Hand in Hand to Hell

20 - Hunting the swallow 1435-1461

Hunting the Swallow

Chapter 1 - December 1436

Owen Tudor

Grey clouds swirl above, thick bellied and full of snow. It's colder out. Not advent and yet winter is upon hatefield house. The snow is nearly up to my knees already, unusually cold and harsh for this time of year. I take another breath of cold air and look back down at the miserable spaniel that sits in front of me.
"Go on. This isn't your home anymore. You're a bad dog. And I don't want you. So go," I point, making my voice firm as possible. We sold the dog weeks ago. Well I did. "I'll be lucky if I live so you definitely won't. Go. Now. I don't even like you."
The animal puts its ears back, miserably, too tender to do anything but take the words to heart. The creature has been nothing but loyal and my wife did love it best out of all the little dogs, but it has a new home now, it needs to stop running back.
I move to kick it and it runs. I wouldn't have struck it. I don't even like shouting at it. But it needs to go. At least one of us can be free.
I turn and walk back inside. It's growing dark early these days, and will for another few weeks till the winter equinox, when we'll slowly creep back towards spring. A spring I likely will not live to see, nor will my wife. By the grace of god our children may survive. But right now we are house of ghosts. My wife is dying. And all of us are slowly dying with her.
I walk in, shaking the snow off my cloak. The hall is cold but nothing like the chill from the wind. I take off the cloak and hang it by the door, before walking in. It's a small house, larger than I ever knew as a boy but small so far as castles are considered. I'd give anything to be in the middle of Wales right now. I should have fled with them this summer, but it seems no matter what I am damned. I know why. But my sins were too sweet not to commit them. I don't think there's anything actually in the Bible about a poor Welshman not marrying the Dowager Queen. But it is highly frowned up.
I nearly step into a nurse who is bursting from one of the rooms. We're all here on the main floor where it's warmer, and the nurses sleep with the children, when the children aren't in our bed. It's late in the evening she'd likely nodded off.
"Little one escape, Alys?" I ask, stepping back from running into her.
"Yes, again, I don't know how he does it," she sighs.
"Likely in with his mum, I'll find him," I say, squeezing her arm. This only happens nightly I'm not surprised. When I was a little tiny boy I was in hiding with my mother, for my father was trying to stop my wife's first husband from burning our country to the ground, and us with it. Because life is strange.
I open the door to our bedroom slowly, it's warm and the fire glows strong in the hearth. Kat is sitting up by the window, of course our youngest boy cradled in her arms, his flushed face leaned contentedly against her chest.
I smile, closing the door quickly before the warm air gets out. A happy scene I know I shall not get to enjoy much longer.
"Cat that is supposed to be in bed," I say.
"I know," she says, with no remorse, kissing the baby's soft black curls.
"Glad I always know where to find him," I say, smiling, as I come over.
"He wanted another hug," she says, cuddling the thick toddler. Four years old a week ago, this summer he was far too little to travel all the way to Wales, so we couldn't flee. I insisted I could carry him. I was overruled. Our last surviving child, and from the moment he was born his mother's precious thing, unlike his elder brother he's happy to be snuggled for hours, and unlike his elder brother's not been ill a day in his life.
"Sounds like a good idea," I say, crawling onto the sofa next to her and wrapping them both in my arms, so gently. She's in pain these days.
"You're cold, were you outside?" She asks.
"Yes, just watching the storm come in," I say, rubbing her arm.
"No one's coming," she knows I'm paranoid. For good reason. She's a queen of england there's not a man in this country that wouldn't want me and our boys dead for existing.
"Not tonight," I say, kissing her cheek, "How are you doing? Carry you to bed?"
"In a moment, just hold me for now," she sighs, wincing a little.
I glance over at our bed. Our elder son is already asleep. He's had a fever for the past couple of days. Nothing too serious, but enough to concern us.
Cat coughs again, painfully, and I hold her up. Our son doesn't shift in her arms, but the child is big and heavy on her chest which I know aches.
"Let me put him to bed, eh?" I ask.
"He's quite awake, he saw me crying so he's just not going anywhere are you?" She asks. The child fully believes it's his job to hug anyone who so much as sheds a tear. I have pointed out this could be a ploy to get more cuddles but Cat pointed out that would be odd because one or the other of us is holding him constantly so we don't know.
"Why were you crying now?" I ask.
"I'm not leaving you," she says, tipping her face to look at me, one hand on her baby's back gently soothing him to sleep.
"We agreed you'd go up for the start of advent, a few days as you're unwell, and then come home," I say, "I'll come with you. The boys will be fine." It's not as though I'm not welcome at court in that I have a legitimate job working for the Dowager Queen. It is as though that legitimate job has nothing to with being the father of the Dowager Queen's children.
"I know. I know what we said and that I'd tell him I'm ailing and that I'd reason with him. Give some story for who they are and ask that you have a new position but. I can't. I can't do it. I've done that before with his father too much I thought I could handle him or talk with him. They always get what they want. And you never win. It's just who they are. I have nothing I won't win. He wouldn't do anything I asked. He's already petitioned Parliament to grant him his powers he wants control they all do. And I won't let their vileness poison what time I have left," she says, voice week.
"All right," I say, kissing her temple, "As you will."
"I'm sorry. I can't protect you anymore," she says.
"I need no protecting and I am content," I say, gently.
She pauses for a long moment, "Owain ap Merddud is that because you think you're also going to die."
"No," I lie.
"It is."
"If I die with you it is the sweetest death I could ask for. If I die so be it I would not change a moment," I say, "I swear it."
"When I give you word you shall do I say and flee. I do not like their games but I can play them. I will buy you enough time because you must live and protect our sons," she says, gripping my hand in hers, "Swear it to me."
"I swear it," I say, gripping her hand and putting it on our now sleeping son's back. "As I did when you told me you were carrying them. I will do everything you ask of me." But it won't be enough to save me. But it might save them. We've been laying plans since their births. Careful double lives. A tapestry of lies to shelter them from the truth of who I am.
"Thank you," Cat whispers, "We have more time. A little more time I think." The baby stirs in her arms, pressing his face against her chest and studying me with dark, thickly hooded drooping eyes.
"Here, I'll take him to bed, then us—yes our bed," I say.
"I am sorry," she says, and I know she means about the rest.
"We're fine. We're ready, aren't we, Eryr?" I ask, picking up the boy who transfers to embracing me readily. He nods. "If anyone ever asks you, what's your name?"
"Jasper de Hatefield," the little boy whispers, he was born in this house, in this very room. And from his first breath in my arms, as I held him to his mother's chest, we have both been completely besotted with those chubby cheeks and dark curls.
"And do you speak welsh?" I ask.
"No."
"Who am I?"
"A man who works for mam—mum," he corrects.
"Good job who's your father?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says, obediently, "tad dw i eisiau cysgu."
"Shh, good lad," I kiss his hair.
Cat sighs, watching as our baby obediently repeats the lies we've drilled in. Edmund de Hatcomb and Jasper de Hatfield. My own son's names stolen from me in the necessary deceit. And my name a curse. As a Welshman have no inherent rights to own property, carry a weapon, let alone marry an Englishwoman, or most any rights in court. I've gained some of those through service to the crown, that is Cat got the right to give me property so I've some now. But my sons would be damned by association. And so they're good little french boys. French and English names their mother picked. Edmund for one of her few friends in court, a man who might even be willing to claim it as his child. And Jasper, for some knight she knew in France, or knew of, she said she'd always liked the name. Edmund looks like me, he's fair and slim, with soft blue eyes, he looks like an English lad at best. Jasper got his mum's dark looks, from his mum's side that is she says he looks like her brothers. So a French name, so he can disappear. And be free. I call them both welsh names and taught them welsh. Nick names anyway, Edmund is Gwalch, which means hawk, Jasper is Eryr, eagle. Only in Welsh, so that perhaps it will do them some good. Welsh always has to be a secret. Even now. It's a game, we act like it's a game so it won't frighten them. Really we're the ones who are frightened.
I lay Jasper in bed. He promptly crawls over to his big brother and hugs him, closing his eyes. Cat is watching us, tears on her cheeks.
"We'll be well," I say, returning to her. We had a fine plan. Flee to Wales. I teach the boys welsh they don't know who their mother is, she comes to visit as a noblewoman we live on a farm or something. And they get to have normal lives. For too long Jasper was too little for such a journey. Then Cat was pregnant and we lost the baby. And perhaps this next summer the boys might be old enough. But that will be too late we fear. Cat is only getting sicker. And I wont' leave her. Even if she lives the winter she won't be able to travel. And I'd gladly give my life so she can spend her last days with her precious boys. She loves them as she never could her first born, a loveless marriage and conception because her first husband was the most terrible man in the world. And I'm just a poor Welshman. And she chose me. So I will be here by her side.
"I can stand," she winces, putting an arm around shoulders. I help her up. She leans on my heavily.
"You're warm too," I say.
"Cuddling that baby," she says, smiling at our boys. Of course I'd only give her sons. A daughter could be left in the care of one of her ladies no one looks for daughters. Say it's my bastard a woman has no rights anyway to be taken. I wouldn't have minded a little girl what do I need a son for? To be a Welshman with no hope of advancement.
"Shh," I ease her onto the bed, then get a cool cloth from the basin. I check Edmund's forehead as well. His fever feels better. "Did you write to the king?"
The king her firstborn son. I once held him while he cried. He threw up on both of us we nearly laughed. He's a young man now, with no knowledge of me or his half brothers. He'd kill all three of us. You can kill little boys. His father killed women and children for sport, he'd probably set his dogs on my sweet boys.
"Yes, I said I was ill and could not come," she says, softly, stroking Jasper's curls from his face. She hasn't been to court in two years. Four years ago Jasper was born, not a week shy of the king's birthday. Because for some reason we can't avoid conceiving in Lent. Something I cautiously found amusing, born under the sign of the archer, a nice Welsh archer. Edmund under the scorpion, and he has the temper to match, bless him. But both their births were too soon upon the advent and Cat couldn't go to court. Weeks after Jasper was born I swore if she wished to go I'd stay with the boys and mind them as she would. She just cuddled her baby and shook her head. The next year she went, but only for a few days. Jasper wept the whole time for her and when we returned he'd been sobbing day and night and was quite hoarse, Edmund had a cold and was coughing all night. Cat swore not to leave them again and kept her vow. So it's been two years since.
"I'll see him again before I pass. That is all. Give you time to get away," she says.
"No," I say, softly, wiping her forehead, "No."
"Yes. Time to take the boys, if it's summer then you can go to Wales, if not, take them to an abby," she says. The long-standing, if emergency, plan. Leave them at an abby with just their English-french names, presumed bastards, to slowly forget us, and at least have comfort, and safety within a church. Edmund may remember us more so if possible I would go back for him, he looks like my son they'd give him to me. Jasper I'd have no claim to and in a few years he will not know me either.
"As you wish," I say, softly. They're her babies. Her children first. Not mine. It was always all for her. I knew my life was cheap. I knew from the first time I held Edmund that I'd likely not live to see him grow up. We keep them and she gets to enjoy them. The children she wanted, the life she chose. My perfect princess.
I wrap an arm around her, crawling into the wide bed, our sons on the other side, now sound asleep and safe. Sometimes I imagined we'd actually make it to Wales and I'd get to see them grow up and marry and have their own lives. I think Cat thought it could be true. I don't know. But we didn't get it. I'm glad we got this. If the king's men come breaking down the door tonight, I'm glad we got this.
"It's all right," Cat says, seeing me watching the door, "He won't even care. I'm just a burden to him. He's just like his father."
That is of course what I am afraid.