The Boy King (Violent Delights Book 13)

Chapter 1: "My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine"

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester

The clash of swords.
It's always the clash of swords. That's how it begins.
And men screaming. In three languages. Screaming and praying to a god that doesn't hear them. I can't move. I can't get up.
There's pain shooting through my leg. And the only warmth I feel is blood. Cloaked in the warmth of my own blood. And I tip my head to try to breath my helmet is suffocating me. But I can't move to get out of it. I can't move at all for the pain. I don't know where my banner is. And I'm dying. I'm drowning in the mud as men run past me. And I can't rise for the pain, but I know if I don't rise I die. And I'm forever dying there in the freezing mud. Arrows fly overhead. And I cannot get up.
I gasp, jerking awake, phantom pains crawling through my groin. That terrible day was nearly fourteen years ago this fall. It's not yet summer. So thirteen years since. And I still can't sleep without dreaming of it.
Why don't I dream of how it ends? Where I am lying there in the mud and I hear my brother's voice. Calm and practical as ever. Blood was running down his face as he'd been struck in the head.
"You still alive, Humphrey?" He asked, casually, moving to stand over me, his great axe in his hands.
"Yes," I choked, past the pain. And he stood over me and fought. And then he tried to lift me but instead resorted to dragging me, one arm looped under mine, defending us with his sword in his other hand. Twice he had to let go to fight them, simply standing over my body. Then finally another man came to help and they hauled me the rest of the way off the field.
Agincourt.
Why can't it end like that? Where my brother comes to save me and everything is all right?
Because my brother isn't coming to save me. My strong big brother. He's dead. He's not coming to rescue me, not this time. Ever since I could talk I've gotten myself into fights I couldn't get out of. And ever since I can remember Henry was there to break them up, slinging me over his shoulder to carry me back to a closet to lock me in. Or the cellar. Even at Oxford, he'd arrange for someone to materialize, usually Father Courtenay, to come and check on me, bail me out, fix things. Fix everything.
But even he can't come for me now. Not this time. He came across a muddy field in the middle of France to somehow find me among the dead. He won't come back from the dead.
I sigh, sitting up on the side of the bed, looking down at the scar down my leg. Nearly a decade since a Frenchman's sword nearly gutted me. It did its damage though. It did its damage.
I put a hand to my sweaty face. There is entirely too much work to do to simply dream of the past. Better days. Those days weren't better but at least I wasn't alone. We were four strong once, Henry, Thomas, John, and myself. A strong triumvirate and Thomas was also there. Now it's just John and I, the only Lancaster brothers left. Per Henry's dying wish John rules France, and I England. I write to him that sometimes I'd trade him my mass of debts and debtors for his french resistance. I don't think he'd make that trade, he's ignored it anyway. Not that we'd do it. We'd never go against Henry's precious final wishes.
I get up and dress. It's early. My nightmares let me sleep little. That's well. I've about a million and one things to do. Perhaps I can get a start on some of the overdue accounts I need to make payments to. Likely not. Likely some crisis will come up.
It was a good idea to come down to Eltham, for the spring. It's mostly away from the quiet of court, and it's good for us. All of us. My father brought us here, it's not Kenilworth but it's practical, there's some hunting. I'm sick of court. I wish to be normal for a bit. Opening Eltham was a bold move but the trick of it is I don't really care. I'm Lord Protector I'm not playing king but damn if I can't enjoy the odd benefit of losing my sanity?
And I am losing my sanity. I know it. That's what's worse.
I know that Henry left me in charge of his precious tax schemes because he knew that I was the only person who could come close to understanding them.
And I do understand them.
I just can't do them.
I stand in my office, going over the paperwork, fresh morning light streaming in the window.
"I do understand them, I do. But I'm not you, you're tall, and mean. And people were scared of you. They're not scared of me," I say, shuffling through the paperwork.
I can see him cocking an eyebrow at me in disappointment. He had no idea how far apart he was from the rest of men. Sure I'm clever enough to do it. But I'm not a born showman, and I don't have the famed Lancaster silver-tongue.
"Don't look at me like that," I mutter, as I sort some to do later. It would help if I got some sleep. I put my hands to my face.
"You're up early."
I start, hands going to the desk, as though looking for a dagger.
"Sorry," Eleanor says, standing by the door. Lovely as ever, soft red curls, a peculiar curve to her lips, and tilt to her head that has bewitched me since the day I lay eyes on her. I know that was a poor move. I just don't really care.
"No, come in, do," I say, tipping my head.
"You look tired," she says, coming around the desk.
"I'm not having an affair. I don't have that kind of stamina," I say, before thinking of it, "That—came out completely off. I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that."
"You are tired if I'm getting a taste of the famous temper," she says, leaning on the desk and looking at me knowingly.
"Sorry," I say.
"I'm the mistress. I've every right to suspect you. That's why I have spies; you don't have to worry about confessing a thing," she says, moving her head in that way so I can see her beautiful collar bone.
"You were never the mistress," I say, taking her hand to kiss it. I didn't love my wife. Well I didn't expect to love my wife. I also didn't expect to fall in love, actually in love, with her lady in waiting. A very poor move I was well aware. But I was caught off guard. In my defense I had met every one of my brothers. We seemed as incapable of loving anything but ourselves as throwing a son. Of course Henry defied us on both counts but we've agreed he somehow hoarded our communal resources and intelligence.
"Come see me tonight, I miss dining with you," she says.
"I can't just leave my work to entertain you for hours—that's—I think you should give up talking to me. Really. It would be less painful for us both," I say, wincing.
"What ever would we do then?" She asks, fondly.
"I can think of something," I say, giving in and bending to kiss her collarbone.
"I thought you had work to do?"
"I thought if I knew what was good for me I would not be in any of my current situations," I say, kissing her neck, "Now get on my desk and make me shut up."
"Are you all right?" She asks, putting a hand through my hair.
"Not at all," I say, kissing her mouth. We used to only have half finished conversations, longing stares, then kissing behind the closed doors of my office. Now I have our wedding bed and I'm still living like a adulterer. Like the adulterer I am. I hurt my first wife. I know that. Jaquette didn't deserve me. No woman deserves a Lancaster man. Heaven help us but I know it won't.
I am halfway through kissing her and throughly messing up her dress when the familiar pain shoots up my leg. I cry out, doubling over to clutch the injury though it does no good. It never does.
"Shh," Eleanor gently puts her hands to my face, then rubs my shoulders.
"Damn it—you'd think I'd be used to it by now," I groan, leaning against the desk.
"You think it would fade away," she says.
"No, I wouldn't, but I would think I'd be used to it by now," I mutter.
She simply cradles me, doubled over in pain as I am, to her soft chest. I turn to press my face into her breasts. I should sleep here why don't I? Why am I cruel her? Well I'm cruel to everything. Including myself. I should definitely sleep more than I am.
"Shh, it'll pass," she says, stroking my hair.
"Don't suppose we'll get back to where we were?" I ask.
"Just come to bed tonight? Let me rub oil into the wound, I have herbs," she says, rubbing my back.
"I'll see, don't ask me about tonight, I'm busy I can't think about tonight—yes I will come to your bed just so you're aware I think you should be, I really am not having an affair I'm just my own worst enemy," I say, straightening up finally, still in pain but enough to stand.
"I think you should know I truly in my heart of hearts believe no other woman would put up with that mouth, Gloucester," she says.
"That's not—entirely true," I say.
"As in I spoke to Jaquette at length, and 'oh my god he never stops talking or being mean, I need more wine if I'm going to put with that', was the sentiment. Verbatim, in fact," she says.
"Then you what? Figured 'oh can't be that bad'?" I scoff.
"No, I had already slept with you at that point, I was more thinking 'she's completely right why don't I care?'," she smiles.
"Find a better man then. Go on. You've clearly got the time," I say.
"Stop. You know you're mean and you don't stop talking," she says, "I'm just saying if I see someone having some sort of mental event and crying in corners I've identified your mistress."
"I can be charming, Arthur and Antigone's mothers had no such complaints—,"
"Humphrey, you were PAYING them."
"I got them to my bed with no trouble—,"
"By paying them—,"
"And they came back—,"
"Because you paid them—,"
"Well I'm paying you too," I say.
"Not enough," she says.
I finally smile, "You can hit me or go, I heard it too."
"No," she says, cool hand to my cheek.
"How about I forget about work today, we go back to your actual bedroom, rub oil on everything, lock the door, forget everything but mostly small children, and I make love to you till this time tomorrow morning so God will give us a child out of pure spite?" I ask, bending over to kiss her cheek.
"If you want, I'm just worried you've not been sleeping," she says, hand on my chest.
"With you in my bed I don't need sleep, there's ambrosia in your tongue," I say, kissing her gently, "Now, sufficiently kiss me, and I'll carry you to my bed like we're seventeen and hiding from your father."
"My father didn't care we'd have not had to hide from him."
"Mine didn't either but my brother did, now are you going to kiss me or not, woman?"
She smiles, kissing me gently. I gather her in my arms, fully prepared to sweep her off her feet and make good on my promise to carry her to my bed.
That's when there's a knock at the door.
"What?" I snarl, not abandoning the kiss.
"My lord?"
"It's Warwick—damn it—ah—come in," I say, stepping back from Eleanor and putting a hand through my hair. She fixes her dress a bit but she was mostly fixed.
Warwick and Alice Butler are in the doorway. Which is not just Warwick.
"It's not just Warwick—what is it?" I ask, frowning, tiredly. I'm not up for this I'm not. I pay these people to do something very important to me and it shouldn't involve coming around and talking to me when I'm kissing my wife's mouth.
"My lord, we—needed an opinion," Warwick says, looking over at Alice Butler. Warwick is a grizzled soldier, something like ten years my senior. The man's been to Russia, he's been about forever, one of my brother's trusted men, for that reason he's the young king's sword master.
"It's the king," Alice Butler says. The governess my brother hired before his child was born, because he was nothing if not complete. She's a learned woman, and somehow passed my brother's interview system that a couple of people have described while drunk and it was scary then. She's been in this household forever, saw the collapse of my marriage, judged me for it. She's seen me half naked and drunk talking passionately about two lines in The Knight's Tale, judged me for it. She's seen me come to blows with half of parliament, judged me for it. She once saw me carry my illegitimate daughter inside from the rain and us both inexplicably start crying, judged me for it. There isn't a sin I've committed in the last five years the woman somehow hasn't judged me for. I realize I commit my sins in public. And I'm not going to stop. But I'm still going to judge her for it.
"Yes, the king," Warwick echoes.
"What—what about the king? Is he not well?" I ask. Is this how they tell me he died in the night? I start breathing heavily. My chest feels tight. "Where—what—,"
"What is wrong?" Eleanor asks, reaching out to take my hand. I move away, if I took her hand right now I'd break it.
"He's quite well—he just—," Alice looks at Warwick.
"He's refused to do his Latin examination. It was today, and he said he'd not be doing it, and went back to his room," Warwick says.
"As we're both in charge of the young king's education, I was naturally summoned. I told him to go and do his examination, but he shook his head no," Alice says.
"Then leave him in his room for a while and don't feed him. When he gets good and hungry tell him he can have something to eat once he does his work," I say, recovering slightly. I have to do everything around here.
"I could never," Alice judges me. I am aware I'm not a good parent.
"He—ah—is fasting today, so that wouldn't even work," Warwick says.
"Why is he fasting?" Eleanor asks.
"He wants to," Warwick shrugs, "But the point is he's never been this obstinate before—and —,"
"You see it occurred to us that perhaps the time has come to—discipline, the king," Alice says.
"Ah—right," I say, nodding. My idea was also discipline but apparently we aren't going to talk about that.
"Well, he did refuse to do his work," Eleanor is new here.
"Per my brother's will, to ensure he's not abused or taken advantage of as king, there are only, certain people who can discipline the king for childhood transgressions as such," I say.
"Which is myself and Lady Butler, as the architects of his education," Warwick says.
"And he's refused his lesson and is being very obstinate," Alice says.
"So what? A spanking is in order? A couple lashes across his back? Old Salisbury used to lash my brothers and I if we were late for our lessons or—well we did a lot of things we'll stick with late for our lessons," I say, nodding. We weren't good children. We were really pretty bad. There were four of us at most a year apart each and oldest of us was a genius and the rest of us did whatever he said. That was something of a recipe for disaster.
"I could never," Alice says, hand on her chest, "Not that sweet child."
"You said he talked back," Eleanor says.
"I —I also cannot. I'm not going to do it. Last week he offered to pray to ask for strength because his arms got tired and he wept when he got a slight bruise from the sparring. I can't—I'm not going to do it," Warwick says.
"What, neither one of you can bring yourselves to smack him?" I ask, amused, "You're afraid of a seven year old boy?"
"All right, just a minute, have you ever hit one of your kids?" Warwick asks me.
"They're illegitimate," I say, hands on hips. I absolutely have not. "Not the same. I barely know where either of them are half the time."
"You were sparring with the boy last night," Warwick says.
"You ordered new dresses for the little girl last week," Alice says. I never should have let her help do that.
"I really don't remember their names, okay—," I say.
"The point is if the king has been—obstinate it's no good to let it go, it's not good for him," Eleanor says, because she loves me.
"No—no, your ladyship, now the point is he has not ONCE in his life disciplined either one of his brats but he is fine making us do it to the king," Warwick says.
"I'm not responsible for my bastards so it's quite irrelevant," I say, hand still on hip, "You two are failing to dispense your duties which my brother the king prescribed for you. Which is to discipline the boy if he's been saucy. As is prudent and natural. My father, a king of England, once smacked my mouth in front of a room full of noblemen because I'd talked back."
"Two weeks ago Sunday your son kicked mud in another child's face and you knelt down and told him you loved him," Warwick says, arms folded. He's not going to let this go.
"Arthur started crying though," Eleanor says, because she does love me.
"So, I emotionally manipulate the children, which is fun for me, it doesn't make me a good parent. We are focusing on the king who you are supposed to be raising properly," I say, gesturing to them both vaguely, "Which I'm paying you for. I am paying you to do this properly."
"You pay us nothing. The late king set aside the funds," Alice says.
"Yeah interesting fact there—the late king didn't actually have the money to do that," I snarl, holding up a fist full of bills from desk, "I am the only reason this country is still functioning. You're welcome. If I can manage a thirty thousand crown debt and a war in France I think the two of you can collectively punish a saucy seven year old. He comes by it naturally. I don't have hours in the day to tell you all the smart remarks his father had for our father."
"I'm not doing it, no, not just because he was obstinate this once he's always good for his lessons," Warwick says.
"I'm not comfortable, I don't think it's time," Alice says.
"Well just a light punishment? Take away a few books," Eleanor says.
"Maybe no reading or something? But that would upset him," Warwick says.
"I couldn't bring myself to upset him like that," Alice says.
"Then why are you here if you don't want to do it?" I groan.
"Because we've been waiting for the appropriate time to—punish him," Warwick says.
"We assumed it would be character building," Alice says, "But now—,"
"It's hard to judge, that's why we were hoping for counsel," Warwick says, clearly regretting speaking to me.
"Time—you mean in his whole life neither of you have ever punished him? Ever?" I nearly laugh.
"Not as such," Alice says, "I did tell him to be a good little boy once when he was afraid of seeing Parliament."
"And once he said he didn't want to switch swords but I told him it was required then he did it," Warwick says.
"His whole little spoiled life you haven't punished him? Go spank the kid it would be good for him," I laugh, "Right now. Just go smack him, build some character."
"All right, once more, have you EVER so much as raised your voice at your bastards?" Warwick asks.
"I really don't know who you're referring to—? Also, I don't have that much to do with them since they're my bastards, so it's mostly irrelevant I don't even know what the kids look like," I say.
"That is—excuse my language ladies—bullshit," Warwick says.
"You can't speak to me that way," I say.
At that point in the discussion, as if to stop me from getting in a duel with somebody, Antigone bolts past the footmen. She's sobbing bitterly, her dress bloodied. She did have riding lessons today. She runs directly up to me and I pick her up.
"My nose won't stop bleeding I think it's broken," she sobs, blood just draining down her face.
"It's fine it looks good like this, shh, now, papa has to work," I say, holding her anyway easily in my arms. She's a tiny kid. She's five but even so, she looks like she's maybe three.
"Poor angel, come here," Eleanor holds out her arms to take her.
"It's fine I can still make my point it's fine—," I say, about to continue arguing.
"You absolutely cannot," Warwick says.
"There's blood on your robes," Alice says, judging me.
"—this is immaterial, and I beat them in private, so much, Antigone, darling girl, can you tell my nice friends that I beat you violently in private over small transgressions?" I ask, turning her a little bit.
"My papa beats me. Often. For fun. With very big sticks. He broke my nose," Antigone says, in her best English, pressing her bloody face against my tunic.
"At least we know the kid is yours," Warwick says, so pained.
"Good job, thank you love," I say, kissing the top of her head, "Can you go with your nurses and go get cleaned up and then I'll send you some cake?"
"It's barely past sunrise," Alice says, judging me.
"People who bleed from the nose get cake, ignore Lady Butler—all right, papa's proud of you," I say, handing Antigone over to Eleanor who nods that she'll take her.
"Why don't you tell me all about it?" Eleanor asks, moving to leave.
"You heard the child. Besides which fact I have nothing to prove to you," I say.
"Look—," Alice stops Warwick who was absolutely going to keep arguing with me about how I do or don't discipline my children. "Look, we simply came because we agree some action must be taken. But we cannot agree on what. And neither of us are comfortable enacting any sort of punishment at this time. And as you are the king's closest relative—we thought perhaps you should be the deciding vote."
"How can I be deciding when the two of you are on the same side?" I ask.
"We thought you might agree with us," Warwick says, just tired now.
"I've never agreed with anyone in my life—," I say.
"Oh, so he knows," Alice breaths.
"—and I'm not going to start now—wait I'm not the king's closest living relative," I say, holding up a hand.
"You—are," Warwick says.
"He has a mother. You idiots," I say.
"You can't speak to a lady that way—,"
"I'll do anything I want. You know what? We'll get the boy's mother here. And his uncle, and his cousin, we'll get everyone in and have a nice little vote and then you have to smack the kid," I say. And I'm comfortable making that decision. Two of those people are Beauforts, that's basically Lancaster, they'll agree to hit the kid, and out vote the mother. Catherine of Valois. I haven't seen her since I didn't see her at Christmas. Wonder what joys of life I can drag her away from for this meaningless task of actual parenting which she actively never engages in?