they call you that?" He asks, sitting down.
"Latin for 'York' is Eborecum, so when I was small and staying with my aunt I was called that for Richards' my father's name. That quickly got shortened to 'Boar'," I say.
He looks at me.
"Also I'm a bit stubborn," I say.
"Hm. Thought you might be, pilfering my library—don't blush I'm not cross. I was expecting one of my little daughters to be hiding in here, their brothers will lock them in they find it amusing," he smiles a little, "What were you doing?"
"Reading. I want to keep up on my lessons, while I'm away from home," I say.
"During the Christmas holiday? My you're dedicated."
"Boar might stand for another english word that is pronounced the same, my lord," I say.
He laughs, getting it after a moment, "Well, not a boring pick is it? That's the Argonauts unless my sight fails me."
"I had never read it before, and I only came with two books. I'll be very careful," I say, quickly.
"I believe you, now. Don't tell me they get you in trouble for reading back in England?" He laughs.
"York boys find trouble anywhere, my mother says," I say, frowning a bit as I remember my french.
"Do you know why you were sent here?" He asks.
"My father's fighting, for the King of England wants to kill us," I say.
"Everyone wants to kill everyone. That's not just the King of England. In fact it probably isn't even him. He's got no taste for war. Real disappointment, damn shame not at all like his father," he says.
"Do you know of the old King Henry?" I ask, hopefully.
"I met him."
"You did?" I ask, extremely excited, "What was he like?"
"He your hero or something like that?" The man asks, amused.
"Oh yes, my lord, my aunt had a chronicle of his life—I want to be a great warrior like him," I say, happily, "Would you please tell me—what was he like?"
"Power. He was like power. Like if all the power and ambition in the world were poured into a person made up without a trace of mercy," he says, staring into the fire, "Like meeting a mighty storm and not a person. You know it will fight till it goes out, but it'll wreak havoc till it does."
"Did you war together?"
"Sadly. No. My father and he wished to war against each other, we were quite eager for it. No, I met him for a treaty, he was wed then," he says, smiling a bit at the memory, "Possibly one of my favorite interactions I've witnessed, his best impression of a man who desires a woman, and this young french princess terrified of this looming English god of war. He was terribly tall, taller than any man I've ever known."
"I wish I could have warred for him," I say, quietly.
"What does your father think of that?" He asks.
"I'm not supposed to talk of the old king. But he was a good king and a good solider, it's not him who wants to kill us," I say.
"He was a good soldier. God. I hadn't thought of him in years," he smiles a little, "He was a—powerful man. Yes. That's the only way to describe him. Sheer power."
I hang on the words, head tipped.
"I have some of his correspondence with my father about, tomorrow I'll have a scribe find it for you if that would interest you," he says.
"Oh yes, my lord. I've already read all about Agincourt," I nod, "I will lead battles someday it's the best way to learn."
"I've no doubt you shall. I will send someone tomorrow to bring you back here and let you read those old letters if it would please you. They don't do anyone any good anymore anyway, don't know why I kept the damned things. Suppose imagining that I and my father and he would get our battle in the end," he sighs.
"You never got to fight?" I ask, sympathetically.
"No. My father was murdered," he says.
"I'm sorry my lord," I say.
"I'm not. He died as he lived. A man of war. We all simply die as we live. I will die in a mistress' bed if I can help it," he says, chuckling, "We are our own ghosts in the end. Nothing haunting us but our own vices. My father and King Henry, they drew blood till heaven drew them from the world. Never mourn a man who walked to his own death wittingly. He doesn't deserve it."
"You just said we all do," I frown.
"Correct. So mourn none. We are architects of our own doom. All of us," he says.
"I'll gladly die a soldier," I say.
"I have no doubt you will," he laughs, "What have you got there? Jason and the Argonauts?"
"Yes, but my French is only so good—I think they just got to an island?" I ask, frowning.
"Yes, they likely did they tend to get to islands," he laughs, "Jason is a half-god. And he's a warrior. He and his men, his friends, are in search of the Golden Fleece."
"Do they find it?" I ask, hopefully.
"Oh yes. And a beautiful girl named Medea. She helps Jason steal the fleece. And he marries her," he says.
"What's the moral then? Myths always have a moral," I frown.
"Jason dies. His children are dead, his wife has left him. And Jason dies," he says.
"How?"
"He's crushed."
I frown.
"Crushed his old ship, the Argo, falling on him. Alone, with his children dead and his wife gone. After a lifetime of adventure, the ultimate engineer of his own destruction, is himself, and his once great legacy," he says.
"Is he your favorite?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's a reminder. We can be ruined by what made us great," he says.
I nod a bit, "I'll have to read it."
"Yes you shall. But not tonight. I'm tired so you must be. In the morning I'll ask someone to bring you back and you can read to your heart's content."
"Thank you my lord," I smile broadly.
"Is there anything else you or your brother need?"
I decide my reading material is more important than food, "No thank you, we're lovely I did just want to read."
"All right. Run along then," he says, smiling, but there's an odd sadness in his look. Perhaps thinking of the past.
"Thank you," I say, moving to put the book back where I found it.
"I'll keep that one now actually," he says, I put the book on the table in front of him.
"Thank you again, and for telling me of the old King," I say.
He nods in recognition smiling too.
I hurry off, slipping from the glorious library out into the cold hall. It has gotten late. I hope George found his food. I could have asked the Duke for better food but that's not specific and really in the end, George would not have done the same for me.
When I get back to the room, I'm just beating George by a few paces. I still fold my arms and look triumphant though.
"Ha, ha, should have come with me I got cake," he says, holding up a bundle.
"Is that for me?" I ask.
"No, why would it be?" Ah there it is.
"You're my big brother and I thought about asking the Duke of Burgundy for better food for you," I say.
"Liar," he cuffs my ear.
"Ow—you're right I didn't think of it."
"Liar you didn't see the old duke. Everyone says he spends every night from sun set to sun rise with his mistresses, and he has a different one for every day of the week," George says, opening the door.
"What?" I ask. I knew some men had mistresses? "That's a sin."
"And?"
"It weakens the warrior—what are you doing?" I ask, stepping the room. Our servants are gathered.
"Did you really just say lying with women makes you weak?"
"Yeah definitely," I say. It's what King Henry said, why he was such a great warrior and he took France so I'm going to believe him. I look at our servants, "What are all of you doing here?"
"Where have you boys been?"
"Just out," George says.
"Yeah, we can walk around," I say.
"No you can't—look, we've had word from England," our man says, taking a note from his pocket.
"What is it? Is mother all right?" George asks.
"Is it news of our father?" I ask, softly.
"Yes. Your father was ambushed by the Lancaster forces, and slain outright in battle."
"No," George shakes his head, "No—that's wrong. That's got to be wrong!"
"He lost?" I frown, "We're not supposed to lose." We're supposed to win. "He was supposed to win so we could go to home. And have a family again."
"I'm sorry boys."
"That doesn't do any good!" I back up, tears streaming fresh down my face. The old Duke's words echoing in my ears. Architects of our own doom. A battle he finally couldn't win. "He was supposed to bring us home. I want to go home!"