The Boy King (Violent Delights Book 13)

Epilogue: "But mercy is above this sceptred sway"

Catherine of Valois

I go away to Hadham house, where I marry Owen. Owen and I live there for four years. Our first child is born a short five months after we arrive and three months after our secret marriage. A peaceful delivery, and I give birth to a quiet, gentle little boy. We call him Edward. Edward lives but six months, before he passes in the night. My grief isn't lifted for two years, till his brother's birth. Edmund, a slight, gentle baby, with pale hair like his father and soft blue eyes. I hold him every night for fear he'll leave me, singing to him softly in French so he knows my tongue. When he's old enough, we move to Hatfield, to another manor. More hidden, there had been talk and Edmund was getting bigger. Always a delicate child, but very obedient, and the very image of his father, which made hiding him all the easier. He was clearly his father's son. In travel no one need know he was mine.
It is at Hatfield I fall ill. The year is 1437, and Owen and I have been blessed with two sons. Edmund, and then two years later my precious Jasper. Jasper is nothing like his sickly brother; he's a stout thing, has been since he was born, just a sturdy, seemingly indestructible child who laughs when he trips and falls. Persistently merry, and cuddly, he's either chasing the dogs and running from his father or snuggling tight in my arms. Oddly enough he has inky black hair and thick, hooded brown eyes, looking like neither Owen or I. We joke that we can pretend we're not responsible for him as we don't look it, even if he has our stubbornness combined.
But I grow sicker. A stillborn daughter this spring does little for my increasing ill health. There's a lump in my chest. And it pains me to move now. Owen carries me to the garden, to watch our sons play. Edmund is kneeling in the grass trying to build something with his toy blocks. Jasper is stumbling with a toy sword, surrounded by three wolfhounds who are knocking him over, much to his amusement.
Owen kisses my cheek, cradling me in his arms. I leave for an abby in a few hours. I know I'm dying.
"Please don't go," Owen says, softly.
"I have gotten to love you, for fifteen years," I say, squeezing his arm, "I'd taken even one more. But I'm so glad you made my life so beautiful."
He sobs, pressing his face into my hair.
"Don't weep for me. Look," I say, watching our sons. Happy and strong. They are happy. "They'll have good lives. You all will. I'm so glad you gave me our boys. But I must speak one more time, with my first son."
"I know," he says, "I wish you'd let me be there."
"No," I say, "I don't want him to hurt you. And he can't do anything to me anymore."
My first born is nearly sixteen years old. A man in his own right, doing his own governing. And I fear his wrath when he discovers his half-brother's existence. I haven't seen him in nearly two years.
And I don't again until he comes into the abby. The nuns take me to a fine enough room. But I'm alone. Owen and our sons have fled for safety. They will survive. I know it.
And they bring my son the king to me. He's grown tall, with still that wispy pale hair, and an odd manner about him. He's dressed simply perhaps for the journey, and comes to crouch by my bedside, as ever not looking at me.
"Lady mother," he ducks his head. His voice is barely above a whisper.
"Thank you for coming to me," I say.
"Of course—of course I'd come," he says, still whispering, "You are my mother. I will do as you ask."
"I am only going to ask one thing of you. As I die. Did your uncles tell you why I no longer live at court?"
"They said you do not wish to," he says, frowning and staring off, eyes soft and unfocused.
"I am married again. But the man was once a servant, we have two sons."
He begins to weep, softly, simply shaking.
"I am asking you to let them go. They will be no trouble to you and the children do not know I am your mother. People may wish to tell you of them or their whereabouts, please just let them go on. We wish you no harm," I say.
Harry places a hand to his face, weeping, "Is that—is that why you left?"
"Yes," I say.
"To be their mother?" He asks.
"Yes," I say.
"Why didn't you want to be my mother?"
"What?" I ask.
"Why didn't you want to be my mother too? Is it because of me?"
"No, I did—I—I wanted to love you," I say, "I do love you."
"Then why didn't you want to be my mother? And why keep my brothers from me? I always wanted a family," he says, choking back sobs.
"I didn't think you'd want us."
"You didn't give me a chance."
I reach out to touch his cheek and he rocks away on his heels.
We both sob at that.
"Do not touch me," he says, simply falling to the floor, "I don't like being touched like that. I know. I know. I know I'm not a common man I used to think it was because I was king or because I had no father or mother like other people have fathers and mothers. But I don't know. Is that why you left? Or they were just something you could love and I was not?" All the time is voice is still a hushed whisper, soft and delicate.
"No. I couldn't marry my husband at court," I say, "That's all."
"What's his name?" He whispers, slowly sitting up.
"No," I say.
"What's his name? And the children? I'll have their names."
"No," I say, "It doesn't matter."
"They're my family. I will take care of them. Your husband must know no harm will befall him I'll tell him myself. If you would not have us be a family, I shall. I can do anything I like. I am king," he says, strongly. And as ever he looks just like his father.
"Please," I say, tears slipping down my face, "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"I'm sorry I'm your mother. I'm sorry you got me. But they are the life I want. Let it go."
"No. No I don't get to get out of it that easy you see. I don't. I don't get to choose. I have to be king. Do you know what they told me when I was a boy? They told me you couldn't come see me because kings don't need their mothers. Yes I did. I was a child. I was supposed to get to be a child," he sobs.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, watching him sob on the floor, hands twitching. All that he is. Just a frightened child. He's right. He's a child. "Come here, can I not hold you?"
"I don't know, yes, I don't know," he sits up, shaking.
"I know it won't make up for our lives. But let me hold you now," I say.
"Hold me tightly," he whispers, crawling into my arms.
I hug him tightly as I can in my illness. And he lays, limp against me, his body taught with muscle and terribly thin, just like his father's was. I stroke his hair gently from his blotchy face. I release him, and he wriggles back to the floor.
"Come sit on the bed, you're my child."
He sits very carefully on the edge of the bed, knees tugged up to his chest. His face is now red and stained with tears.
"If you tell me my brother's names and whereabouts. I'll see they have the best care in the world. I swear it on my father's grave. And I'll give your husband some lands and such I don't know what just now, just something so he can live comfortably. As befits their stations. I will do what is right, mother," he says, earnestly, "Please? Please trust in me? I don't know who you think I really am. But I don't know who that is so you cannot. I just know I wish to be the best king, I must be, God put me here. And god does not make mistakes. I cannot be a mistake." His voice cracks, tears pouring down his cheeks.
"Edmund is older of the two boys. He's six. He's been sickly, let him study as he likes and live with his father, he's mild. Jasper is the younger, he's four, I want him to go into the church," keep that wild boy safe.
"I'll do it, yes, I'll make sure they're educated," he says, earnestly.
"I'm sure you will," I don't trust him. I can't trust him with Owen's name. He shouldn't find them. They're hidden by now. How can I trust him? "I'm tired now. Will you sit with me?"
"Yes of course. I miss you," he says.
"You can't miss me, I'm not about."
"I miss the idea of you then. All I know is I feel empty. Something's meant to go there I know it," he says, wiping tears from his face, "I have love for you and my father but you do not receive it."
"Shh," I say, reaching to touch him then thinking better of it.
"Tell me. Could you love me if I were not king?"
"I don't know," I say.
"Did you love my father?"
"No."
"Do you love me?"
"I try to," I say, softly, "That isn't your fault."
He nods, tears trickling down his cheeks, "I hate being king."

The End

Henry VI ruled for forty years. He was crowned king at nine months of age, and is still the youngest english monarch to inherit the throne.

Joan of Arc would liberate Orleans, and crown the Dauphin King Charles VII. She would be captured by the english two years later, and after escaping captivity twice and artfully defending herself at her trial, was burned at the stake. She is now a patron saint of France.

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester attempted to charge Cardinal Beaufort with misuse of funds. Cardinal Beaufort produced receipts for extensive loans in tens of thousands of crowns he'd made to Henry V, which were still unpaid. This proof he was far from profiting from government service destroyed Humphrey's case.

Humphrey would rule that Catherine could not remarry until her son came of age. She did anyway, and it was never considered unlawful.

Catherine of Valois died in 1437, she and Owen were married happily for nearly ten years.

Cardinal Beaufort lived to be seventy two. He aided Henry VI for the rest of his life, dying in 1447.

Raoul de Gaoucourt lived to see the liberation of France, dying well into his nineties in 1461. He and his wife Jeanne had two children, Charles and Antoinette.

Raoul would take a message to the pope, trying to appeal Joan's highly biased trial.

Henry VI would found King's College and King's College Chapel. King's College Chapel has the world's tallest fan vault ceiling in the world.