Days of the Dead Book 3: The King's Ghost

Chapter 4: Siri, play "Wild Heart" by Bleachers

Gideon
I run through Westminster, heedless of tour people and attendants who call to me. By the time I clear the doors I'm in a full sprint.
Yes, I'm doing the stupid thing. Of course I am. Because this is who I am. For better or for worse. And this is who I want to be. Eight years ago I touched a magic object and set off on the greatest adventure of my life. Now I'm living that adventure every single day, and the primary antagonist of it needs me. So I'm going. Because that is what I do.
I run through the foggy London afternoon, bouncing impatiently at every street crossing. But, Gideon, you say. I just looked at a map, Westminster is miles from Kensington. I know what I'm about. Usually I do this in mail chasing my daughter, who, apparently, does not actually get tired. Good to know. I still chase her around the castle and forest every single morning. So this, in the damp London drizzle, with a stupid grin on my face, is nothing.
"That was fast. Westminster called, you didn't put a profane sticky note at the base of Henry V's grave, they were worried about you," Dancer's dad calls, from the kitchen.
"I know I'll go back later, I talked to Courtenay though, he's fine. Listen, I'm going back to 1439, if Dancer or Sadie comes asking about me just say that I did the stupid thing they'll know exactly what that means," I call, leaning over the stairs to finish. I usually put a note that says something like 'Richard Courtenay, Bishop of Norwich, Flower of Devon, holder of the King's purse' along with his dates and depending how much he's irritated me lately, something about him being a complete tool with good hair.
"Oh, right, have fun then," Jay says, not overly concerned.
"I will!" I shout, still feeling myself grin.
I go into my room and strip off my modern clothes, sorting for period garb. I find a white shirt and black pants, that'll do, and strap on my boots. Then I pick up my green cloak.
I smile, one more time at my cork-boards.
And then I twist the ring on my finger.
And I'm back at Windsor Castle, 1439. It's mid afternoon here too so a bustle of activity. I don't even stagger, the magic poisoning must've worn off. I'm doing well.
I run through the halls. I'm not seeing any of the family's dogs. They're not here? The family's left?
"Tudor! Where's Tudor—-ah there you are," I round a corner and walk into the loyal knight. He looks 800% done with the human race, but mostly me.
"Saint," he says, disdainfully, "I thought you'd gone?"
"I'm never really gone—where's King Henry?" I ask, hopefully, bouncing a little.
"I've been instructed not to tell you," Tudor says, very tiredly like he knows he's about to be tortured, but it's fine because he's about to go into overtime.
"Please? Please? Please? Please, they tell you everything; this is really important," I beg, bouncing.
"No, now get out of my way before I call the others to escort you off the premises," Tudor growls.
"Please? Welshman to Welshman."
"That has never at all worked, goodbye," he starts to walk past me.
"Gideon!" We both look down the hall to see Tudor's son, Jasper, leaning out of a room he was clearly locked in. I say that because Tudor says:
"Get back in there right now! Did you pick that lock?"
"Gideon, they went to Kenilworth," Jasper says, grinning.
I grin and point finger guns at him. He grins, trying to imitate the gesture back.
"Wow, really?" Tudor is more tired and disappointed than anything.
I twist my ring again. I've only been to Kenilworth a little, but I know the outside grounds enough to magic myself there.
This time I fall to the grass, but that's just because it's slick. I climb to my feet quickly and take off running. If they're here they're not at the main residence. They're up at Henry's secret lair, Pleasance, a castle in the middle of an artificial lake accessible only by boat because Henry is LancasterExtra. Just kidding, it's badass; he totally needs this.
I am outside the castle walls so I have to run around the entire length of the castle before I can get a sight on the Pleasance, well in the distance across the marsh. A perfect place to hide out and defend from attacks. Henry is nothing if not practical.
If it were fair weather I might risk swimming it, but as it is not, I do not. I have to resort to magic to get me to the far embankment, then I discover the marsh is completely impassable, so I must use magic to get the rest of the way up to the castle doors.
Naturally Courtenay has several enchantments around the place. I break through them then quickly fix them. Normally, I don't do that. I let him fix them himself, but these are really terrible so I put down better ones, before letting myself in.
The Pleasance is a 'simple' square, timber and stone castle, on a four acre island surrounded by moat and lake. By the 21st century it will be completely destroyed, with Henry VIII (another reason to hate him), having it fully demolished. Now, however, it is living and breathing. Four towers, ample rooms, and a garden at the center, it's the perfect retreat.
Monarchs typically use houses such as this to get away from the public eye, court can be at Kenilworth, but a place like this is not only good if you're invaded, it is pleasant enough for a family to stay at to avoid court and be something like a normal family. Henry VII will use Kenilworth and likely Pleasance in this manner, and Henry VI will stay here with his family during the War of the Roses. I suppose our Henry V would be pleased it went to some decent use, ever practical it's a perfect location and decidedly sturdy.
Now days he likely keeps a small trusted staff out here, likely servants looking to retire, who he trusts implicitly but doesn't subject to his everyday court. As he ages our Prince Harry and his brothers may come alone as well, either to recuperate from an injury or theoretically for more romantic aspirations. Come on, if you're a king, or prince and you want to have an affair nobody knows about, it's much more pleasant to have a hiding spot where literally no one will see you or wander in. I don't think Henry V himself used it for that more likely quiet time to think about how he wants to be Awful in Europe, but the reason rests. His brothers likely had affairs (some evidence exists), and he probably anticipated his sons may be similarly inclined. Henry through his life has never shown any interest in joys of the flesh, just the joys of cold hard cash and warfare, his chosen vices.
I'm greeted at the door by seven big mastiffs, all wagging their tails. The English keep war dogs, namely mastiffs, and while many would die on Henry's campaigns the king often keeps them around various castles. A loyal dog will follow the kids more diligently than any guard, and the big animals provide a last line of defense of would-be assassins or intruders.
Unless of course the big furry creatures can be bought because they love a small Welsh wizard who gives them ear scratches. These all look old, Henry's using Pleasance as a retirement home for his older dogs? Eh, why not. The old things can sleep and the servants care for them, and that way the younger ones are chasing around the kids.
I pet the dogs and let each one lick my face, before pressing on. The castle, while small by medieval standards, is huge. A veritable mansion. But there are blessedly few guards because no one can get out here without a boat. Yes, I got out here. I'm special.
The dogs wind up showing me the way, some loping back to their sleeping spots, but the rest migrating towards their royal master, who predictably has a ground floor office overlooking the mere (lake). By office I mean suite of rooms with books, musical instruments, and extensive war plans, up to and including tables with maps of every major country he wants to invade, which is incidentally every major country.
King Henry himself is standing at a desk, as terrifying a warlord as he's ever been, that awful scar on his face, dark hair messed up and he's not bothering to straighten it. He's dressed simply in a white shirt, faded, and no coronet or coat, there's a fire going and his ruddy cheeks are nearly flushed. Despite looking as ever the most dangerous person in Europe, he's currently indulging his inner nerd, and has a pen in his left hand and three books open before him.
His son is standing there, looking one step short of a nervous break down, dressed completely in black, basically like Hamlet immediately after the ghost encounter. Poor Prince Harry, his gold curls are limp from the smoke and he's red eyed and staring at his father's papers in absolute horror.
Courtenay is at what I assume is his desk, writing, bent over a couple of ledgers, ink stained hands and a little smear of ink on his cheekbone, like, messy, but in a sexy way. No, he doesn't plan it he's just like this.
"So this is my projection for taxes for the next six months, on crops alone, we're going to skip taxes next year, not this one, that will do well for you then, but I don't think you should look lenient at first also, we need the proceeds from this to pay off—are you listening to me?" King Henry is saying. It's very obvious he's been talking for sometime.
"I am definitely trying to!" Prince Harry says, eagerly but like he's about to go insane.
"Are you understanding anything that I've been saying?" King Henry asks.
"I really want to!" Prince Harry nods.
"Look, it's not that complicated, proceeds from taxes need to go these four separate accounts, but based on conditions—if Stafford lives, then his account is paid off, with a quarter of our tax income—but if he's passed then you don't pay that off because his estate will forfeit you're not granting it to his widow we want that, we give her an annuity, I sent him to the front he'll likely not live so that's fine in which case—you move here, to these four separate accounts, unless you want to lose some of the Crown Jewels your mother's dead now we don't need four of those but they're good collateral also it wouldn't look well so pay this and this—you should probably be writing this down," King Henry has opened four more ledgers. He looks up at his son who is trembling, "I should write it down, you're right."
"I can't read your handwriting," Prince Harry says, clearly horrified.
"Yes, you can you're just not used to it. I write official correspondence with my right hand, left hand it's just different slant, also backwards, that's only these four because I only wanted myself and the Archbishop to read these these are estates that we can seize and reasons I've put down in case you need urgent funds or something for your brothers to do—,"
"No, no I still can't read it. Can no one else do all this? I think someone else should be doing —this," Prince Harry gestures to the desk.
"Absolutely not, you can't trust anyone—well, the Archbishop could but we think he's going to die if I do, ergo you have no one as you've not selected a companion. It's fine, these are the yearly budgets I audit these, every six months, working back three years each time," he starts to move more papers to the desk. No, this isn't a good way of running a country or advisable unless you're a financial wizard with insomnia and time on your hands. His schemes to fund his wars are insane. Do they work? Yes. Can anyone replicate them? No. No, they can not.
"Do you really think I can do all this, Father?" Prince Harry asks, in obvious horror.
His father, completely nicely, with more paternal affection and tenderness than I've ever heard from him, "No."
Prince Harry just stares at him.
"Moving on. This is the governing of Normandy and all the tolls I'm requesting from that you can lower it I've been meaning to for good publicity so go right ahead but only after, you double check this, and this, these loans are for the city of London if you like practice you can ask for an extension due to my death I think that would be good training for you," King Henry says, not looking up, clearly going to keep talking.
"Gideon? What are you doing here?" Prince Harry asks, finally catching sight of me, leaning in the doorway.
"Disappointing Wales," I say.
"My enchantments," Courtenay leaps up, nearly upsetting his ink pot.
"I fixed them—made them better actually," I say, staying him with a hand.
"Answer my son what are you doing here?" King Henry asks, not looking up from his papers, clearly annoyed to have his finance lecture interrupted.
"Luro omnia dico vera. I am here to help you. And do anything that you ask of me, as long as you require. Not for you, but for me, because this is who I am. And you saved me once. So I'd like to return the favor. I'm here to help, let's cheat God," I sigh, smiling a little. Prince Harry smiles as well.
"Why do you always do the most complicated truth spell?" Courtenay, nearly sobbing.
"I never saved your life," King Henry says, frowning a little, looking up at me.
I smile a little, "Doesn't matter. It's true or the spell wouldn't have worked."
"No, it wouldn't have—why are you doing this?" Courtenay asks.
"Because, like I said. I figure I owe you guys one. So I'm in," I say, shrugging, "What's the plan?"
"There isn't one," Prince Harry says.
"There are ten so far," King Henry says at the same time.
"We have several—but none of them are likely to work as you so eloquently proved, you can get past the enchantments, so likely that demon can," Courtenay says, trying to clean his hands on a rag.
"For the present we are preparing England should I see defeat," King Henry says, coolly, "We're going over England's finances. This will take seventeen more hours, you may help the Archbishop he's transcribing copies of pertinent plans for my brothers."
"Oh, fun," I say, not at all ironically.
"Seventeen—more hours? Father, we've been at this since this time yesterday," Prince Harry says, his hands shaking.
"Yes. Where were we? Oh yes, the crown jewel accounts, so this is a listing of our jewels, and ones I've already taken out loans on, and ones I have two loans on so you can't get a third, you can really sell most of your mother's things unless you wanted to keep them for a wife or not you don't have to gag, please focus nobody's marrying you off that would be too expensive you shouldn't need to fund a wedding except for yourself and Kate perhaps but likely no, if you did need to you can take out loans from York they're good for it and I paid them back lately—though you should check the conditions of the Castile rebels, remember cannons are more important than matrimony—why are you raising your hand?"
"Can I ask a question?" Prince Harry asks. I'm laughing at the 'cannons before matrimony' comment which I now need on a t-shirt.
"Yes," his father, like pleased his son is taking interest.
"I've been trying—so hard—to listen to what you're saying and—are you just taking out a successive number of loans on things and then paying them back with other loans?" Prince Harry asks, shaking.
"No," King Henry says.
"Yes," I say, helpfully, "That's basically what he's doing."
"That is—essentially what we've been doing," Courtenay says, because Prince Harry is about to cry.
"I'm also using revenue from our territories, taxes, tithes, and tolls, which primarily go to operating expenses, but a set number also go to maintaining old loans, to create new ones, to fund the war effort," King Henry says. Yes, he essentially has a pyramid scheme and credit card scam, with his own government. "It's very complex and allows us to manage our empire."
"I noticed, okay, okay, um, I have an idea. Can we not—can we let this demon kill me instead of you? So, I'll never have to understand this or think about it again? And you can keep doing it? Can we do that?" Prince Harry asks, backing away from the mountains of papers in obvious horror.
"No," King Henry says.
"I think it would be better for both of us it's fine," Prince Harry, who does not like math, says, "Like, I will do that part, you do this. I talk to God all the time. It's fine."
"I don't think it would work," Courtenay says.
"Your Highness, we're not doing that," I say, sitting down backward on a sofa, "Come here, have you eaten?"
"No, he's been talking about numbers and percentages and taxes so much," Prince Harry just collapses in a chair.
"I'm fairly certain that I am the target of this demon's attack, ergo no, it would not work," King Henry says.
"Well, I'll tell it it can talk to you about numbers then see if you should die or not. Because I can't understand that. My head is going to explode. I can't do it. I'm going to venture to say nobody will ever understand half of that, but you," Prince Harry says, hugging himself and looking at the mounds of paperwork.
"You'll come to enjoy it. I personally find it relaxing. Here, have some wine," King Henry brings him over a cup, "Also, this is only a last resort should I perish. I truly doubt that will happen. God will not take my life."
"I need you to know it is God who is personally sending people to take your life," I say, "Like, that's important."
"Gideon, tell us again, what exactly this—creature we're not confirming is God, said to you," Courtenay says, coming over to pour himself and King Henry another glass of wine, since Henry gave his to his son who is just clutching it.
I sigh a little.
"Say it around him, you said worse," King Henry says, dryly.
"The—celestial being—said that you had outlived your time by 17 years. And that you needed to pass so that your son can take the throne so that history can continue on, and that you're messing things up by being here," I sigh.
"But if it didn't mention me—then perhaps we have something. My blood can save him," Courtenay says.
"Yeah, I don't think they'll let you immediately resurrect him; like I think that would be noticed, also I'm thinking you're getting taken too. The gist of the message was that you both broke the rules by doing, um, that," I say.
"What's 'that'? The spell?" Prince Harry asks, "But the seven people died?"
"Yes, a spell but people died, in a non-violent manner not to do with blood," I say, looking at Courtenay who mouthes 'thank you'.
"But you did the spell? Then you're in trouble as well I should think," Prince Harry says, believing me fully.
"Yes, I did, and it was my idea," Courtenay says, "Not your father's."
"So I saw it, and he participated willingly," with like, almost no persuasion. As in, he probably didn't even think it would work he just thought his friend was upset so if drinking people's blood would make him feel better it was worth a try.
"I mean," Courtenay shrugs, "Even so. I should be the one condemned."
"It's not about your—non-violent, spell, it's about the fact that he shouldn't be alive," I say.
"That's it," King Henry says, pointing at me. We all jump a little, he's been silent for a bit now, hands to his face in thought. Now he smiles, that half a smile, his real smile, not some soft pretense. The real smirk he can't complete because of the scarring on his face. "If the issue is I'm not meant to be here, because he's meant to be King—,"
"Oh please no," Prince Harry whispers.
"That doesn't mean I have to die now. It means the world should function as if I have died, does it not?" King Henry looks mostly at Courtenay, but also at his son and I.
"I'm not following," Prince Harry says.
"We falsely our deaths," Courtenay says.
"And then he's King, and time goes on as if you died, which technically is the letter if not the spirit of the exercise," I say.
King Henry shrugs a little, "I care not. If the only reason this demon has been summoned is because I'm intended to be dead—then let it think I am dead."
"No—but—what if—I don't want to rule England and take over whatever in god's name that is," Prince Harry says, pointing at the mountains of paperwork, "That you've done—with money—for the past twenty years—did, I think we need to tell someone. I think that opinions about who should be King will change—if they saw. That."
"No, you can be normal, you can be normal, it's fine," I say, "No, this could work—but, my lord—you'd give up your crown, to live?" That does not sound like him.
"Of course he would," Prince Harry says, quickly, "I want you alive first. You're my father. I'll do as you ask."
"Of course I'm not," King Henry says, disgusted.
"What—are we doing then?" Courtenay, who had been disassociating and clearly thinking about where they'll run away to, together, and how he'll keep Henry occupied and entertained. "We can't—walk around castles behind closed doors or hide out forever."
"Don't be ridiculous, of course we're not. We'll simply and dramatically stage my death not necessarily even yours, and then, once Harry is invested as King. We wait a polite period of time and resurrect me as Emperor of the entire realm, as a Christ figure, to rule over all the united lands that I've conquered. Obviously," King Henry says, like a sane person would come up with that damn plan in under five minutes.
"I can't believe I'm going along with this—yeah, definitely. We'll do that. You'll enjoy that," I sigh.
"Will that work?" Prince Harry asks.
"If the spirit of the exercise is that you rule England and not I, then yes, we've followed it. I never need set foot in England again. I usually try not to, but it was easier to raise money here, and occasionally your mother would have a child I had to meet," King Henry says, genuinely not too worried about not setting foot back in England, and like the children his wife bore had nothing to do with him.
"Is that what truly matters though? You not being in England?" Courtenay asks.
"I mean—basically. Okay, here's the thing. The point is, if you had died in 1422, then the prince would be king, he'd arrange his own marriage, have no siblings, certain nobles would have power they don't now, and so on. Apparently, at this point in time, it's really about to matter, for whatever reason," I know that reason is this is the last possible moment before the War of the Roses kicks off. And that wouldn't happen under King Henry. His nobles are very frightened of him. He's completely terrifying in his person. They won't treat him the way they treat his son. "So, yeah, in theory. If you're not here, then it works. I mean, we're already at worst case scenario which is them killing you to get you out of the way. If you're out of the way—we can bank on nobody looking."
"Creating himself Emperor isn't out of the way," Prince Harry says, worriedly.
"But I'll be a divine figure as God's true leader," Henry says, like we'll all believe his propaganda.
"But he won't be in England, ruling. He can be —overly involved in accounting for the realms creating terror and occasionally leading armies. Maybe. It's worth a try," I say, shrugging.
"It's all we have," Courtenay says.
"You weren't in any of this, nobody said you had to die," Henry says to him.
"I'm coming with you," Courtenay says, flatly, and it's no question. It's the most direct thing I think anyone has ever said to Henry. For his part, Henry doesn't even react, just sitting on the edge of his desk and staring out the window.
"How—how are we going to do this, though? Like, that demon, person, who just appears places, tries to kill us," Prince Harry says.
"Very carefully," his father replies, coolly.
"Okay, Kit is the only one after you at the moment. Let me put this out there, he is not that smart, evidenced by him attacking the wrong Henry," I say.
"We're not underestimating the enemy," King Henry says, absently petting a mastiff that lays its big drolly head in his lap. "He can appear anywhere, as the prince said."
"Okay, yes, but my point is we can probably reasonably convince him you're dead, I'm talking big explosion, he'll think you're gone," I say, "That type of not smart."
"If needed I have spells that lower breath. We could appear dead," Courtenay says.
"I could. We're not bothering that much with you we can say you died. No one but I would look for your body," King Henry scoffs. A chillingly correct deduction, as no one looks for it for some five hundred years, when his corpse is found by accident, forever with his king.
"I'd look for you, Archbishop," Prince Harry says, kindly.
"I know you would," Courtenay says, nicely.
"That's not the point! You are in on this; we're talking about anyone else," King Henry sighs.
"What is the point?" Prince Harry sighs.
"The point is, if we can, reasonably confuse the demon, and then create a convincing enough battle which I perish in, then, perhaps it might work," King Henry says.
"By convincing enough—," Courtenay, who has known his dramatic friend long enough to know he's about to be roped into a Shakespeare-level scripted spectacle that will undoubtably paint Henry in an absurdly Arthurian light.
"I mean we'll plan of course a death fitting of a King," King Henry says, clearly pleased with the idea of scripting his own death scene. Which is very in character. As in when he died in 1422 he spent the entire time dying, actively trying to get things done and scheduling visitations and tasks.
"We have a few more days until that demon awakes, we can manage this. First, things still need to go off as if I were dying ergo, our preparations so far still matter," King Henry goes back to his desk.
"Oh, please," Prince Harry whimpers, following anyway.
"Here, this will cheer you, this is how you will fund your own coronation," King Henry says, picking up an unusually large stack of paper, "We're going to start though three years in the past, and then work three years forward so you can fully pay off—,"
Prince Harry faints dead away upon seeing the massive paper trail of loans, insider trading, and light tax fraud, to fund his coronation alone.
This wouldn't be funny, but his father does not notice and keeps talking, cheerfully.
"You can actually get off a bit better, as now that I'm dying you won't have to have a funeral for your mother you can bury her directly with little else it's fine—she's got her own tomb though someplace quiet just, don't bother you'll have had my funeral anyway, I've already designed my tomb the Archbishop obviously is to be buried there as well. But in case any of you should die, or your mother had another child I'd have to have baptized, for the past three years I've been doing a rotating collection of tolls at the Castile boarder which if you take out a loan from Scotland then double the toll then you can probably fund the feast for your coronation as well as—," King Henry only breaks off because he was holding out some paper, his son didn't take it, and he looks around with obvious confusion before realizing the kid is lying limp on the floor with four dogs licking him.
"I'll take him to his room," I volunteer, getting up, "And watch him in case he's actually ill. When did he last sleep?"
"I asked last night he said something about no longer sleeping as it was upsetting him, but go gently about that. He could be praying," King Henry says, not overly concerned.
"No, he fainted, I saw him," I say, carefully gathering the tall boy in my arms. He's slight for his age, and though decently strong still a slender thing. He's taller than I, but lean and not built like a brick like his father.
"He's going to die," King Henry breaths, so tiredly.
"Well, apparently, so are we," Courtenay says, dryly.
I carry Prince Henry back to his room. No, I don't know where that is. I follow the trail of dog hair and drool to a decently unoccupied room. Then I settle him down on the bed, take his shoes off, and cover him with a blanket.
"No, no father why don't you ask the Archbishop?" Prince Harry mumbles, but doesn't wake. I take that to be normal behavior, and find a bible to set in his arms. He clutches it immediately, mumbling happily.
His mastiff puppy hops up on the bed and lays curled up in his legs.
And I sit by his bed and watch the sun go down. I have no idea what I'm even doing here. This won't work. This is such a poor idea I should not be aiding this. Yet this the only way I feel right with myself.
Prince Harry sleeps fitfully for a while, then wakes a little.
"I'm here, you all right?" I ask, patting the bed.
"I just had the most awful dream father's going to fake his death and then tell everyone he's emperor of the world raised by Jesus," he mumbles, his face in his pillow, "There was so much math in it."
"Yeah, um, why don't we pray a bit?" I ask.
"Oh good idea," he says, and then falls directly back asleep.
I figure that means he's deliriously tired and not concussed, and go off to find us food. He'll likely wake in a bit and I don't think his father's been properly feeding him.
Servants are scarce at the Pleasance. I see a couple and they say nothing, when I get closer I realize they're all blind. Wow, Henry. And here I thought his spy network that puts MI6 to shame was the most dramatic villain thing he had going.
I find the kitchen eventually, and am not even bothering to be invisible until I see a light on. I'm assuming it's more blind servants, but I take the precaution and hide myself. It's always worth seeing what Henry is plotting even when he's ostensibly cooperating with me.
The kitchen is of course grand, but it's nothing compared to the larger castles. It's more similar to what we have at Harlech, and is surprisingly empty. There's wine and bread out, but the servants have mostly gone to bed by this hour, it would seem, and the entire castle is meant to be entirely accessible for its royal guests, to feel as normal and human as possible. All Henry's design, and surprisingly modest.
Courtenay is in the kitchen, clearly gathering food for the two of them. His face is drawn, and his eyes have sacs under them. Don't get me wrong he still looks amazing. But he also looks tired. For once he's out of heavy, priestly robes or fine garments crafted to match King Henry, instead wearing a simple dark shirt, with only the one ruby ring on his finger, no other jewelry.
I am about to join him, and reveal myself, when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Courtenay does not look up, recognizing King Henry's step far better than I. And even I know it.
The king looks a little better, something determined in his look. That iron will that refuses to yield even when he's sieging a town with only two thousand odd men on his side (long story, ask me later). He's dressed as before, simply. A man about his castle, but that arrogance in his face, forever a king.
Courtenay doesn't glance up from cutting the bread. He says nothing. They both know the other is here; they know the other's movements as well as their own.
King Henry walks up to his friend, and very casually knots his left hand in the other man's hair. And by knots I mean twists the fine strands around his fingers, so his big hand is tight against his companion's skull.
"Seven years?" King Henry asks, not moving.
Courtenay does not at all look surprised by this treatment or manner of greeting, "I didn't know it was that long. Yes, I knew I passed at Harfleur. I didn't know the year of that till—it happened."
"Seven years?" Henry repeats, pleasantly, not moving.
"What do you want me to say? It was over. I can't get those seven years back we both know that," Courtenay sighs. He's not in pain just held still. Possibly, he's aware this is necessary.
"Seven years?"
"When we first caught Saint yes, I thought of it, but he's young I couldn't risk it, I have no way of knowing how many years he had left so then what?"
"Seven years?"
"Stop saying that! What would you have me do? It's over, and there was no way to level it," Courtenay sighs.
"Seven years?"
"It doesn't matter. You can live without I, not the other way around, you're strong, and you have your country, and your wars. You will live, you were meant to exist without me, not the other way around," Courtenay says, quietly, looking away despite the fact that Henry is standing right next to him for this conversation.
"Seven years?"
"Don't do this right now. We're trying to save you. And I am with you to the end. And don't ask me not to spill my blood to save you because I'll disobey, I'll do it. I put it in the spell it's there, and I'll use it any time I see fit and you cannot stop me," Courtenay says, stubbornly.
"That's treason," King Henry says, still terribly pleasantly.
"Don't use your courtier voice on me. I know it well," Courtenay says, looking finally over at Henry.
"Seven years. You do not leave me, I do not allow it," Henry says, tugging Courtenay's head a little so he looks fully at him.
"You do not write the stars your majesty," Courtenay says, softly.
"I'm quite sure I do," Henry says, tipping his head down so that their faces are impossibly close. And by impossibly I mean might as well be touching, no light getting past, just staring directly into each other's eyes, close. Clearly want to be kissing, close.
Neither of them move, they just stand there like that. Not moving. Just staring at each other. I'm trying to figure out if they definitely kiss, or if they don't know that's an option. I think that's it. I think fewer people would die, and more of Europe would be safe, if kissing were taking up these two's time. Or perhaps they're far too used to the publicity of court, and of campaign. And now can't imagine they are alone. Which they aren't. Gee, Gideon, it's rotten you're spying on the murder husbands. Recall, how many times they've tried to kill me.
Finally, after far too long a moment for this to be straight, King Henry steps back, loosing his hand from Courtenay's hair agonizing slowly. Courtenay moves a little as though to breath again but nothing more. Then he carefully puts his hand up to put it through his own hair where the king's hand was.
"Seven years," King Henry scoffs, by way of farewell, going back to the stairs.
"Are you not going to let that go?" Courtenay groans.
"Absolutely not," Henry says, lightly, still in his oozingly pleasant voice which is just so creepy.
Well, that was disturbing. No, not in a homophobic way. In a don't-want-to-see-your-parents-kiss kind of way. Like, I was okay not seeing that. I've seen enough of their stupid conversations every time I get confirmation they are alway LikeThis it's equally disturbing.
I wait until Courtenay has left and then get some food for myself and Prince Harry, and go back up to his room. He's awake in bed, clutching his bible and staring at the ceiling.
"Here, I brought dinner," I say, standing in the doorway, "Your dad and Courtenay are wandering about having intense but meaningless conversations and looking at each other's eyes."
"Oh lovely that's how they're happy," Prince Harry says, sighing.
"What's troubling you?" I ask, sitting down on the floor, and pushing away one of the dogs, "Other than the obvious."
"I don't want to be King, Gideon. I shan't be good at it, father is—,"
"He's—really not."
"He is! Everyone loves him!"
"That's because he lies to people, constantly, he also takes their money. And most of them are afraid of him," I say, nicely, "You don't have to be him. You have to be you. And for the record? I think you'll make a really good king. You're kind. And you're devout, and you try to do what's right. And those are important qualities too. And your people will see that."
"Thank you. Do you really think that?"
"I promise I do."