Hand in Violent Hand

7 - Merciless 1386-1388

Merciless

Chapter 1 - "preferment goes by letter and affection"

There's a mist that falls upon the hills of Devon. It comes rolling off the coast, obscuring soft green grass, and ancient trees. Till the whole of the world seems eclipsed in a perfect fog. All hidden to the eye but the mind that knows it is there has no fear of such concealment. Not from the mist that rises in the morning, nor the torrential rains that blow in from the sea. The salt air mingles in my breath, begging me to return to the waves again.
Not yet. Not yet. A pure rhythm in my thoughts the same as the crashing of waves upon the hull of a ship. I feel it now. Too many years at sea and yet too few. I do like challenges. I also like this land. Yes I like it here. Misty sea air. So close and yet so far.
But alas I have business ashore. I tap my fingers on the cold stone wall, watching the mist slowly rise about Powderham castle. It's early morning yet. Few are stirring. And all is quiet. There's a lake not far south of the keep. A good enough walk on a summer day. Then the river, that's faster, more dangerous, unless you can swim. I can swim very well. I don't know how cold it is. I didn't come from the south. I came from Exeter. My ship docked late in the night. And I stole away. No men. No horses. I learned years ago in France there's a benefit to moving about how I wish, where I wish. Lessons learned in the war are not so easily forgotten by any man.
I tip my face up the rain, letting it roll down my skin. Clear, and cold. A baptism courtesy of the skies. I have no fear of any water, not above or below. So I've never fled a thunderstorm.
I take a long breath, again of the pure salty air. Then I start walking towards the house. The dogs leap up to bark before they know me. Anxious. Why I wonder? No one changed the dogs. Probably should have changed the dogs. But they''re restless, think they're guarding something.
I whistle, and they quiet. Yes should have changed the dogs.
I let myself in from the storm, rain dripping down my cloak. It is early. But not so early the kitchen staff aren't up. A maid notes me but says nothing. I wasn't expected back because I am never expected anywhere. That's why you always change the dogs.
I walk into the main hall. There might be breakfast but more importantly there should be messages waiting for me. Rain water drips down my face, pleasurably, onto my lips, I part them slightly to let it run into my mouth.
The main hall is warm, a small breakfast is being laid out. My wife is at one end of the table, already eating.
I cross to the tray where my messages are to be set. Ah yes. I know the hands already. The king still keeps his same scribes how touching.
"Philip," my wife starts a bit, standing up.
"Should have changed the dogs," I say, not looking up from sorting messages.
"What—I didn't know you were coming. You didn't say," she says, her tone is possibly accusatory.
"I'm aware," I glance up at her. She's tired, hair isn't fully up, that isn't a new dress even though she's the money.
"You're soaked."
I nod, still sorting messages, "I may not stay long."
"I need—did you get my letter?"
"Yes," It didn't require a response.
"That's it that's all you're going to do? You're going to walk in here—soaking wet for some reason and—read things?" She asks.
I shrug a little because that is very obviously all that I was planning on doing. Taxes. Taxes. Money. I do love money. More people have paid me than I thought would. I need to sort this. This is going to take hours. Well I have a full day ahead this will be diverting.
"Philip."
"Yes?" I glance up at her.
"I had your son," my wife says, voice nearly shaking. Oh she is angry.
"Is the child not well?" I ask, "Your letter said he was."
"Two weeks ago I had our child you're back to—get messages? Aren't you supposed to be in Ireland—?"
"Not really anymore, I've got people doing that. Do you require anything more for the nursery? Wetnurses? Things like that? We've come into some money," I say, opening another message.
"Money you're supposed to have?"
"I have no idea why you'd speak in such a way to me, the father of your child," I say, nicely. I gave her a son. Thought she'd like that. Oh more money did this fool overpay me? For taxes I'm not meant to be collecting to begin with? This is New Years even if it's noticed I collected it then they shan't look for the overpayment.
"Do you want to see him?" She asks, clearly pained. Possibly the recent childbirth. I should stop reading for a moment.
"By and by," I say, looking up, she does look pained, and miserable. I have good reports she was attractive before. I left her pregnant I think to our mutual surprise. "Is the child not well?"
"He's fine," she says, quietly.
"Right," I really would like to read, "You got my letter—? Notify me of any additional aid you require if you do I've set aside funds. Christening gown and the like? I told my brother he was pleased had a series of quips about it which you—probably won't find diverting." I judge her expression. They were mostly to do with estimates to how many years before we inflict the boy on London and in what fashion and how many wars he'll start as it's my boy. Things like that. I found them amusing enough though my wife may not I do realize.
She sighs, a hand to her face. There's no sound in the room except the crackle of the hearth. And the steady drip of water from cloak. And her breathing. It sounds nearly ragged.
I cross the room, placing a hand on the middle of her back. It is rough.
She winces, saying nothing.
"You've been inside by the fires too much. You should walk down to the lake, get the sea air," I advise. She doesn't do well with the smoke in the winter, her room is the clearest with large windows and yet. Our wedding night she coughed so hard I had to hold her, hand upon her back. Wondering if she'd die then I was more inclined to care for her, a feeling I had not then experienced and was close enough to arousal to satisfy me. I doubt if she noticed. I do love the dead. Death has fascinated me since I was a boy, other men's naturally.
"Yes Philip I'll do that," she whispers, but her voice is stronger. But she's still angry.
"What?" I frown.
"You know I can't swim."
"You don'T have to swim just stand there it's not required you jump in."
"You're meant to say 'I'll walk with you' or 'I'll show you how' or even better, 'I wouldn'T let you drown'," she breaths, gripping the back of the chair.
"I wouldn't let you drown," I say, going back to my chair to read. Watching men drown is as relaxing as rainfall to me. It's a painful death, so slow, utterly delightful. It was one of the best parts of being at sea, watching it claim its victims. A fight man can never win. Water painfully filling the lungs. Then the inevitable. Simply floating. She'd look beautiful out there, floating in the reeds. And there's a peace in it that can't be found in life. Of course I'd let her drown. "I wouldn't let you drown. I don't have to say that."
"Okay," she whispers, staring off. Misty tears gathering in soft brown eyes. I never asked if the child looked like her. Or me. Or better some other man. That's a fine game I wouldn't mind playing I'll save it for when I see the child. I should do that as I'm here. If it did favor most anyone even a bit then I'd have every reason to kill the man. I love a good reason for murder it's not required but it is nice to have there. The king is fond of reasons for things comes by it naturally his father was the same way.
"Can you tell me why?" She asks.
"What?" I look up, quite sure this is the start of a new conversation I wasn't privy to till now.
"Why did you write me that if it's a boy to call him Richard, after the king?" She asks, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"My own reasons," I say, opening a message from the king asking about some royal land I manage. Something about the taxes not being right but he's sure it's a mistake. I'm going to need to write and explain how the royal accountants were mistaken which they weren't. Then on and on about Ireland and how he's getting some odd reports can I just come up? Yes those odd reports are likely true. I do despise the truth. Well. The phrase 'I named my first born son after you' should dispel some of the doubt about loyalty.
"I thought you'd call him Philip."
"Well I am loyal to my king and I love him, desperately," he signed off saying he was sure I wasn't to blame in any of it. I love that kid. "As he is my king. And I am loyal to him."
"Right," she nods.
"I mean you can call the child whatever you want, call him Dickie for all I care," I say, dismissively.
"Why don't you care?" She asks.
"What?" I say, because if I act like I misunderstood I've got more time to come up with a better answer.
"Why don't you care. What your son is called?" She asks.
"I told you when we wed. I am not a romantic man. I'm not prone to attachments," I say coolly.
She looks away.
I'm just past thirty. That's old to be having a first born and I know it. Worse she knows it. She's younger than I. With a good deal of familial money it was fine match for me. And I don't mind children. But she thinks she knows more than she knows about me. And why she's my first wife. she could think one of two things. Both things are better than the true thing which I know she doesn't think. If she did she'd not be standing here right now.
"Do you think he's not yours? Or something?" She asks.
Oh god I hope not. I'd have a whole duel. Been an age since I was in a duel. Or I could just kill the man. slowly of course. I'd have the right to. I nearly have a reputation so I don't dare hope, however. Could be a priest or someone like that. I'd enjoy that all the better. They beg more. So much righteousness and faith. And it all drains away as they die.
"I wouldn't doubt you," I say, genuinely, "Why? Isn't it?"
I'd like it if she didn't tell me then I could track him down but this is fine I guess.
"Of course it's yours! You left me carrying it—I,," she takes a long breath, "I don't know what to think? Why are you staring at me like that then?"
"Like what?"
"Like a starving dog. Wondering if it'll be fed this week," she says, softly.
I shrug a little, going back to my messages, "Do you know when this came?"
"No, I don't know from across the room, when a message came. I've been having a baby," she says.
I think that took a day maximum but I don't bring it up, "It's from the Duke of Lancaster. D'you know who he is?"
"Everyone knows who the Duke of Lancaster is, Philip," she sighs.
I open it, carefully. Might need to check the seal but it is his.
"You know him?"
"A bit," I know everyone, "He's writing to tell me he's going with his Spanish campaing. They'll have already left. His son is managing his estate."
"What's that do with you?" She frowns.
"In theory nothing. In practice? His son's a bloody idiot. And he knows it. And he knows I know it. So he's telling me knowing I know. This is a courtesy tip, for a fellow artist," I say, with gratitude. So I'm still his favorite liar. I smile.
"A fellow what?"
"What?"
"Artist in what?" My wife frowns.
Pain. Games. Pain. "Living. Weren't you supposed to be showing me a baby?" I ask.
"Our baby?"
"Yes that's the one," I nod.
"Come on," she sighs.
I obey, pushing Lancaster's letter to the back of my head. He wouldn't have written me if he didn't think I'd find it diverting. But the devil of it is if he's going, and leaving his idiot son here, well his idiot son, is an idiot. I am rarely of the humor to cater to fools and I'd not let my old friend's son die I know him too well he'd blame me if harm came to the boy we'd have to swear to heat each other and there'd be no time for amusements then with that and he'd likely win we have wit between us but he's money which is     unite a powerful playing piece. And he knows it. Damn him. Could have taken the stupid one with him. No he took all his pretty clever girls, left the stupid boy. Should have told him I was naming my first born son after him I do despise the name John but if it'd please him enough not to leave his least intelligent offspring unsupervised. Oh well. It's done now. I can likely use it anyway the idiot is an idiot but the idiot is a distracting idiot and I typically enjoy a distraction when I'm busy like I am now.
"Here," my wife says, waking me from my thoughts, as she stops.
"This hall isn't near airy enough," I say, stopping. I put her on the other wing.
"The baby was cold, and I wanted to be near him," she says, coughing a little which proves my point I do think.
I shrug, it's her prerogative though I suppose she'd know. Her or the nurses.
There's rooms set up and I can smell fires already going. It's not even that cold out. There's smoke lingering in the air, though candles are lit to abate that.
My wife leads me into a little room off her own. I have to duck through the doorway, she likely didn't notice she comes up to my chest if she's standing on a brick. Found that out at the wedding. And nobody appreciated the brick or my helpful information that I bend only for my king.
The nursery is set up with a few simple tapestries. A nurse stands by, folding cloths. And there's a neat wooden cradle. My wife goes to it immediately, though she doesn't smile.
"He reminds me of you," she says.
I hope that's feceatious. It is not.
The child stares up at me big blue eyes, a pale shade I only behold in my looking glass or my brothers. The start of soft dark curls on the child's head only complete the already obvious resemblance. I haven't seen many infants, not this small anyway. New to the world and blotchy faced. My sisters, perhaps the Lancaster girls I would have seen but not held. Still the boy is clearly as pretty as one of my sisters, with long dark lashes and sweet rosebud cheeks.
"He's healthy. He never cries," my wife says, staring down at our child. It hasn't been a long marriage, now there's this little person here. Rather strange to me as well though. I didn't think much of having a son. And she's explaining the child to me simply as she might a new litter of pups. But I've heard the king describe his wolfhounds with more fondness.
"You don't like him?" I frown. Most women want a son. If I die, he's my heir. Rather simple.
"Do you like him?" She asks, frowning a little, "Do you know how to hold him?"
"No, I've held day old puppies that's about it I don't care to expand on that. Not that you're not a very good puppy I'm sure," I say, laying two fingers on the child's belly. He bats at my hand with chubby fists, studying me with those clear blue eyes so like my own.
I feel myself smile a little as the child studies me so seriously.
"I'm your father. We'll be speaking at length later," I say, brushing the child's fist with my thumb. The babe's skin is soft as the tiny fingers try to grip my hand, twisting a bit in that white night dress.
My wife nods, looking down at him.
"Why don't you like him?" I ask.
"I said. He's like you. Looking at him it's like you. I didn't know it would be like that," she says, quietly, looking back down at our child.
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like nothing's there," she says, shaking her head.
"He's only a boy. I'll give you a daughter next time what about that?" I come over to slide an arm around her shoulders. I press my face into the soft curls of her hair, "You want a girl you can play with? That can be arranged."
She finally smiles, leaning against me.
"You're tired. And that one doesn't know what the world is yet that's all. I can be good for daughters as well, you'd enjoy that," I say. My mother liked my sisters more. They weren't 'unpleasant to be around'.
"We all keep calling him a girl, the nurses, he's so pretty, and he's little," she says.
"I think that's because he's a baby," I offer.
"For a baby," she pushes my side.
"We'll he'll grow. And healthy is a blessing," I really did say all this in my letter.
"Healthy," she nods, quietly, "You'll take him off to war with you someday?"
I'm not going to war again. I'd need a man I'd fight for. That man died nearly a decade ago.
"I suppose. Or let him start his own," I say, staring down at the child who is so clearly trying to understand why he's in the world. Little brown furrowed, clear blue eyes gazing around the world. "Look at him, he's been here before want's to know what side he's on this time."
"That's very upsetting why would you say that?" My wife asks.
I didn't think it was. And it's likely paternal pride I didn't know I had, but I'd like to think the little thing looks rather wise. My brother had some sage advice about enjoying who he is first and having a pleasant time with that. I possibly should have said that to her but I thought what I said was nice.
"Just serious," I say.
"He doesn't know how to smile yet he's too little," she says, quietly.
"Shh, I've been away. And you've been alone," I say, kissing her temple, "I'm home now."
"How long are you staying?" She asks.
I was really here to read my messages. That was really it. I didn't think the child would be worth meeting yet really but he is a pleasant lad. I could have gotten into a duel over him that would have been nice but no. Blue eyes and black hair it'll start talking soon then I'll never be able to deny it's mine.
"A while yet. Do you not think he reminds you of someone else?" Duelable? I gesture generally to the child.
"He looks exactly like you," my wife breaths.
"Does he though?" It was worth a try.
"Yes Philip, but we did all think he looks like a girl so perhaps your sisters," she says, tugging on my tunic, "you're soaking."
"Yes there was rain," I say, spoiling my reasonable plan. Ah well. I can see you're going to be a challenge little one.
"Richie, you're not aloud to stand out in the rain like your father," my wife says, reaching out to tug on the child's arm. He tugs it back, nearly smiling then bats at her arm. "You're meant to have self-preservation"
"Hm might not," I say, wrapping both my arms around her. If I close my eyes and pretend she's not here I can be leaning against my brother, looking out over the fields of France. Prince Edward laughing, "I'll send someone without a sense of self-preservation—someone like a Courtenay. Philip there's a good lad, run into town find out where the records are stored." And he clapped me on the shoulder, one gloved hand. Easy smile. He was a good man. I'd tell him I had a son. Just to hear him say I'd be a good father. Because he believed it. He believed in anyone. And now he's dead and his son is on the throne. On which note. I've not been to see our young King of late. This one's name sake.
"You're named after a king, what do you think of that? Two kings actually. It's for monetary reasons if you are my blood you'll appreciate that," I say, reaching out to curl a finger around the baby's arm.
"Closest he'll ever come to royalty, a good Devon boy," my wife says. She thinks there's nothing but trouble up in London. And she thinks I am going to get killed one day. So this is her son, my heir but her protection if I die or am captured. She says captured often, even though it's only happened once. So, this is her peaceful Devon boy who can be a knight but come home to protect her. Give her grandchildren. And survive when I do not. That's what she bore him for. It's political we both know it. I like politics I'm not opposed. But I feel some small guilt. I wasn't the first born. I got to have fun. I could go to war and get in danger all I liked.
"Yes," I say, quietly. It's true. And likely for the best. Live longer that way. And men are happy with that I understand. I'd like one at least to follow in my footsteps. My father did with myself and my brothers. But I'm well aware I should have married sooner if I wanted a half a dozen sons. I'm the fifth, I'm well with that. And I'm well this one. Inherit Powderham, die in the castle he was born in. A good life by all reasoning.
"You're soaked. Let's get you changed," my wife says, tugging on my cloak again.
"As you will," I follow her from the room. The child begins to cry. I suppose a nurse answers. For half a moment I wonder if I should have felt something at my child's cry. But it's gone.
"You're soaked to the skin," she says, drawing me into her bedchamber.
"Rain does that," I suppose we're doing this then. "You've been chruched?"
"Last week. You're leaving soon aren't you?" She asks.
"Soon,," tonight.
"Where are you going?" She slowly loosens the stays on her dress.
"Dover. I need to see an old friend," I say, discarding my wet things neatly as I can.
"I liked having the baby. It was—like hope was real. It was there, I could—believe you'd come home," she says.
"I am always coming back. This is where my favorite money is," I purr, coming over to her at the bed.
"And now your son."
"And now my son, and yourself," I say.
"You never say my name," she frowns.
"And you my—dearest—," think. Think. You've slept in the past week. "Anne." Anne Wake. She was rich. Knew the Wake part. I kiss her lips, cradling a hand behind her head to brace her there. She slides into my arms readily.
"Why do you find it so hard to love things?" She whispers.
I wish she wouldn't talk. I like talking normally. Not this. Like she's seeing what I really am.
"I love you. I love you. I want no other wife," I say, kissing her lips again.
"Promise me you're not going to someone else," she whispers.
"I swear it," I say, stroking a hand down her side, "I would never love someone more. Than you." I don't love her so it isn't all that much to ask.
The child is crying in the other room. Piercing cries. The nurses trying to sooth it I suppose.
"Nothing soothes him it doesn't matter," my wife says, caressing my cheek. I wonder if I reacted at all my child's sobs. I doubt it.
"Move to another hall," I point out.
"No. That's awful. Someone should be there."
Even if we don't care? So she does understand. Poor little scrap. Well if he wishes he'll find someone to care someday. It doesn't seem to be us.
"It'll stop eventually he runs out of air," she say, softly.
That reminds me of watching men suffocate. Drowning in water. Or better their own blood. The panic. Those few beautiful moments, as they realize they've got no breath left in their body. And they're dying. And there's no god answering those frantic prayers.
I kiss her neck, thinking of the fear in mens eyes as their throats are cut.
"You may be perfect," I say, softly, she always knows just what to say. Runs out of air, yes.
"There's no one else? That you love?"
"Of course not," I say. I don't even love you.