The Boar (Violent Delights Book 17)

Chapter 8 - "The Battle of Hexham"

Henry Beaufort, Earl of Somerset

I'm escorted to Holt Castle, ostensibly under heavy guard, but Edward appoints them himself. That means he trusts people who I know for a fact work for Warwick. Peter smirks at me the last time I see him, so I take that to mean he's happily anticipating my death.
So I need to escape. But the moment we're out of Windsor and away from Edward's watchful if unobservant gaze, the ropes go on my wrists.
"Bit looser if you would," I flash a grin. The men glare at me. I take it they were told not to simply kill me by the road. Edward might actually suspect that. But I don't expect them to make me last long once I get to Holt.
It's a lovely fortress honestly, terribly secure. I'd love to defend it sometime. Don't know how I'll get out of it though. That's the trick. And they're prepared for my tricks. Damn it. I don't want this to be the end of the line. Come on. The game's not won yet. Think, Somerset. Think.
I've got a couple of halfway decent plans but even I don't like them. I know Exeter hopped out a window that time that's an Exeter talent I would think. Besides which fact they'll be aware that I'm doing it. I did send word through my spies that they're moving me but I don't know if that got to my friends in the north, and even if it did there's relatively little they can do about it. I'm well aware we don't have an army. And this is a fortress.
I'm marched to my room, with a small handful of my belongings. Not really mine just things I managed to be provided with in my time in court.
"Supper?" I ask, pathetically, raising my hands.
"You're not the king's favorite anymore," the man grunts, and he locks the door without another word.
I sigh. I wouldn't be surprised if they cut off my head and buried me in an unmarked grave. My lands are long since attained it's only me, and Edward might be cross but he also might believe I simply died of natural causes.
There's no window, and the door is quite solid I check. It's a stone tomb. I lie down on the bed. Perhaps I can charm my way into a walk in the courtyard? Tomorrow's another day. All I can do is try. And sleep to keep my strength up and eat if the food doesn't looked tampered with.
I cover myself with the rough blanket. I'm sleeping clothed, but I do need to sleep. A few deep breaths, and I'm nodding off. Pretending I'm safe home in my estate. Dreaming of Christmas at Windsor, King Henry doesn't let anyone swear, I tug Joan off to kiss behind pillars. And we laugh. And my little son can walk now so we let him play with the other children. And these hands aren't lined with scars. And I fall asleep with Joan cradled in these arms which aren't half so weary. And I can dream of something but war.
I'm awoken by a gloved hand closing over my mouth. I jerk awake and reach for weapons I don't have before I move to protect my face and chest, which I also don't like as a reaction but I didn't know I'd react like this.
"Calm down."
If it isn't my best looking tallest stupid friend.
"Jasper Tudor, don't do that," I hiss, sitting up.
"Say my fucking name again I leave you here," Jasper says, he's standing over me, dressed like a peasant, as ever. Those dumb drooping eyes, and black hair sticking to his face in the damp, "Is that really your reaction to being woken up by a would be murderer?"
"Clearly that's a yes, I'm disappointed as well, what in god's name, how did you get here?" I ask, crawling to my feet, immense relief filling me.
"Talent," he grunts, handing me a dark cloak and faded tunic, "How much welsh do you remember?"
"Naddo, Tarw du," I growl. That's literally all I know, the word 'no' and their whatever honorary nick name for him, Tarw Du or Black Bull in English.
"Enough, put that on, take off your shoes" he says, going to check the door.
"Guards?" I ask, hastily changing into the plain travel clothes.
"Not so many since you're locked in a room," he says, dragging a corpse in and tossing it on the bed.
"Hell," I breath.
"Yes, that's where we're going," he says, dryly, coming back over. He smears dirt and grease on my face and in my beard, "You attached to your hair?"
"A little," I say.
"Shame," He cuts it quickly with a knife. It did fall past my shoulders, he's cut it short as his own, admittedly altering my appearance.
He tosses the hair in the fire, then tugs the hood over my head, "Follow me, mumble in that fake-welsh if they talk to us."
"Right," I breath, following him out to the hall. He locks the door and hangs up the key, before picking up another corpse. He could carry it alone the man carried the two in alone. He's strong as an ox and can throw me or Exeter over each shoulder easily in fun.
"Who is it?" I ask.
"Yorks," he says, flatly, "Get that end."
I obey, wishing in a way this is the strangest and most repugnant way I'd escaped captivity. Or even in the five most repugnant things I've done. It isn't even close.
We carry the corpse down the length of the hall. There's a guard at the end. I lower my eyes, breathing in a bit to steady myself.
"Another one?" The guard asks, merely opening the door for us.
"Aye, captain's orders we bury it outside the walls in case it's plague," Jasper says, his voice a couple of notes lower than normal, and with a heavy welsh accent. We're all masters of deception at this point but I envy him his ability to switch dialects and accents.
"What is it now, ten this week?" The guard asks.
"Eleven," Jasper says. That likely means he's been here a week waiting for me and in that time killed eleven of them and then said it was the plague. How—oh he's poisoning them isn't he?
"At least you got some help tonight, get 'em out," another guard laughs, not even looking at us as we make our way towards a side gate. Not even looking at us that man road with me here. But I'm barefoot and dressed like a Welshman and so he's not even going to look upon me. I relish the invisibility but I also wonder for a moment if I'd be that naive, nay, biased, were still living the life of a nobleman. I've always known Jasper and his brother and father so I grew up hearing snippets of Welsh and thinking relatively little of their heritage but damn if the privilege isn't intoxicating. I'm barefoot and dressed in practical wool so I can't possibly be someone of importance.
There's some Welshmen watching the gate. The worse job they're up all night, even a clear one like this it's cool.
"Ar eich ffordd Tarw du," one man says, dipping his head. I don't know the first bit I realize it's words it sounds like soft mumbles, but I know damn well the last bit is a term of direct address for Jasper.
"Diolch yn fawr," Jasper responds, as he simply helps me bear the corpse between us. The first word at least I recognize as a 'thank you' or the like he and his father would say it to each other enough for me to recognize it and the meaning.
And we simply walk out of the castle. Quietly, into the night.
Once we are decently clear of it, Jasper leads us to a prepared grave, to drop the body in.
"Did you seriously come to this place a week ago, knowing they'd move me here, start poisoning Yorks, and introduce yourself as a local priest and offer to bury them and they didn't want to do it so they said yes, and you walked around killing them at random till I showed up?" I ask.
"I think you already know that's what I did so the conversation is finished," Jasper says, rolling the body in to the grave, "Come on. We have miles to cover before sunrise when they realize you're gone."
"Please tell me we've got back up out here and we're not covering miles on foot?" I sigh.
"Of course I do," Jasper scoffs, leading me to the edge of a wood. It's dark and while I'm not opposed to wandering about by moonlight I'm grateful to simply follow his lead. It feels ridiculously good to be back in the care of my friends and no longer living solely by my wit. And his presence is sobering after so long of living in a facade.
"What's that for?" Jasper asks, as I embrace him impulsively. Great thing about him, for such a mean looking person if I hug him, he'll immediately hug me back with no context needed. Just crushing me in those thick arms that feel like they can keep the world out.
"Very glad to see you old friend," I sigh.
"You all right? As you're gonna be?" He asks, shaking me a little.
"Yeah, I'm good, I am I'm fine," I sigh.
"I don't think any of us are fine."
"That is likely true—oh my god Jasper," I groan, when I see our back up.
Our back up is his like seven year old nephew who is proudly waiting with two horses.
"Ddaeth neb roedden ni'n iawn," the little boy mumbles mostly unintelligibly in Welsh. I get that that last word means 'fine'.
"Da iawn," Jasper says, squeezing the boy's shoulder.
"Noswaith dda, uncle," the tiny Henry child grins, he's missing a good deal of teeth, "Are you well?"
"I'm well," I nod.
"You can ride?" Jasper confirms, a little sympathetically.
"Pwy all e ddim marchogaeth?" The little boy looks up at his uncle.
"He was tortured, cafodd ei arteithio," Jasper says, lifting the little boy onto one of the horses.
"I can fucking ride, I just want to get out of here," I say, well aware there's little we can do if I could not.
"Done," Jasper says, but he stays to hold the skittish mare he probably stole for me. I mount, gathering the reigns.
"Adre?" Jasper asks his nephew, making sure the boy is secure in front of him.
"Adre," the boy grins.
"Got that one, let's go home," I say, and I finally feel myself smile.