The Boy King (Violent Delights Book 13)

Chapter 3: "my glories and my state depose"

Cardinal Beaufort

I expected better of them. I don't know why. I've met them. But I really thought they could perhaps strive to become better. But no. They is Humphrey. It's just Humphrey.
"The king is seeing his mother this morning. And this afternoon Warwick is arranging for him to play with friends who are being paid to be around him because the boy is a Lancaster, I am telling you this because I am suggesting you send your boy to go play with him. I am also telling you that I want you to know how adorable it is that you tell his attendants to keep me out, as a gentle reminder I exist wherever I wish, and always have," I say, leaning in the doorway of Humphrey's office.
"What boy?" Humphrey asks, he's holding his bastard son under one arm and clearly working, but the boy is enjoying the attention none the less.
"Your son," I say, pleasantly. He ignored the rest that's an agreement with him.
"I don't have a son," Humphrey says.
"The child you're mauling?" I ask.
"Oh you mean this child? He's like the son I never had," Humphrey says, smothering the boy further.
"Never mind. I don't care that much, I'm also playing chess with the little king later he's looking forward to it so don't spoil it, and smother your personality a little and be kind to him now and again he's sensitive."
"He's—wait you said his mother is talking to him?" Humphrey asks.
"Later," I say.
"Oh god tell him—speaking of smothering personalities Christ the boy can talk for three hours about ceilings—he still can't sit in chairs—,"
"Yes, I'm going to talk to her about both those things all she has to do is nod and act pleasant if she can do it so can you," I say.
"I don't know why you think that," Humphrey mutters.
"Nor do I really," I say, and then I leave. I'm sure he can't do it but he can at least pretend for the boy's sake. The child is sensitive we don't usually have sensitive ones among us but we have been known to seduce sensitive people so there's that practice for us.
Now I just have to find Catherine to threaten her to be an acceptable parent to the child. I know where she's coming from. I do. I met his father, I damn near raised his father I know she thinks the child is the same breed. He's not. The child is a nice person and that'll likely be the death of him someday but there we have it. Just a nice little boy that for some reason likes ceilings.
Now, where would I go if I were a nearly thirty year old dowager queen definitely pregnant, to have clandestine meetings as young people like to do? Orchard. Definitely orchard.

Catherine of Valois

I choose the orchard for my clandestine meeting with Edmund. I don't want to be overheard and I expect the choice of venue will be interesting enough to get him to come. I am right, and he beats me to the edge of the trees.
"It's bad that you know how much I love secret meetings," Edmund says, by way of greeting, grinning merrily. Like most of their stock he's never looked anything but merry even when being cruel for like all of them he enjoys cruelties. But as a rule he's on my side. And so I'll use that.
"I have a proposition for you," I say, linking arms with him, as we walk down the path. It's a pleasant, warm day already.
"Charming, go on," he says, lightly, wicked smile still on his face.
"My offer gives you more power in court, and massively inconveniences Humphrey. You'd also gain some lands, we can agree on what. But I need you to marry me, soon. I'm with child and the world does not need to know, but I want to get away from court. So, marry me, I'll give you lands, and once this child is born I'll give you sons as well. You can have who you wish I care very little, but I won't embarrass you, and it gives you power not only in this court but in France as well. I'm still young I can bear plenty more children, and the late king left me with properties enough that I don't have to live with you if you wish," I say, it all as smoothly as possible. And Edmund's face is stone the entire way through, then he breaks into a grin.
"Darling, I was quite sold at 'massively inconvenience Humphrey'," he laughs, lightly, as though we're discussing a dinner party.
"I could be a good wife—,"
"I care very little. If a woman were to tempt me I suppose it could be you," he purrs, "But I doubt if Owen would care much for that."
"How—," I bite my lip angrily at confirming it.
"I'm a Beaufort, we know things," he says, waving a hand lightly, "Your plan is perfectly agreeable. I'm well with more influence and I don't need your money but I would enjoy it. I'd also enjoy playing step-father to the king. A few questions if I may?"
"Go on," I nod, I'm still annoyed he knows about Owen. We're careful. Well. Other than me being pregnant we're careful.
"One, if you have money and lands from the late king—which he put Hereford into your name and something else I know, why the devil don't you go there? No one would find you surely you have loyal staff, and means enough to provide for a simple life, which we both know is what you want with your handsome Welshman and his piercing blue eyes," Edmund says.
"Because I am under the Lord Protector's control. Humphrey is in effect my husband, and then my son shall be, I have nothing freely, I couldn't even arrange transport or staff to open the house, not unless he condoned it," I say.
"Why would he care? I do believe the last King Henry's idea was you go there out of the way if you like, you're our French rose prickly with thorns they don't want you at court," Edmund frowns, "I assume you've asked?"
"I've asked a few times, well before I found out about the child," I breath the last part. "Everytime the answer is no. I must remain at court. He's convinced the young king needs me about and it looks good to have me hold the little boy's hand at things so he doesn't do weird things with his hands like he does. So I must remain as a prop."
"But if you're married your lands are your husband's and if your husband is agreeable if vile, then you can do as you like," Edmund says.
"Correct," I nod, "Ergo I need an advantageous match. I've thought of it for a while, but now time is not on my side."
"It wouldn't seem so. Congratulations by the way," Edmund says, carelessly, "All right. That makes sense then. Second question, are you keeping Owen?"
"Yes," I say, feeling my chest tighten.
"Knew you had good taste. What does he think of all this? Men do get protective, or so I'm told."
"He knows it's best it's not as though he can marry me," I say.
"And the child? Keeping that?" He asks.
"Yes. Have a nurse, say it's Owen's bastard, no one looks for mothers."
"No, no one looks for mothers. Then it runs about, you mother it because you're nice, or something of that kind?"
"Something of that kind," I say, the plan doesn't sound as good when he says it.
"Well enough but fragile— people talk. Say the child's mine. Given my noble lineage I care excessively little, for having been known to father a child out of wedlock. And I marry you so it matters less the child is born not long after the wedding that's uncouth but does anyone care? Not really. Your baby has a name and titles when big brother the king grows up and people start to tell him how quickly his mother got married. And since we've already confessed to an affair no one bothers to suspect the ever present, loyal Welshman. So long as the baby doesn't betray us with blue eyes and blonde curls," Edmund winks.
"You'd do that? Say it's yours?" I ask.
"You give me one of my own, two if we're drunk enough, and fair is fair eh? I heap equal titles and privileges on the second one if it's a boy, if it's a girl it matters very little. If you have a boy he can become a knight and do as he likes or we put him into the church and let the other inherit, and no one is the wiser, certainly not the young king," he says.
"You fear him as well," I say.
"Boys don't take kindly to men that that lie with their mothers, that's why boys have such trouble with their fathers. And I was raised with that lot. We're not kind people, Kate. And he can be healthily disgrunted by his Beaufort cousins, if he's got half a brain he'll let us all just recruit to his side and fight his wars, they're half siblings and cousins doubly protected. Something else—happens and you have another we again pray it's reasonably swarthy of a creature, that said the king's fair and he's yours so we have some grace on that," Edmund shrugs, "Simple enough. I think we both get what we want."
"Yes, we both get what we want," I say, quietly. Am I doing it? Finally getting what I want in this dreadful country?
"I'll be a good husband. I'm usually away and I don't mind Owen," he says, "So long as he doesn't care me claiming his child, but dare I say keeping the child alive is a decent enough framing."
"It is—thank you," I say.
"I'll ask Humphrey tonight. He won't be pleased but it also means he doesn't have to manage you," Edmund shrugs.
"Tell him about the child if you like," I say.
"I would rather not, I won't sully your name if it's not necessary, he can take a simple request. We're both adults and you've been wed. You're not his daughter," he scoffs.
"No, no," I sigh. But Humphrey makes everything complicated. Everything.
We are halfway back to the keep when Cardinal Beaufort, already carrying a goblet of wine, finds us.
"What are you doing up, uncle?" Edmund calls.
"You're hilarious you should be a fool—Lady Catherine. Your son wishes to speak with you. You know. Your son the king of england? That one? He wants to speak with you. Because you gave birth to him. For this conversation he is not going to sit in a chair at least not correctly, and he is going to talk about ceilings. For upwards of an hour. You do not have to understand what he is saying. That is not required. What is required is that you appear to be interested in what he is saying. He whispers constantly, so you may not hear any of it. It took me three hours last night, and a lot of wine, but I now understand that he thinks all ceilings should be higher. And he is very interested in how ceilings look from the ground and if they are vaulted how big they are in comparison to the ground. You are very welcome for finding this out you don't have to thank me. As a fair warning this fascination will likely evolve I am assuming based off his ancestors, to jumping off roofs or climbing tall objects, but only time will tell," Cardinal Beaufort says, sipping his wine, hand on his hip.
"None of those words made sense in that order," I say.
"I'm with—I'm with her I'm not tracking, why are we talking about ceilings?" Edmund asks.
"Because they make the king happy, for whatever reason. I am personally suggesting you simply enjoy that it's ceilings and, oh, I don't know, here's a random idea. Fire. That it's not fire. Because it starts with fire then things on fire then living things on fire then explosions then things that explode then a lot of people are dead and you wake up every morning waiting for the word that someone you accidentally cared about, blew himself up. So, you know, ceilings are not that bad. Probably means he'll like throwing people off tall objects later, but also, possibly not, I am probably not going to live long enough to find out, so that's comforting for me," Cardinal Beaufort says, "But for now, Lady. Your son awaits. If you're done having clandestine meetings in the woods? Which I don't really care actually you can have clandestine meetings some other time."
"Yeah, I'll go talk with him," I sigh. I need to talk with him anyway I suppose, tell him I'll probably be leaving. Well I am leaving in some capacity here, soon. Very soon if the little Welshman doesn't stop growing so quickly.
"That's all I ask. And act interested," Cardinal Beaufort says.
"I think I can talk to my son," I say.
"Well it's about ceilings and math, so, not necessarily easy to be interested but best of luck to you. Someone smarter and prettier than me came up with a tried and true system of entertainment it goes like this, ask him his favorite thing about— in this case ceilings—then second favorite thing, and then third, and so on, I promise it will work he will keep talking for hours and you don't even have to be sober for it to work. Try it, might save your sanity and make the child happy," Cardinal Beaufort says.
"Again, I can talk to my son, thank you Cardinal," I say, a little icily. I'm mostly annoyed the old man condescends to me and implies and I cannot talk to my son.
Then I get inside, and they escort me up, and I remember I cannot talk to my son.
"Lady mother! It's good of you to come," formal as his father, and disgustingly, almost uncannily identical in manner. Still small and slim for his age he looks more four than seven, but despite his fairness, he has his father's features to a fault. Same long nose, thin lips, high thick cheekbones and sunken cheeks, heavy brows and broad forehead, with sharp if round eyes. Always elegant and poised, more like a dancer than a solider, though decidedly quick. The morals and countenance of a lion, and quite as predatory. I have no idea how my son is the very vision of the father who never bothered to meet him. How he can be the image of the man I least wish to see again? Shouldn't I see myself in him? Some reminder of my brother at that age? My father? Nothing? No, nothing, as though I was merely a vessel for this neat little copy of England's bloody warlord king.
"You're up early Harry, have you started your lessons?" I ask, forcing a smile.
"Yes, I did my Latin examination I did very well. I was meant to do it yesterday and my schedule nearly got missorted," he says, staring around the room, his father's gaze was constant but no less inattentive, as though the person before him was inevitably dull. The little boy tugs his hands together, then apart, eyes searching the room idly as he rocks on his heels.
"That's a shame. Do you like all your lessons?" I ask, trying to force myself to speak kindly. He's a little boy. He's not his father. He can't be all his father.
"Yes all except riding I'm not very good at riding but I do like petting my ponies," he says, earnestly. Of course his father was fond of his warhorses. I remember when we first came to London, he dismounted and went to pet it, and the horse pushing its face against that of its famous master. I remember thinking he was kinder to the horse than he'd ever been to me.
"That's good," I say. Stop thinking about his father he's a child of course he wants to pet ponies.
"Would you like to hear about ceilings? I think about them a lot I like to and Cardinal Beaufort said you liked ceilings as well?" He asks, hopefully.
"In a moment, yes, first there's something I had to talk to you about," I say, "Why don't we go and sit down?" We've been standing in the doorway with Lady Butler judging me. Well she might be judging the fidgety little boy as well.
"You can leave us," I say, to the attendants. They nearly hesitate. But I'm the dowager queen as much as they might like to forget it.
"Yes, I've missed you I want to talk to you—do I have to sit properly? Because if so I prefer to stand," he says.
"No," I say, frowning a little, as I go to sit down, at the the little lesson table. It's all small for the small boy and perhaps his friends, but there's an adult sized chair at it as well. I take that one.
"Oh good," Harry scurries to the chair, turns it around, sits in it with his legs all folded up, and hangs his head over the back of the chair upside down to look at me.
"That's how you're going to sit?" I ask.
"Yes, it feels nice," nodding his upside down head.
"Okay I'm going to change that sit properly or stand," I sigh. I need his attention not him just playing.
"Yes, lady mother," he slinks out of the chair, to come stand by my arm but not look at me.
"I was thinking. Since you're doing very well in your lessons, I might to start to live outside of London," I say, carefully.
He frowns, still moving his hands.
"You don't really need me about you do very well with your tutors. You're big now you don't need your mother about," I say.
"But who would stand with me at ceremonies?" He asks, softly, "Like my coronation?"
Oh. He wants me to stand next to him. Exactly why his father needed me.
"Your uncles can do that. They enjoy it, and you're king you can do well on your own," I say.
"Do you feel God calling you to serve elsewhere in the kingdom?" Harry asks, brow furrowed.
"Yes," I'll go with that. "Yes, I think it might be best. Nothing is settled at all. But, I'm going to talk to your uncle about perhaps living elsewhere some of the time."
"Could I come and visit you there?"
"Yes, of course," I say, smiling even though he isn't looking, "What do you think?"
"We all must follow God's commands. I will be well," he nods, strongly.
"Okay, good," I sigh. If he is fine with it, which he is he doesn't care about me, then Humphrey can't argue it, can he?
"Do you want to hear about ceilings now?" He asks, hopefully.
"Perhaps tonight, we can dine together," I say.
"But then I'd have to sit properly."
"Yeah you would because you'd be eating," I say, reaching out to tuck a hand through his curls. He shies away like a frightened dog. I suppress a sigh. I can't even touch him.
"All right. Would you like to hear me play the harp? I'm not very good," he cautions.
"No, it's fine you don't have to perform," I say. His father could play it. I know because he kept harps. I never once heard him play but he had the things taken with us and I think he bought new ones around our wedding because there were more leaving than he came with. Perhaps he wasn't good either. Of course they're having the boy learn he has to be his father's copy. Well they're doing good so far. He doesn't like me and he's obsessed with being king.
"You do—you do a very good job with all your lessons. I'm sure your father would be proud," I say, thinking of what the Cardinal said last night. That he thought the boy was feeling down. He doesn't seem it. He seems fine.
"I hope so. I'm doing my best God made me king so I could take care of England so I must do my very best," Harry nods to himself, still fiddling with his fingers idly, feathering them across each other, then folding his hands, palm to back, and lacing his fingers together, pressing his hands to his chest.
"What's your favorite lesson?" I ask.
"The Bible, I have my own copy that my uncle gave to me last new year and I read it every day so I can learn to be a better king," he says, eagerly.
"Of course," I have no idea which uncle that was. He has a lot plus a whole host of other men who were his father's cousins who he just calls uncle out of respect. They all call him varying degrees of Henry as I understand, which is for the best he's only little. Sometimes I wonder what he and I would be doing if his father were still alive and he weren't king. Then I remember there's no way in heaven his father wouldn't have packed him off on campaign to set France on fire with him. So I'd be alone with whatever other children he'd given me by now. I'm glad that isn't what happened. I'm glad I'm safely carrying Owen's child at least for now, no husband to have to worry about bearing children for. At least for this one. There is no question of paternity no wonder if my husband had me recently enough to be the child's father. No this one at least was gotten in love. I'm so, so glad my husband is dead. I'm the only person in England. But France and I rejoice the scourge is dead and buried. And we have some years of peace before his son here rises up to torment the world for his pleasure.
"I'll be very brave. My uncle helped me with my schedule would you like to see that then?" He asks, cheering up.
"Oh I'll ask Lady Butler for it, yes," I say. I will not do that it's not as though it matters, my opinion wouldn't change it. His uncle is his caregiver, not me. My husband on his deathbed, ensuring that his favorite brother raise his child, and not that child's own mother. I'm not that bitter. I don't really want to raise that man's son, bearing him was enough.
"All right. But you'll dine with me tonight? I know a lot about ceilings and I like talking about them but if not then we could speak about scripture? That would be good for us," he says, nodding his head. His father was fond of scripture and claiming to be on god's errand as well, specifically his either belief or chosen propaganda that God wanted him to murder my people. And Owen's people, the Welsh, he burned them up too. This baby I'm carrying damned on both counts, so far as my late husband's country views it. I'm glad. Not a drop of poisoned English blood. They're all mad.
"Yes, we'll dine together, you can tell me about—I suppose ceilings. But now I won't keep you from your lessons," I say.
"Yes, I shouldn't get off schedule. I am ever so glad you came I do like—I like you being my mother," he says, bouncing a little.
"I—like you too. Come give me a hug," I say, holding out my arms.
He obeys, squeezing his eyes shut. I hug him gently and he shivers violently then steps back, rubbing his arms. As if he knows I'm carrying his bastard half-sibling. And knows of my infidelity to his precious dead father. Not that I was having an affair with Owen while I was married to his father. Not technically. I didn't actually lie with him exactly as such. I did love Owen. But love has nothing to do with anything.
"Thank you for coming," he says, rubbing his arms and chests with oddly balled up fists, wrists bent.
"I'll have supper with you," I say, standing up, trying not to be hurt. He couldn't touch me. Of course he couldn't. When he was a baby he cried if I held him. Always. He doesn't like to hold my hand he shakes it when I let go. I don't know why any of them want me here they don't truly want me here.
I go, trying to blink tears from my eyes. He's the same. He's exactly the same. As he always was. They told him to tell me that, that he liked me. He can't even hug me. He's obsessed with Scripture and being king, just like his father. He's his father's child. Not even the least bit mine. As the years go by he gets farther and farther away from me.
It's raining but I still go back out to the orchard again. I'm crying but in the rain you can't see it. All I can hear is his father's voice in my head.
"Did you need anything else?" Idle, bored, staring at me. Moments after I told him I was carrying his child. I was another bit of paperwork, his child another project. No love there. Nothing. No love the night that child was conceived so what I do expect of it?
"I'm too ill for dinner, I just want to go," I said, holding my husband's arm. It was a feast day and I just wanted to throw up. And lie down. I was barely three months gone with the pregnancy. My mood was spiraling mostly due to my husband's indifference. My tummy was getting puffy but little more I didn't properly look pregnant and I felt completely awful. I was hungry all the time but too ill to eat, and I was scared. I was scared I'd lose it and I was scared of being pregnant.
"Why did you come down if you're ill?" My husband asked, not looking at me, he looked as disinterested in the feast as I was. It was summer and just starting to get hot.
"I wasn't ill then," I said, icily, because I was too sick to act kindly towards him it wasn't as though my sweetness had worked at all.
"If you're coming down with something you should send for a doctor," he said, not offering to send a doctor for me. Just giving me unhelpful advice.
"I'm not ill because I'm ill, I'm ill because I'm pregnant," I breathed.
"Ah. Right," he said, very stiffly, "I'm making the necessary arrangements."
"Oh well then that's all right," I muttered.
"It's my child. It will be looked after. I don't expect you to concern yourself. Go lie down if you're ill," he said, then he walked away.
Like he was placating a courtier and nothing more. I knew that he didn't love me. But I had anticipated that we'd do something, have some sort of sentiment there for this child we'd conceived. But no. He remained the same.
And more than that, he left me, left us. His precious campaign to burn down my country already well thought out he wasn't about to stop it for something so trivial as the birth of his child.
By the time he was finally leaving, I was five months gone. After an entire summer of being unreasonably hot and my belly just feeling hard and swollen, in a matter of a few weeks my gut doubled in size, to where I could no longer even squeeze into my former dresses and clearly showed past even the loose ones, cut below my bodice and I still clearly had a round little belly. Which delighted the people of England, everyone stared at me. Bearing the long awaited heir of their beloved king.
Who was planning to destroy France. I had to try. That was my mission. To seduce him. To stop him. Well I'd gotten pregnant. I was having his child. Even if whispers were it was a girl for I was carrying it high. I was still pregnant. I had to mean something.
"You're leaving then? Next week?" I asked. I had come to see him, he was working late as ever, and I'd insisted his people let me by. One of his brothers had slunk out as I came in, probably John though could have just been one of his other men. Always a trail of men following him like puppies.
"Yes, nothing has changed," he said, not looking up from his precious papers, dark brown hair sweaty and sticking to his face. That haunted, awful face, so deeply scarred. As though God had once tried to kill him and had since given up.
"What about when the baby comes?" I asked.
"You'll be attended to the proper midwives and I have two physicians—? You're young, and it will be strong," he said, still not looking up.
"You won't return?" I asked.
"I shouldn't think so."
"I'd like you to," I said, hand on my belly.
"Why?" He looked up, almost disgusted, "I've no time for games, Catherine. My child will be given the utmost care. I have it arranged. And you'll be entirely comfortable. I ask very little of you."
"It's my child too," I said.
He shrugged a little, "It is the next Lancaster king. And always will be. You're not naive. You know that. Don't cloud it with sentiment. It won't do you or the child any good. It will be a prince of England and France."
"You don't know it will be a boy," I said.
He tipped his head in something like acknowledgement then went back to work, "You can go if you've nothing else."
"We aren't finished," I said.
"I don't have answers for you. Not the ones you want."
"How do you know what I want?" I asked, tears on my face.
"You want what anyone wants. You want the world to be quiet. You want everything to be neat, and safe, and quiet. And now you're having the heir to two great kingdoms that I run, alone. And it's not quiet, everything is complicated and you're scared, and you think you're alone," he said.
I wiped my tears from my face. I hated when he saw me cry.
"And do you want to know the truth? It doesn't get better. Ever. You will always be alone. And you'll never stop being afraid. And the only way you'll know peace is if you stop searching for it and hoping that the chaos will end. It doesn't. It's all fury and noise because peace is a tale men tells themselves because they're too weak to fight. And you keep fighting and you fight and you will fail every time because there is plenty to fight and nothing to win. And you'll drive yourself mad if you fight the storm."
"So what do you do?" I ask, still trying to stop crying, "If it never gets better? What are you going to tell our child?"
"To become the storm. And you're alone. But now you're no longer fearing the monster that stalks the night. You've become the monster. You become that which men fear. They all keep believing in peace, and a fair just world, so you tell them it is, and you let them fight themselves out then in the dark you devour them. And nothing is ever righted but at least nothing can harm you because you have nothing to lose, you merely consume. And all the rest down below fight to the death in the fear and the dark. And you watch them. And slowly you devour them one at a time once they are weakened and sick with seeking a justice that has never existed. And just like that, you rule the world," he snapped his fingers, a cold smile on his face.
"Then stay with me. Stay and meet your child, I can feel him, he's angry like you," I said, hand on my belly.
"Hm. Good," he almost smiled, "We'll get on well then. Don't worry, I wouldn't expect you to understand good Lancaster stock. We're a precious breed of terror."
"Then stay and meet your son," I said.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I've my campaign planned already. And because if he has my spirit as you claim then he'd want to join me not for me to join him. And above all else, no, because you asked me to."
I must have left crying. I don't recall. All I recall is the enduring cruelty in his words. And his terror of a child is all his silver tongue and cleverness. With a good pretense of caring but inside he's hollow. The boy is as hollow and emotionless as his father. I remember the day I understood his father. When it finally dawned on me that yes, that was all he was. Just an empty, half made up person with no love or care in him. And that's all his son is as well. He knows how to pretend. But he doesn't care. He wouldn't even hug me. He couldn't even sit with me and talk with me without bringing up god and being king every few moments. He is nothing but his crown.
"Cat? Why do I always find you getting soaked?"
"Owen?" I look up, through my tears.
He smiles, gold curls pasted to his forehead. He swings off his good waxed cloak to wrap around me. I'm soaked to the skin and my dress is sticking to my saggy belly. I was going to tell him I'm fine I like the rain but I do need his cloak to hide me. And at that thought I start sobbing.
"Shh, come now," he says, hands on my shoulders, "What is it?"
"I want the baby to love me," I sob, "Harry's the same. He's always the same like he acts like he thinks people should act. And he can't look at me, and he won't hug me. And he's hollow. And ever since he was born I felt it it's like he's not even there, he's empty. And I'm scared. What if it's me? What if it's because I didn't love him properly? And I don't want it to be me. I don't want to always be alone and looking for some peace some happiness that isn't going to be there."
"I am right here. I am right here beside you. And I will be as long as you'll have me. I love you. And I love this child. And we will have our peace, the world will be all right again, I promise you. If it won't cooperate I'll make it so. Do you hear me? You must hear me I won't allow things to be bad. Nothing is going to harm you, or the baby. And if I must carry you on my back, to Wales, and we will farm sheep, that is how we do things. We make our own world right, because we have each other," he says, hands cradling my cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, tears leaking out of my eyes.
"Shh," he kisses my forehead, "No, we've been lost too long. But I'm right here beside you, you are not alone anymore. The first time you were alone, you are not alone anymore. We have this child because I love you, at great danger to my person—,"
I laugh.
"I love you, completely. And I'm happy to die for loving you. But you deserve to have someone love you with all that he is, no matter what is written in the stars, no matter what monsters come at night," he says, smiling hands still cupping my cold cheeks.
"I love you, Owen Tudor," I say, but I say his name the way the Welsh do, Oh-wine, T-y-dd-ur. I can't say it like that in public. Can't let them know.
He kisses my lips, quickly.
"I'm sorry," I say, leaning against him.
"Shh, no, you have nothing to be sorry about. You are fine this is what we do. We are interacting with your late husband's family," he says.
I laugh, leaning against his chest. The baby is moving, against both of our bellies. Owen laughs a bit as he feels it kick.
"Yeah, imagine that all the time," I say, wrapping my arms around him.
"I do actually, well, we're going to find somewhere safe for the wild Frenchman very soon, eh?" Owen asks, kissing the top of my head.
"Yes," I sigh, "We're going to be all right."
And I know it may not be true.
But I have to believe it.