Diana's Foresters

Chapter 2: ...for our advantage on the bitter cross

Richard

When I wake it's far too early in the morning, and vomiting. Blount comes to affirm the whole castle is ill, including himself.
"See? This is why I don't eat food. Food betrays you," I growl, as Bernard mops my face.
"That is not why and everyone is sick, there was something in it—if everyone is ill," Bernard says. He's ill too but he's being logical about it, which is irritating more so in fact than if he felt well.
"All the kids will be sick—damn. I've never been this ill," I say, "For now we're giving orders that none of it be touched. Not that any of us feel like it. Something must have gone off."
"Yeah and every person in this palace had some of the feast," Bernard says.

Harry

I am awoken to sound of:
"I'm going to be late for lecture!"
Followed very quickly by, filled with relief:
"I am not at Oxford," followed by the thud of an entire body falling back onto the bed.
Followed by, filled with terror:
"I am in your bedroom!"
"It's fine," I laugh, trapping Devon with an arm before he goes through more crisis. His eyes are still closed and his hair is messed up but he was trying to leave, "Green came and went earlier."
"He did?" Devon asks, frowning, finally opening his eyes.
"Yeah I hired him on the expectation that he would never reveal any of my secrets, I primarily meant murder. I think he was relieved just to find you to be honest," I say, rolling over.
Devon sighs, pressing his face into the sheets. I rub the back of his head, gently.
"This the first time you've slept this week?"
"Probably, yes," he says, breathing out a little, "We really all right here?"
"God yes. Knowing this palace nobody else is up. I'm starving," I say, sitting up. The fire is out because I waved Green off in favor of going back to sleep. Now I'm cold. I put the back of my hand on Devon's back to see if he feels cold. He is but he's apparently going back to sleep.
"I'm hungry too I didn't get dinner last night somebody kissed me against the door and said it was keep being kissed or get food," he mumbles, eyes closed.
"I'm well aware that was me," I say, getting up. Green laid out my clothes. I find Devon's, or rather Beaufort's—-??? —where we discarded them on the floor.
"Stop taking my uncle's clothes!" I say, throwing the pieces of his outfits at him.
"What do you expect me to do? Take clothes from total strangers?" Devon asks, legitimately confused.
"No! Actually purchase your own—I realize you're not going to do that so steal mine?" I say.
"You're too flash for a priest," he says.
"You're too pretty for a priest as it is. You'd look nice in fine things," I say, coming over to push him out of bed. "Come on, I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry. If you grow taller than me I'll probably quit speaking to you," he mumbles, intentionally going limp as I drag him up. Jokes on him I will drop him to the floor completely. He's dramatic so he doesn't catch himself.
"Just get dressed so we can go burgle King Richard's office before he gets up," I say.
"Why didn't you lead with that?" He asks, bouncing to his feet and sorting for his or rather my uncle's clothes.
"Oh crime got him up," I mutter, finishing putting on my jewelry.
"Yes??? We have met," Devon says, tugging on the tunic backwards then having to adjust it.
"I did tell you this yesterday, before the feast," I say, tossing him his boots and hitting him in the face because he has no coordination. He didn't to begin with, but growing like a weed hasn't done him any good. And I am officially nearly taller than him. I'm not quite as tall as King Richard but getting close. The main idea is to remain taller than my brothers.
"Oh right how was that?"
"I don't know I was kissing you," I say, rolling my eyes, "Mostly all right I assume. Now we are going to get breakfast, so hurry up."
"But you said we'd burgle an office—?"
"Christ you're ridiculous."

Richard

I am used to vomiting, and Bernard tells me that's not a good thing and leaves to go check the dogs. Roger materializes long enough to say that he's 'investigating' and when I say "aren't you ill" he says "walked it off" then just leaves so I decide that might be less annoying if I felt better but as it is now he's lucky he's not in my sight. Blount informs me that the ladies are also ill and surgeons are with them.
I tell him to have the cooks sent up to me I really need to know what caused us all to be ill and I need reports to confirm that yes everyone is ill.
I go to my office to do that, and feel sorry for myself.
It is dawn. I should still be sleeping. I feel like throwing up again but I've got nothing on my stomach. I am too surly to trust food, but as King I need to assess how many people are sick. But I really want to be left alone.
And that is how I find out that Harry has a key to my office.
"Good morning your majesty! I didn't think you'd be up I'd have knocked!" Harry says, bowing quickly as he strolls in, nice blue silk tunic, looking well rested and completely fine. Devon, his priest friend, bounces along behind him, also looking perfectly healthy.
"Why do you have a key to my office?" I ask, face in my hand.
"About a month ago I was asking about some correspondence you didn't fully recall so you told Blount to give me a key as you thought it would save me time," Harry nods.
"Save you time crawling up the wall?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, quietly.
"Was I sober?" I ask.
"Not really, no," he shakes his head.
"All right going to leave that situation—what did you need?" I ask.
"Just—those he's got them I was to get them last night. By legislative demand we came to fetch them before breakfast," Harry says, cheerfully, as Devon just takes things off my desk.
"Aren't you ill?" I ask.
"No, I feel quite well?" Harry says, frowning, "So does he, he's fine. Are you well your majesty?"
"No, I'm not well! No one is, we think something we ate last night was off," I cry, sitting up, "Didn't you eat anything?"
"No, I went to finish up a couple things in my office then retired," Harry says, angelically, hands clasped. He was almost definitely up to mischief with his bouncy friend here but I don't even care. They were probably rifling people's rooms to rout out traitors or something relaxing to them as in that's what they disappeared to do at Christmas. I have elected not to care. Not because it doesn't matter but because I don't actually know how to stop them.
"Well you can run the country then—," I begin, about two minutes from letting the energetic teenager do my duties today.
"I won't let you down," Harry says, shaking from happiness.
"I believe you. I'm sure you know my schedule anyway I'm going back to bed—yes Devon?" I sigh, the boy is raising his hand.
"If I may, your majesty—," so obsequiously given he's been rifling my desk, "What symptoms are you experiencing?"
"I feel like dying," I say.
"More specifically?" He asks, bouncing a little.
"I threw up everything, twice," I say, "And I have a headache. And I'm ready to go back to bed— look how happy the Duke of Lancaster is?"
"Headaches aren't common with food born illness—that's—more indicative of poisoning," Devon says.
Harry looks at him, "Is it? What poison?"
"I don't know yet—if I may—I have an extensive knowledge of poisons, have the surgeons seen you?" Devon asks.
"No, I thought since I'd thrown up I was grand, I sent the surgeons to Isabela, and any of the children," I say, leaning on my desk.
"May I?" Devon asks, holding out a hand for mine.
I shrug, letting him take my wrist.
"Your heart is racing," Devon says, fingers to my pulse, "You need to lie down."
"Thank you," I breath.
"This is likely poison, if everyone else has the same symptoms then—some part of the meal was poisoned," Devon says.
"No, it wasn't the meal," Harry says, looking at Math, who is sitting loyally by my side, caring how I feel beyond science.
"Ah, I'm quite sure it was," I say.
"Then why isn't he sick? You feed him half of what's on your plate," Harry says, pointing at the dog.
"You're right," I say.
"It's in the wine," Devon says, as he and Harry make intense and pointed eye contact.
"Someone poisoned, the wine?" I ask, "How much do we think is ruined?"
"And which vintage?" Harry asks, equally upset.
"Also your whole palace was deliberately poisoned," Devon says, looking between us, "Which is also a problem."
"Which is also a problem," I agree.
"I might be able to tell what type of poison it is if I had access to the wine, no promises," Devon says, twisting his hands.
"We'll take you to it—your majesty do you know what wine was served last night?" Harry asks.
"No, not of the top of my head—but Chaucer will, he can bring whatever we had out last night," I say.
And that is how, when I truly wanted to go back to bed, I and two of the children wind up in the wine celler with a very ill Chaucer, fifteen happy dogs that follow Harry around, and Exeter, my dear brother, who is completely covered in someone else's blood.
"I can explain," he says, holding up his hands, "I was fetching something as the kids are sick, found someone who doesn't work here tampering with wine. Roger can vouch for me."
"Is this person alive?" I ask.
"Not really, no," Exeter says, "Your Majesty."
"Shut up," I growl. I'm not in a good mood, "Just shut up. Is Roger disposing of the corpse?"
"Yes, sent me up to change, didn't expect you to be up," Exeter says, nicely.
"Shut up," I say.
"All three of those is what we were drinking," Chaucer says, waving at three pitchers he got out.
"Go on," Harry says, urging Devon forward like he's a hunting dog.
"What are we doing?" Exeter asks.
"Not stabbing anything that moves," I snarl.
"He may have caught a poisoner," Devon says, sniffing one pitcher then taking a small sip.
"What?" Exeter, relieved.
"What?" Me, so tired.
"What type of poison?" Harry asks, hopefully.
"Cyanide, there, smell, it's from almonds, you can smell the almond the wine mostly masks it," Devon says, giving Harry a pitcher, "All of these are tampered with I'm afraid."
"They were almost all gone, I'll personally check the rest," Chaucer says, willing to drink poison if it means drinking my good wine.
"What—what does that mean?" I ask.
"It takes very high doses to be fatal, there's no cure, if it's just diluted in the wine, then you'll all be quite ill for a day or two," Devon shrugs, "I'm sorry your majesty there's not a lot to be done, hopefully no one took a fatal dose but it's quite diluted I can barely taste it."
"Who would do this?" Harry frowns, "To good wine?"
"Do we get to know why he knows this?" Exeter, very hypocritical and covered in blood, points at Devon.
"Oh because of my personality my mother had my father teach me about all sorts of poisons," Devon says, happily.
"See? And it's useful," Harry pats Devon's head, Devon tips his head for this like a dog.
"I need to go talk to the girl— Isabela—," she could be very ill then she's little.
"But you said I could investigate it," Harry says.
"The twelve year old is not a threat to your investigation Harry yes you're doing it—I didn't actually tell you that don't do this to me when my head feels like this," I sigh, hands to my head.
"Sorry," Harry says, wincing a little, "Is anyone else that ill?"
"Mostly those who were also drunk," Exeter isn't very loyal it seems.
"Right, I'll discover whoever hired—whoever Exeter's taken care of," Harry says, delicately, looking with disdain at my blood soaked brother.
"Yes do that," I say, "And report back to me what you find in a couple of hours when I can think better."
I go to the wing where the women are, and am met with mostly all right people, Philippa looks a little tired but that's about all they're not half as sick as I and the men are. Possibly hangovers aren't currently helping us.
"Are you all right?" Isabela asks, rushing up and taking my hands.
"No, nor are you we've been poisoned," I say, hugging her protectively.
"You're sure?" Philippa asks.
"Yes we've got some really clever people down there and they are working on finding out who was behind it," I say, dryly.
"But you've no idea?" Isabela asks.
"No not at the moment though Exeter—disposed of—someone who was tampering with the wine so we have the poisoner," I say.
"What? Who'd he kill?" Isabela asks, horrified though it might be for my benefit.
"Who is looking into it?" Philippa asks.
"Again, I've got some really clever people with time on their hands," I say.
"Oh my god you let Harry do it—I'm going to go help him does he know Exeter killed someone?" Isabela tries to run off, I catch her arm.
"You are going to rest, little one," I say, "You were poisoned as well."
"Harry's not resting!"
"Harry's completely fine, poisons probably don't affect Lancasters besides which fact he was in his office all evening doing his bank book for the last three years or whatever pleases him," I say.
"You know if I told him how hard he is to alibi as he's consistently in a room reading alone, he'd probably come to parties more," Isabela muses.
"We're not alibiing anyone—though that might work," Philippa says.
"Look Exeter has a—suspect it was probably a disgruntled servant," I say, "No one is that ill."
"You treat your servants great because you have no self control," Philippa says.
I glare at her.
"You do! If anyone in this palace asks you for anything you usually just say yes that's why you have a fifteen year old and probably his fifteen year old best friend investigating your near murder," Philippa says.
"Just because you're accurate, doesn't mean I have to listen to you," I say.
"She has a point," Isabela says, "Nobles are your enemies. And we never caught Bolingbroke. But you'd think you'd have gotten some sort of message claiming guilt unless the messenger was really incompetent."
"We'll perhaps that's who Exeter caught. Again we've got a lot of really technically brilliant people working on it—," I say.
"Is that just two fifteen year olds?" Philippa asks.
"For one no. Exeter and Roger are also involved," I say.
"Two fifteen year olds and two grown men who are uncovering the murder they probably spent two hours covering up?" Philippa asks.
"One more completely accurate statement and I'm going to make you regent while I'm in France you want that?" I ask, hand on hip.
"Nope," Philippa says.
"Please let me help? Logistically I have seven new things I have to bother Harry about," Isabela begs.
"When you are better, I'll gladly fill you in. For now I'm going to go see how my—elite team—is doing," I say, giving Isabela one more hug.
"Let us know if you need anything, for the most part we're all fine just a few headaches," Philippa says.
I go back to the main hall, by which point I'm honestly in much better spirits. I don't feel better, but the women are fine and there's no reports of anyone dangerously ill.
"Exeter, I'm sorry I didn't ask how's your family?" I ask, when I find my brother mostly free of blood, ready to walk with me back to my office.
"Oh grand, Lizzie's completely fine I just assume it's a Lancaster thing," he says, dismissively, "Kids threw up a bit but they're all clamoring to go and play now."
"Hm, well everyone needs to occupy themselves inside till we get to the bottom of it," I say, "Did you find anything out?"
"Left the energetic people with the body a while ago. Looked like a peasant," he says.
"Well that should occupy Harry for a few hours," I say, going to my desk where I plan on falling asleep. "You're to wake me up if you find anything out at the moment I'm counting it up to disgruntled servant?"
"Aye Roger got one of his horrible people in here, man confirmed what the excitable child said, it's cyanide, enough to make you ill if you guzzled wine," he says.
I glare at him.
"I was ill as well," he says, hand to his chest, "Point is it wasn't a massive threat was it?"
"No, but it's dangerous. All right we'll assume it was probably just some disgruntled servant, or something of that kind," I sigh, "Not like we'll probably get any real evidence—,"
"It was my father," Harry enters a room like that, bowing and nearly causing the Devon boy behind him to trip completely. They run into one another then go on as a matter of form, beautifully. Harry is holding up a message, "This was delivered with my usual correspondence."
"What in god's name—," can't that man be dead of his own accord? "Are you sure?"
"Positive, it's his hand, you can tell by the nearly illegible signature that doesn't at all look like the word 'henry'," says Harry, and it's significant Harry's signature, despite being neat, does not look like the word 'Henry' either it looks like nothing I've ever seen.
"He says he means to kill you," Harry interprets.
"Ah yes," I say, looking down at the overly dramatic message, I am in such shock I'm not processing much beyond absolute surprise. I did not know that man could read. Let alone use that many adjectives.
"He probably had someone write it for him?" Exeter is there too thank god, "Or is it all his hand d'you know Harry?"
"No it's a scribe he just signed it—I don't think he can read," Harry says.
"Lot of adjectives ah—yes, he's declaring his intent to kill me," I didn't need this.
"Does it say where he is or is this a threat that's all?" Exeter asks, scanning it. He's not quick at reading, never has been. I'm not saying I am I'm saying I get plenty of practice.
"No, but last word our spies thought he'd fled to Brittany," I say, "Presumably he's still there we know Hotspur went there."
"Your Majesty," Harry says, kneeling.
"Oh god no," I say, whatever he's going to say is no he's only this polite if he wants something he can't have he's like a dog begging for cheese.
"Let me go to Brittany, and seek him out. He'll reveal himself to me. I'll challenge him to a duel, me versus him and his venereal disease it will be no contest, I'll kill him for good, and be home within a week we won't have to delay France at all," Harry says.
"No, Harry, absolutely not," I say.
"But—," tears well up in his eyes.
"Is this concern for my life or France?" I ask, gesturing to his melodrama.
Very quietly, "Would you believe terror for your royal person?"
"God, I don't want to delay France either but this must be dealt with," I groan, putting my face in my hands. My head still hurts.
"I'll do it gladly!" Harry says.
"I am aware," I say, without looking up.
"For you. And for France. And for —oh please you know I can," Harry says.
"Harry. You are fifteen years old. Close your mouth, I still know fully well how old you are. You are not dueling a grown man who is a tournament champion, that is not safe," I say.
"Also it's a little weird to send you to kill your father, like. I'll do it," Exeter says.
"He's my father. I think I should get to, sort of like breaking your own dog's neck," Harry says.
"Get up before you ruin those clothes," I say.
"Your Majesty let me do this, for you, I cannot rest while your royal person is in danger," Harry says, tears falling down his puffy cheeks.
"This would be convincing. I grew up with your grandfather, and somehow you are his copy. Neither one of you cry when you're truly distressed you cry when you want something, or to be dramatic. I am not letting you kill your father I'm certainly not sending you to Brittany alone," I say, "For now we are sending out spies to see where he is, and if he even sent the message. And I will pursue orders for his arrest someone is harboring him."
"He wrote it I promise I'd know his signature anywhere," Harry sighs.
"Why?" Exeter asks.
"As a boy I'd go read his correspondence in his office and pretend I was running the dukedom better than him is that important?" Harry asks.
"A little," Exeter says.
Harry lowers his head. Devon pats his shoulder delicately, in platonic comfort.
"Harry, I appreciate you, I really do," I say, "But we are doing this my way. I do not doubt your intent but tactically you know it's the right move. Would you let Humphrey go and challenge Kent in Parliament for you?"
"No," Harry says, quietly.
"So you understand why I cannot allow you to do this?" I ask,
"Yes, your majesty—but he tried to kill you!" Harry sighs, "And I don't feel safe letting anyone else do it; he's my responsibility."
"No. He's not."
"He's my father so he is—,"
"And I'm taking it from you. That is not something you should have to worry about," I say, gently, "Your part in this is done. And we don't fully know yet. It may be your father's signature, but he may not have known what he was signing—for reasons."
"Oh my god that's actually true I didn't think of that," Harry breaths, hitting Devon for some reason.
"He's not actually illiterate, or stupid enough not to know what he's signing," Devon says, wincing.
We all look at him.
"I SAID he's not actually completely illiterate or stupid enough not to know what he's signing, right? I ask this man's son who would know that?" Devon asks, a little loudly, staring directly at Harry.
"Oh I mean—yes I'm sure—I can't do it— I'm sorry I don't know if he can read," Harry says, putting his face in his hands.
"Would he sign just anything put in front of him and believe what they said it was?" Devon asks.
Harry says nothing.
"It's all right, Devon, don't stress him he has a trying relationship with his father," I say, coming around to I don't know hug Harry then I think he might not want a hug so I don't.
"Both those things are true. This is so painful," Harry breaths.
"All right they can't both be true—or my father would have done so much more business with him," Devon reasons.
"He did! Also your father was in prison most of the time and when he was around and Bolingbroke was around his grandfather the old Duke of Lancaster, paid people to keep them apart, and Philip respected him so he stayed away, no that is not a test," I say.
"Are you—laughing?" Harry looks at Exeter.
"Your father once dehorsed me, it's somewhat amusing standing here debating if he could read the lists," Exeter is laughing.
"The lists he had to read those! It was jousting related so he had to learn," Devon says, "Thank you Exeter! That's the kind of critical thinking we need!"
"Swynford was always with him," I say, quietly.
"Yeah he read them to him, now that we mention it," Exeter says.
"Okay but he had some correspondence as a duke you yourself said you read it," Devon says, to Harry, "Right? You're supposed to agree with me here."
"He had scribes to read it to him. And my and Thomas' births aren't even in the registry because he was supposed to go do it," Harry says, quietly.
"You're really no help at all you know that?" Devon asks, hand on hip, very sassily.
"Your Majesty I think I should go kill him— it's part of my personal journey," Harry says.
"No," I say, immediately, "Generally, no, we don't have enough information yet."