Diana's Foresters

Chapter 5: while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Harry

The next morning I get my correspondence, which is honestly fascinating how many people found me. Warwick brings it in, while I'm getting dressed.
"King Richard knows where we are," he says, by manner of greeting.
"That was fast," I say, tearing open the letter from him. It's instructing me that if I'm reading this I'm to conduct myself home and I had better not have challenged anyone to a duel. I will reply that it is sadly too late but I had to protect Thomas and we're going home soon.
The next one is in Somerset's handwriting. It's in code. I have to fetch the cypher Devon usually decodes these. It takes me a moment, but when I do get it decoded my blood runs cold.
YOUR RICHARD DIES
I stare at the note, hands nearly shaking, "We're going back to England, now."
"What?" Warwick says, frowning, "Why?"
"We're going back to England. We'll be back in a week for the duel," I say. No. How dare he. He's not allowed to touch him. "He's going to kill Devon."
"Who is?" Warwick asks.
"Somerset," I say, "We need to go. Now."

Richard

"It's past noon will you please stop pacing and crying. It's upsetting the dogs and it's upsetting Blount," Bernard says, as I pace my room and cry, drinking wine. It's a hobby of mine and not one I've exercised frequently enough.
"I'm busy," I growl.
"Pacing and crying is not a hobby, I'm not going over this with you again," Bernard sighs, "Will you not just come and sit down eat something with me?"
"No! I'm trying to think. Everyone in my life thinks they need to protect me and I think I need to protect them and this is creating unhealthy patterns and I've identified the problem now I just don't know what to do about it. Yet," I say, sipping the wine.
"Probably—not—pace your room crying drinking wine?"
"Someone to see you, your majesty," Blount says, "The Duke of Exeter."
"Ex, thank god, you're not keeping things from me to protect me are you?" I ask, taking his arm the moment he steps in.
"No, not at all, I assume this is something about Roger? No, you know all my things, I'm not smart enough to keep secrets also you usually have to pardon me pretty soon so it doesn't really work, please don't cry?" Exeter says, patting me as I embrace him.
"I can weep if I wish."
"I thought you'd not want to, Hotspur is here."
"What?" I ask, mopping my face.
"Yeah, he's unaware he's exiled, has apologized for that, has news. I was honestly gonna kill him but I'd rather fight him to be honest and he'd agree you gonna let me do that or—no figured that was a no, all right see how you know everything?"
"NO NO NO YOU ARE NOT NOT ALLOWED TO JUST FIGHT HIM!!!!"
I hurriedly get dressed in a more normal outfit including cape because Harry's right capes do make everything better.
Hotspur is kneeling in my great hall, clearly dressed from the road, also clearly been crying so if he doesn't look me in the eye like he's not supposed to perhaps he shan't notice that I've been crying.
"Speak," I say, in my most commanding voice this is going really well.
"Your Majesty I beg your forgiveness, I did not come with the intent of breaking my exile which I thought was merely self imposed—but in fact to warn you of an impending threat," he drops a letter on the floor, "Somerset."
"Wh—what?" I'm no longer doing well.
"He came to me perhaps a week ago, and left this. Expecting my aid in his plots, naturally I threw him out. But the long and short of it is, it's quite wordy—he means to kill you and put Harry on the throne, and control him. And I had to warn you, your Majesty, he has no plans for honest war," Hotspur says.
"Ignoring the fact that you'd be fine if it was an honest battle—who does he have with him? What army?"
"None, I take it he plans to accomplish his ends through mere treachery," Hotspur explains, he's still kneeling, head bent.
"Because of your actions, it is my current humor to maintain your exile but that—that may change based—upon my mood. For now you are our captive," I say, hands clasped, "Exeter, retrieve the letter he brought."
Exeter obeys swiftly, picking up the letter from the floor and placing it into my hands.
It is a very wordy letter. The script is messy I can't read all of it.
So if this is messy it's Somerset he's writing his own, which means he didn't write the one signed by Bolingbroke claiming to have poisoned us? So who did? Bolingbroke? I don't really think he can read.
"Take him away, and double the guards on the palace," I say, staring down at the letter, "No one in or out."