Diana's Foresters

Chapter 4: ...to smother up his beauty from the world

Devon

I've never been overseas, nor has Harry but he's naturally confidant. I act confidant, but in reality I'm staring around with genuine interest, trying to pick up the local dialect so I can mimic it in a criminal setting. Tom and Harry are rowing, but won't tell us why. I feel like it might be to do with me given how Tom keeps glaring at me but he really hasn't said that.  Warwick and Porter are decidedly cheerful.
"How do you plan on finding father now?" Tom asks, doubtful of the plan. I love the plan.
Harry gestures to me emphatically.
"He's not a hound dog," Tom says.
"He can be used as one. Look there's a church, we'll turn him loose in there for a bit and he'll come back with information," he says, gesturing generally toward the church.
"That's never going to work," Tom says.
"It is, our father thinks himself terribly religious, there's no way he won't have shown his face in a church by now and he's probably got venereal diseases on his face by now," Harry says, "Also, you're not running this campaign, I am. So we're doing it."
"Right, who wants to give me a lock of their hair?" I ask, "Be aware I'm just going to pick one of you and take it at random."
"Oh I will," Porter says, twisting his fingers in his hair.
"You're—not even going to ask why?" Tom asks.
"Thought we'd be happier not knowing," Porter says.
"Saints relic," I say, at the same time.
"We're all going to hell," Tom breaths.
"I shan't allow that," Harry says, stiffly, but the brothers aren't even look at each other. I sigh. It is probably because of me. But Tom is the one who's being a prick. I don't have a lot of say in this situation.
"Right, I'll be back in a few minutes," I say, as Porter hands me the lock of his hair. I fold it up in a handkerchief carefully, then put it in my pocket.
I ascend the steps of the church, trying to shake off thoughts of the Lancaster brothers' dispute over me. I have no doubt Harry's mood was influenced by something Tom said and I already know Tom said he was going to try to get rid of me. The thing of it is I don't blame him, even if want to. I'd get rid of me too if it were my brother.
But I don't see why it has to matter? Why can't I have what I want, which is happiness? I should get someone to love me too, shouldn't I? Just because I'm not blue bloods like them, just because I'm me, doesn't mean I shouldn't count for anything. And Harry makes me feel like I count.
But there's no time to ruminate. I need to get to work.
"I'm a purveyor of religious relics and I was told I could meet a buyer here?" I say, as a priest approaches me.
"What religious relic were you selling?" The man asks.
See, he doesn't want to help me find a buyer. He and his people want to buy it off me for less, then sell it to my buyer, because I look young and dumb. But I'm not selling something of course I'm trying to get information. So it'll work perfectly and I'll make money at it by pretending I don't want to sell it to them. "I um—I'm really supposed to meet my buyer," I say, twisting my hands.
"Of course, why don't you come on back? We had another such travelling man of the cloth, as yourself, also finding a buyer for certain relics," he says.
"Did you?" I ask, because the more the merrier I generally just need to get them a bit drunk and then pump them for information regarding Bolingbroke. A few drinks in they'll all trust me and I'll begin weeping about Bolingbroke who was so kind to me and on and and on and they'll give something away or point me in a proper direction. So I'm not too concerned about another purveyor of religious relics being here.
And in all honesty, I have no idea why I didn't expect it to be my father.
In the flesh, still just a bit taller than me, dressed as a bloody priest, selling locks of his own hair and saying it's saint's hair.  We take one look at each other, mutually acknowledge this is truly the most probable place to encounter the other, and proceed with our independent cons.
"This Father —," the priest looks at me.
"Jones," I say, I've adopted a Welsh accent, "A pleasure to meet you I'm sure."
"Father," he says, lips nearly twitching at the irony, he's got a Scottish accent, "McLairn. A honor to meet any fellow man of cloth."
I don't know if it wasn't already obvious but my father is NOT a priest.
"But of course, I really am only expecting to meet a servant of the Duke of Brittany, I bring a saint's relic," I say.
My father tips his head in acknowledgement that I'm clearly not actually doing that, "Perhaps you've come all this way for nothing, Father, I'm the only visitor this morning."
He thinks calling me 'Father' is intensely funny. Also I cannot express how utterly in character this is. Like, this is one of the top ten places to find him.
"Ah yes," says the priest, "What was the name of the servant?"
"A man named Jean, I had correspondence with the Duke from his confessor's last visit to England," I say, looking hurt and confused. I can ooze confidence but that's off putting in a boy of fifteen.
"And what were you to sell him?" The priest asks.
"A strand of Saint Thomas Beckett's hair," I say, withdrawing the cloth from my pocket.
"I see," the priest clearly wants it. My father is nearly grinning. "And what was your price?"
"Two hundred crowns," I say. It's too much but I have to be seen to come down.
"A princely sum, to be sure," my father says, I resist glancing at him. He'll definitely make this harder on purpose, "Father, you know my own wares are half that."
"I'm not here to sell it to you, I had a meeting arranged," I say, putting the cloth back in my pocket, "That's all. Perhaps I got the date wrong."
My father is all but beaming with pride, "Let the boy go he's clearly lost." He knows damn well my memory is perfect. He's also going to mess with me deliberately.
"You're awfully young to make the journey alone," the priest says, offering me wine, "Do you have anywhere to stay?"
"No, I was going to find lodging," I say, as my father glances at me, well aware that I'm here on a con, do have somewhere to stay, and that I'm smart enough not to trust this man's intent.  I begin to tear up.
"There there child, is this the farthest you've been from home?" The priest asks.
"Yes," I say, tears overflowing my eyes, "I only volunteered to come, from my priory, because we had heard rumor our old patron was here, the last Duke of Hereford a man they call Bolingbroke. He was quite kind to me, you understand, and my mother, always took care of us—,"
That's implying I'm his illegitimate child. Which is amusing enough of a move when my actual father who I look just like is standing there looking overly concerned to disguise obvious pride.
"—I had word he was here in Brittany, I hoped if I came here I might find him," I say, wiping tears from my face with the back of my hand, pathetically.
"He had sanctuary I heard with the monks, you may check there. But for now your errand cannot be in vain," the priest says.
"I do not see how it is not," I whimper, "When the man I was to meet clearly has lost interest in our arrangement."
"Sell the artifact to me," the priest says, eagerly, "I can give you, a hundred crowns."
"I couldn't possibly go home without a hundred and fifty," I say. My father nearly breaks character because he knows damn well that I was here for the information and I'm just his child completely I'm getting as much money as I can.
"Done," the man goes to count coins.
My father nods at me proudly. I blink, for a moment letting my resting smirk show before going back to my tears. he bites his lip to avoid grinning.
"And money for your journey, poor lad," the priest says, touching my cheek. I take the bag of crowns, he easily tossed twenty more in.
"Do you mind If I pray a while?" I ask, tears trickling down my face pathetically, as I hand him the handkerchief with the strand of hair.
"Of course not," he says, "Take as much time as you need my child."
"Thank you," I say, going out into the chapel, the money heavy in my pocket.
I go kneel to pray, of course stopping my tears. The lights from the stained glass are lovely on the stone floor at this time of day, and all is quiet. I compose myself, hands clasped in fervent prayer.
I don't have to wait long.
"You got tall," my father says, in his real voice, kneeling next to me, head also bent.
"How much did you get?" I ask, also in my real voice.
"Three fifty. And you?"
"One seventy five."
"Did you pay anything for it?"
"Nah."
"You did well," he smiles, "You're good."
I shrug a bit. He's the one who taught me.
"Do you always let them touch you like that?"
"If it makes me money, I'm only your son. I'm in a better place now though. No old priests, this is a one off," I say.
"Good. Bolingbroke's in the service of the Dowager Duchess of Brittany. House pet is the term floated by her sons," he says.
"Thank you," I nod.
"Figured that was why you're here."
"You'd be right. I'm Duke of Lancaster's clerk," I say.
"He's your old friend, you tutored  right? Same one? Bolingbroke's eldest?" He asks.
"Yeah," I say, quietly, looking down at my hands.
"You happy?"
"That's all you're going to ask me?" I ask.
"That's all that matters to me. You are, the smartest person I have ever met, you can chose to be anything, chose to be happy. That is all I want for you. Whatever that looks like," he says.
I feel tears on my cheeks. I've had a weird last few days for this conversation to be happening.
"Look at me, Rich," he says, hand on the back of my neck. He's one of the few people who calls me by my first name.
"Happy' s complicated for someone like me," I say.
"Does he make you happy?" He asks, quietly.
"How'd you know?" I ask.
"I am your dad," he says, gently, "Does he make you happy? That's my question."
I nod, "Yes. I want him to love me. Isn't that pathetic?"
"No. It's real. Are you having fun?"
"Yes, with him, always, it's, you know I always need a new challenge. He is that, and he listens when I talk away like I do and—I don't feel like I have to pretend to be anyone different for him. I always have that," I say, "It's not like that with him."
"Good. Then have fun," he says.
"Aren't you supposed to tell me he'll leave me someday?" I ask.
"No. You know forever isn't likely for any of us. But that isn't the point. Would you rather in twenty years know you walked away from what could have been the best part of your life? Or would rather go through it, and have some wonderful memories of hazy drunken nights and weird adventures? It doesn't matter if he leaves you. Because you don't need him to be whole. You can reinvent yourself a million different times. I taught you not so you could have one life but so you could have the skills to have any life you want. If you want him? Bloody have him," he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.
"Shh, come here, you're going to fall apart sometimes but I know you're strong enough to pick up the pieces. We've only got one life, got to have the best time you can eh?" I he asks.
"Thank you," I whisper, hugging him tightly.
"I love you, my son, that is forever," he says, kissing my cheek.