Hand in Violent Hand

2 - All the World 1295 - 1312

All the world

"Why should you love him, who the world hates so?"
"Because he loves me more than all the world."

-Christopher Marlowe, Edward II

Chapter 1

This is a love story.
Unfortunately.
I don't know that now though. Right now I'm lying on my back in the grass with the wind knocked out of me, trying to decide if any of my ribs still feel intact, gazing up at the english summer sun. My only consolation is I don't have the air to speak or my foul mouth would be cursing not only god, but worse, my father who sired me, my mother who bore me, and the king of england whose fault it is that I'm on this cursed isle. And above all else, the Prince who I do hate at the moment above anyone else alive.
But I can't breath to curse my head is still spinning.
Three months ago I was sold, little better than a slave. I'm the youngest son of a not particularly poor family, and my father has been indentured to King Edward of England for some years. Being good with a sword and even better with a lance, my father, naturally, like a good father who loves his foul mouthed ill tempered youngest child, offered me to the king as a sparring partner for the Prince. Because, of course, princes get any play things they like, up to and including country knights with no fortunes or manners who happen to be some of the best on the tilt. Playthings they're too rich and spoilt to play with.
Because not once has the Prince actually showed up to spar with me, leaving me to tilt against young nobles and hangers about who just exist here. And what I'm getting at is there's no way in heaven my ill mannered tongue will not get me killed in a duel before the summer is out. The idea was I tilt against the prince so he gets practice and I do not break his royal neck. Which I could have handled I can mind my temper for relatively short intervals. As it is. However. I'm left with these, disgusting, nobodies. I've not learned their names because I don't care I call them a variety of apt insults. Because they're good for nothing, arrogant, piss heads who think it's funny to mock my accent, and charge early down the pitch, and startle my horse.
"Is he dead?"
"I mean the frog did stop talking so that would mean he's dead."
"Arrogant. Piss fingered lay abouts," I gasp, sitting up, "Which one of you loosed my horse's saddle or was it a group decision? I expect it takes all your minds to come up with a single thought."
All three of them are standing over me, laughing.
"Well there it is," the leader laughs, "Do they give points for falling off a horse in france?"
"Were I not in the king's service, I would challenge all of you, in turn, and cut your hearts out for the dogs that's all you're worth, then dogs aren't very fond of cannibalism so," I gasp, climbing to my feet, painfully.
"Maybe—just—," my squire, Jean, tries to take my arm, I shake it off.
"I'll be waiting when you're ready to face me as men rather than cowards—so I'll likely be waiting till second coming," I snarl.
They laugh, one spits on me.
"Leave it, it's my fault they loosed the saddle," Jean says, still holding my arm as I stagger.
"Oh you can only face me with trickery! Come back here I'll fight all of you right now—come back I said!" I shout, throwing my gauntlet at one boy's head. It sails true and strikes him.
"Maybe don't? This one time?" Jean whimpers.
"Get out of my way," I say, handing him my helmet.
"This is the fifth time this week," he groans.
"Aye and the fifth day this week."
"Oh you want more?" The leader laughs, coming back. He saunters up to me, a head taller and clearly well rested he hasn't been tilting all morning, "What are you going to do? Talk me to death?"
I punch his squarely in face.
And we are off. His two friends grab me by the arms to restrain me. I use the momentum to lean on them, lifting off the ground to kick their leader directly in the gut, with both my feet. He stumbles backward, gasping for air.
They have to drop me to fight me, and I roll to the ground. One kicks and I grab his leg propelling him into the other one. The leader is back trying to throw a punch. I catch his fist and twist. He screams in pain. The remaining two are back up. One pounces on my back. I roll him off with a twist of his arm, coming back up in time to strike the third with an elbow his his face.
Noses bloodied and crying out, they stumble backward.
"Till 'morrow, gentlemen," I say, walking away.
"We're going to get sacked," Jean hisses at me.
"Good. See the horse is tended to," I say, tugging off my gloves and tossing them to him.
"What are you going to do?" He asks, nervously.
"Not your concern," I snarl, striding across the field.  It's an impossible sunny day here in usually rainy England. God I hate this island. It's either rain and fog or it's hot and sunny and I hate it. I hate it here. And I hate the Prince.
King's Langley is a fine estate for fine people with nothing to do. It's got rolling fields, and innumerable pets, for some reason. The staff outnumber their royal residents something like twenty to one, plus hangers on like me who aren't noble, but also aren't the help. But I'm barely a cut above the help. But this is a beautiful day. For today is the day that I die. If I die, I shall not have to be here and I'm sure there's jousting in heaven. Jousting's all I'm good for and I've missed half the tournaments in France this year. So what good am I now?  I might as well die doing this. At least I'll be a cautionary legend among future champions. Won many tournaments, and murdered by the Prince of England for absolute idiocy. Don't do that boys, just stick to jousting. And never get near the royal family.
Hot and sweaty as I am, and smelling of horse, I stride into Langley Palace. The armory is somewhere I'm familiar with, and I collect the Princes' helmet and mail. Nobody asks why I'm doing it. I'm helping him train after all I look like the help. Stocky, currently sunburnt and brown from spending most of my time out of doors, I look every bit the poor knight and that means access to places like the armory, and the kitchens they do feed me here. Shame the food is really terrible.
"My lord the prince is not to be disturbed," a waiting woman says, staying me.
"Oh he is this way then? Brilliant," I say, flashing her a smile. I'm handsome. I don't do anything with that and my speaking immediately counter acts it.
"Prince Edward is busy and is not to be disturbed—,"
"Fuck he is—fine thank you, thank you," I bolt on, following the sound of light music playing. Hopefully this is where he is. And he's not busy. I've not actually seen ever him this may be one of my worse plans.
I walk up a set of stairs, finding a warm room, lit from long windows with stained glass. Minstrels are playing in one corner. Well, the Prince is easy to spot.  In the center of the room is an absurd pile of silk cushions. In the center of the pile of cushions is sprawled a boy, my age about, with long gold hair, and soft blue eyes. He's wearing a blue silk tunic and his eyes are half closed. In one hand he's holding a cup of wine. Around him are curled up several happy greyhounds. He's clearly enjoying the music and his nice cool wine and having a pleasant morning of doing nothing whatsoever.
I walk directly up to him and throw his helmet, as hard as I can, into his belly.
He leaps like a cat whose had water doused upon it.
"Jousting practice reminder. You've missed it twenty seven times in a row so this is your bloody reminder that I'm here to joust with you, or you can just kill me I don't give a fuck which you chose but please pick one by tomorrow, at dawn!" I say, pelting him with his gloves and other bits of gear.
"Oh—hello," he says, climbing to his feet and nearly tripping on cushions. He is, unfortunately, a solid head taller than me.
"Tomorrow, dawn, either just send someone to cut off my head, or actually show up like you're meant to," I say, throwing the last piece of gear at him. He doesn't catch it at all, in favor of putting a hand through already perfect hair and smiling sweetly.
"I've been meaning to talk to you actually!" He says, smiling a pretty smile that probably works on girls or courtiers or people who aren't sweaty french seventeen year olds with anger problems.
"If. You've been meaning to talk to me. Then why. In god's name. Aren't you coming to practice? That's where I am!" I cry, completely incensed.
"Oh I don't want to, but I did want to talk to you," he says, completely kindly, and entirely calm, despite the fact that I've been shouting at him this entire time and throwing things at him.
"Then come and tilt in the morning. Or come and kill me in the morning, again I have no preference. Your royal highness," I say, backing towards the door.
"Why'd you call me 'your highness' then? You've cursed and thrown things at me," he says, sort of hugging the helmet, the only thing he caught because I hit him with it.
"It was sarcasm. Your worshipful lord," I say, hand on hip.
"I feel like we got off on the wrong foot here a bit, I'm Lord Edward," he says, very nicely, smiling.
"I know who you are. You complete idiot. Do you think I go around throwing armor at random people suggesting they come joust with me or murder me? Do you think that's how I live my life?" I ask, exasperated.
"Oh. I wasn't sure most people don't shout at me, would you like some wine?" He motions for servants to offer me wine. "Why don't you sit down we can talk about—what it is you're here for my father said something to do with swords or jousting? I don't really fancy it though you're welcome to join me for a drink? We've not spoken since you got here. And I don't remember your name I'm sorry you sounded dull. Then I watched you from the window and you're not dull but I still don't fancy jousting."
A servant brings me a cup of wine. I take it, very graciously. I also don't know why they gave me something to hold after what I did with all the other things that used to be in my arms.
"I don't give a damn what you fancy. I am missing the entire tournament season to be at the service of your royal ass. So tomorrow morning one of two things needs to happen. You need to come down and joust me. Or send your men to cut my head off. Because if neither of those things happen I am going to challenge every single, ugly, ungrateful, ingrate in this bloody country, to a fucking duel, and duel them one at a time until I lose. Or if I win and kill everyone in English nobility, then I will have done the world a service and I'll fall on my sword and let my body fall into the Thames. Is that clear? My fucking lord?" I ask, then I throw the cup of wine at his feet.
He is so startled or stupid he says nothing at all, and I storm out, face still burning with anger. I break into a run as soon as I've cleared the palace doors. I'm not spending another moment in there. It's like suffocating. I run all the way out to the lake, far out on the grounds. And I strip off my tunic and dive into the cold water. That finally clears my head.
I'm going to die.
I just cursed at a prince of england ten times in a row. He's going to have me drawn and quartered. Well. My mother always did say my tongue would get me killed but I think she at least was hoping I'd make it past age twenty. It's my father's fault. He never should have offered me up. Never should have sent me. I hate it here. Death will be a sweet release. I'm angry all the time anyway.
I make up my mind to fight them. When they come for me I'll just fight all of them and go down fighting. That's fine in the end. I don't even mind that. I was always going to go this way. Might as well go down swinging.
I want them to be able to find me, so I go back to the barn. My horse is waiting, sad. She hates it when I fall off she feels like its her fault. A loyal, dapple mare. Only thing I bought with my tournament winnings last year. She's a fine mount, fit for a better man than I.
"I want to take care of her, or see she goes to a good knight. Good french knight," I tell Jean, as I pet the horse's nose.
"What did you do?" The boy asks, slowly brushing her down.
"I've been swimming," I say, putting a hand through my wet hair.
"Before that—?" He asks, slowly.
"Cursed at the Prince of england."
Jean groans.
"I expect he'll kill me. It's fine though, I was always going to get killed anyway," I say, kissing the horse's nose.
"What's going to happen to me?" Jean asks.
"You'll just go home, or another knight can take you on, both of you," I say, petting the horse, "You didn't want to be my squire anyway."
He hangs his head a little. It's true, he begged not to. His father made him.
"Go have supper, it's fine, I'm not hungry," I say.
I spend the evening fixing my armor. Some of my mail was messed up from the unfair tilts. I get through that then go out and look at the stars. I fall asleep lying on the grass behind the stables. Better than being inside and it's too hot.
Dawn comes and I wash up, put on a fresh tunic and head down to the tilt fully expecting royal knights to be waiting to arrest me.
As it happens Lord Edward has come, personally. He and a couple of knights but they hang back. He's in as nice a robes as yesterday and not at all ready for jousting.
"My lord," I say, like I am not the same person I was yesterday when. I am. I just expect him to be about to kill me.
"My men tell me your names' Gaveston," Lord Edward says, almost nicely.
"You don't have to tell anyone that it's fine, my father will assume I got killed," I say.
"I'm not going to kill you!" He says, upset, "I—I you should apologize. That's all. That's why I came when I realized you weren't coming back."
"I literally said I wasn't coming back—?! I mean I'm sorry. I apologize, my lord. I have, little control of my temper," I say.
"I noticed," he smiles again, "Prince Edward. Pleased to meet you."
"Piers Gaveston," I say, ducking my head respectfully, "I should say what unfortunately occurred yesterday is not only typical it's also inevitable I don't, get much better than that actually. I understand if you don't want me in your service."
"Oh—no, I do—I do I—I definitely do I have," he nods.
"Right then," I nod at the pitch generally, "Shall I send for your horse?"
"Oh I'm not doing that," he says, gesturing to the tilt, "No. no. No. Not, let's not."
"That's why I'm here. My lord," I say.
"Glaring like that, and the way you mumble it, negates the 'my lord' bit," he says.
"Right. Jousting? Us? Look I can be decent with a lance in my hand if you've not done it much I won't strike you," I say.
"I don't really care to. Come and have supper with me and you could tell me about jousting?" He offers.
"I mean—," I look at the pitch generally, "I suppose we could talk about it first—don't you want to just have a go while we're out here?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I don't fancy it. I've got a full schedule really but would you like to have supper?" He asks.
"No. I'd like to be on the tournament circuit in France which I might as well be given you're apparently not interested in jousting which is why I'm here. My lor—you said not to say that—ah my prince," I say.
"You're meant to educate me on jousting, nobody ever said that had to be out here, outside with lances, it could be over supper with you explaining it," he says.
"No, that was directly implied, like it was understood you would actually participate that was completely the idea," I say.
"Well. I'm the prince, I'm saying it wasn't. And you have to do what I say. So come and have supper with me and tell me about jousting. I command it," he says, firmly, "And I'll pardon you for—let's just go with everything you've said so far."
I guess this is happening.
"Very good," I say, nodding respectfully.  Looks like I'm having supper with the prince. I sort of wish he'd just killed me.