The Last Knights of Cambria Book 2: Reflections of Dancer

Chapter 2: Gideon, what are you still doing here? Didn't you die?

Gideon
Yeah, I'm still here. And I am definitely dead. Best of both worlds! Eh, not really, I'd rather be alive. But it can't be helped. I am doing what I can with the rapidly deteriorating situation at hand.
"All right. Let's recap this. We have walked and ridden, in chains, across the entire English and Welsh countryside. We are standing in a field in the middle of England, freezing to death. In a few hours we're all going to be locked in the Tower, the most secure prison in the world, probably. I am cursed and dying, we can't break the curse so I am definitely going to die. Gareth is probably dead and defingered somewhere in a an unmarked grave in Wales. My wife is going to spend her life in captivity or get married to someone really disgusting with no fashion sense. Jac is going to be tortured and beheaded. Dancer is just evil now, which is weird. And Gideon is dead and is haunting us. And you people, choose to wake me up, with the phrase 'so here's what we're going to do?'," King Elis chokes, coughing horribly as he twists and tries to stand, in the dusty snow.
"So, here's what we're going to do," the Duke, not even caring about his brother's little speech, as he holds the king up. We are in fact in a field in the middle of England, with the encampment and a few other prisoners. It's just starting to snow, but we're not freezing to death really. "Gideon can spy for us it's invaluable. I can withstand their pathetic torture so they won't kill me right away. You convince them to keep you alive by remaining useful, I will then break the bars with my bare hands and we all escape to the nearest safe forces which Gideon has summoned. I am not interested in constructive criticism because I also do not think it will work, but it is literally all we have."
"We can't talk like this, they are only leaving us near each other to spy on what we're doing," the queen hisses, she and I are sitting half in the shade of a cart. We're all chained up, well, they are. I'm not. I'm a ghost. She's in the white short dress and leather coat she was in during the battle, her braid is still tight if dirty, and there's dirt on her face. But she's no less determined. I am, well, dead. I look like a ghost, sort of a bluish haze.
"Oh, no, they determined we are less productive together," I say, rubbing my face.
"That's sad, but probably true," the king coughs. The only reason the Duke is with us is he lifts the king in and out of the cart and carries him as needed. He can't stand anymore and the queen is too small to do it alone. That was determined in the first few hours and so they took the duke from where they have the other few nobles and the men that they captured.
"And they aren't taking me to the Tower. They're taking you two to the Tower, I'm to be held at Windsor Castle," the queen says, disgusted.
"We can use that," I say. It's not uncommon to keep, ahem, non-violent political prisoners in Windsor as polite guests. That's 80% Edward III who pack bonded to his prisoners for whatever himbo reason, but Queens usually weren't thrown into the Tower, even War of the Roses era, the Queens that went to the Tower were there for protection. The Tower is both a fortress, and a prison, it's served decently dual purpose over the years. There are nice apartments along side the prison in case the monarchy has to go into hiding, due to riots or political unrest or whatever.
"We can use the fact that she's at Windsor castle, that's where Henry is so undoubtedly that's where Courtenay is, he's the one with the curse," I explain.
"I can break the curse, somehow, Courtenay is a sorcerer. Any magic he can do I can try to replicate he's mortal—if I can break the curse and get free I can help Gideon rally whatever supporters we have still alive," the queen says.
"And I break the two of us out, with my bare hands, done," the Duke says, flatly, wiping snow from his brother's hair. So, the duke never went outside, ever in the daytime as a rule and now despite the mellow winter sun, he's covered in sunburns. So, apparently, he is allergic to sunlight he wasn't just committed to a goth aesthetic. We feel bad, but there's nothing we can actually do, but medically I don't even think that you can be allergic to sun, but his skin is literally peeling and bleeding.
"Gideon, my dear ghost, please tell him why he can't just break us out of the Tower," the king sighs, waving a hand at me, pressing his face against his knee as he tries to sit up.
"The Tower is one of the more secure prisons of its age. If the interior fortifications weren't enough, it's surrounded on all sides by a moat, which is then enclosed by unscalable walls. If that weren't enough, within those walls is where monarchs of England keep their menagerie, an assortment of wild animals from around the world. In Edward II's time, this included lions, and leopards, which he would even take to battle with him, which is metal I'm not going to lie in our free time we should find a lion to take to battle with us. Moving on, given his commitment to brand recognition and overall being an extra prick, I'm guessing our Henry here has kept up the tradition of at least a few large cats that they're not feeding enough or correctly due to lack of zoological knowledge," I sigh. Traditionally most kings kept up a menagerie, I think Edward II did it just because he liked animals he also kept greyhounds as pets and liked his horses. I'm not fully up on who kept what there, but Henry VIII had peacocks which says like so much about him, but that's a lecture for a different day. Point being the Tower is notoriously hard to escape from it's well guarded, it's the Harlech of prisons; it's easy to guard. You don't get out of the Tower alive. The legend of the Princes in the Tower, supposedly murdered by Richard III, while that's completely unlikely and Henry VII is more likely responsible at least in name, the point is even Princes can get lost in the Tower. Ironically, Henry V's own son, Henry VI, in my timeline meets his bloody end in the tower, blunt force trauma to the skull, on the York King Edward IV's orders no doubt.
"Right, what he said, it's a fortress, Jac, I'm dying in there, if I don't die on the way across London," the king coughs, doubling over, as he spits up blood and all else onto the frosty grass.
"Right, and I have not yet found walls that can hold me," the duke says, stubbornly. But he's as beaten as the rest of us. The only reason he walks with the king and queen is because the king could not walk or ride on his own, he needed to be held up on horseback. Most of the nobles have been allowed to ride in chains, but even so. King Henry, in a moment of recognizing decent publicity, allowed the duke to ride with his brother in front of him, both in chains and being led by a guard, of course. The queen was offered to sit in the carriage with her women, she chose to ride. She's been afforded most every comfort, but insists on remaining with her husband.
"We have—something resembling a plan. Gideon can take word between us, right?" She asks.
"Yes, and I may be able to speak to anyone who lived—if Gareth lives he can see me—the reason I've determined that all of you can see me is because I was drawing on your strength as I passed—inadvertently—,"
"We don't care," the duke says.
"We're glad you did," the queen says.
"—and I feel a bit bad about it but I was— so likely I was Gareth as well, possibly some of the other bowmen who probably took to the fields they may not have all fallen. I'm working on seeing if I can appear to other people, but that's not something I'm testing lightly," I admit.
"For now an invisible spy is just fine," the duke says, shaking his head. They all got over me being a ghost really quickly. I mean, our country is burning to the ground and it's like two days before Christmas and they're all going to die too so me becoming a ghost is not the weirdest thing happening to us.
"But we think that witch can see you?" The King asks, with disgust, is the most derogatory thing he can think of to call Courtenay. It is not the most derogatory thing that the duke or I could think of, but the King quit taking suggestions from us as soon as the word 'mother' started being used as a modifier.
"He can sense me, not fully see me—I don't think. And it's only when I'm in his field of vision, if I'm hidden he doesn't seem to know, which is good, and he's the only one so far. I think he has to cast a spell, or something," I say, frustrated. I wish I knew as much about magic as I do useless history facts from around the globe. No, I don't, my history facts are great, but I could use magic facts here.
"And what about Dancer? Could he become a problem?" The queen asks, looking at me.
I sigh, looking down at the frosty grass. "Like I explained. Wizards, are from another —world—dimension like it's like going through a portal. Things are not good there, at all, there's no magic, no swords, no monarchs who care about their people. There's some okay food. But. That's why we both wanted to leave and stay here, that dimension isn't great. We had amulets that got us here, and took us back. We didn't do it much, but in fighting I used the amulets to take him back to the other dimension. The only way to get there and back are the amulets, it's like a key to unlock a door, there's no getting in without the key. And I took the keys with me. I dropped one in the library, his bracelet, and then I died with my ring on my hand, and presumably I was buried with it."
I look around at their faces. Naturally in this time period they have no real solid concept of dimensions or alternate universes, the closest they might have is heaven and hell. But they do have the idea of magic so other worlds and magical realms do exist but it's not as prevalent as it is to us. That's the neatest I can work on explaining it especially in our limited time.
"He's trapped there. There are other amulets, but I don't know how to get to them, he doesn't either," I say.
"Good," the duke grunts.
"Was he hurt?" The king asks, quietly.
"I didn't hurt him—,"
"Gideon, he killed you I don't say it with malice. You must understand I've known him since I was a boy, it's odd to think him somewhere, else. Nothing more, his actions were deplorable," the King says, kindly, more kindly than I deserve I suppose.
"No, he wasn't other than the scuffle. And I don't blame him for what he did," I say.
"Boy, he killed you," the duke is so tired, "And our Sadie."
"He was doing it to save the king. Yes, it was awful but—the way he saw it he saw it as life or death, our deaths for his king's life—that is the same choice we all made in battle not two days ago, I killed—dozens of the invaders —,"
"That's war," the duke says.
"So is this—of magic. No, Dancer wasn't right but he wasn't bad," I sigh. I feel bad. Yes Dancer killed me and yes I'm mad at him personally but I hate that the King thinks ill of him when all Dancer wanted in the world was his affection. "Dancer did what he did to protect you just as we've all taken lives to protect you and by association our country. None of us can say we'd do different. We haven't done different. There's blood on all our hands we've taken lives let's not—defile Dancer's memory when he was doing the same he was fighting his own battle."
"I've ordered death. I haven't ever actually killed anyone—personally," the king says, frowning, putting his head in his hands, "Nor has my wife."
Silence.
"You're meant to agree with me now and say 'that's right, no I haven't, but we get the sentiment Gideon'," the King says, not looking up.
"Oh, right," the Queen says, slowly, looking at the duke for help. He shrugs a little and shakes his head at her.
"You —haven't ever personally killed anyone, right?" The king asks, slowly looking up.
She looks at me and then the duke.
"It bothers me that you're not answering."
"We encountered men in the road, and I stabbed them, then the bowmen got the rest, one I had to stab because he wasn't quite dead. I like having Saxon blood on my hands, I don't feel bad, they shouldn't have set foot in my country if they didn't want to be run through by a girl," the queen says, glaring a bit at her husband.
"Oh thank god," he sighs.
"Who did you think I killed?"
"Past husbands who wear yellow and purple at the same time???"
"I'm fourteen Elis. I'm fourteen," she says.
"Oh, that's true," he coughs.
"I think I'm realizing why they think we get less done, when together," the duke says.
"We get the sentiment, Gideon, but he should have told us he knew it was a curse, that would have been a start," the queen says, "We could have done something, together."
"I don't think, I'm just saying—I have never had people I could trust, with anything, before I came here. All of you, relying on your strength? I've never done something like that it was terrifying, because whenever in my life I've needed to lean on someone, they've let me fall," I say, taking another breath, "I'm just saying—it's not so easy to trust people, in fact it doesn't even occur to you to trust people if you've never had people to trust in. From his perspective for the longest time I'm sure he thought he was doing the right thing, he didn't know he had all of you to lean on. My lord, how many times did I come down to the dungeon in the same clothes day after day because I didn't think to ask anyone for help getting different ones? Or did you or Gareth find me trying to fix my scabbard, alone, or bind up a wound, half the time that I'd gotten sparing with you?"
"There's a difference between acting like an abandoned puppy, and biting the hand that feeds you," the duke says, flatly.
"I'm not defending him. He was wrong. Hey, I'm the one who got murdered. I'm just saying. He made his mistakes but his heart wasn't bad. And he's gone from us; let us keep the good of his memory, everyone deserves that, for most everyone has some good in them," I say.
"That witch doesn't," the king says.
"He has good hair," I say, immediately.
"I concede nothing."
"It's beautiful hair and you know it."
"I don't know things."
"You're just arguing with me because you know I'm right."
"One more time I don't know things and I certainly wouldn't know things about him."
"It's gorgeous hair. You don't have to like him, I don't, but it's great hair."
"I don't admit that. You're right. But I don't have to say it," the king says.
"What was that?" The queen asks, looking between us.
"Nothing," the King and I say, in unison.
"Closing out the discussion on Dancer and circling back," the Duke says, coolly. To be clear, he's in his mid forties, the King is nineteen, and the queen and I are fourteen and fifteen. Usually Gareth was here to coparent us with the Duke. Now he has to do it alone. It's less than ideal circumstances to say the least and he's the only one looking after us now. Technically the King is in charge like we all still call him King, but technically he's always let his big brother big-brother him appropriately.
"Circling back. Gideon is right, Dancer was wrong yes, clearly, but he had at least moderately good intentions. And he's long gone from us now," the King sighs.
"Correct. And if he does somehow come crawling back, I separate his bones from his muscles and his organs and put them all in different places," the duke says.
"Oh, don't," I sigh.
"You no longer get a vote, you're dead. In fact, you get a negative vote so whoever agrees with you, their vote doesn't count," the duke says.
"If he returns, we have to see where his loyalties lie, but at the moment we're not in the position to do anything, let's work on escaping and getting back to Wales and any resistance we may have," the queen says, practically.
"I am not getting back to Wales in this state, even if you break the curse I'm not a doctor, but I don't think this—," the king gestures to the bloody vomit on the ground and his clothes, "—is good for me. Rhiannon, this is you now. I'm not fit to come along. Just bury me on Welsh soil somewhere, or let the sea take me back to my homeland."
"I'm not leaving you here," she says, reaching out and putting her hand on top of his.
"We will not. I will take you home," the Duke says, he's basically got the King in his lap as he holds him upright, and out of the cold grass.
"You think you can carry me that long?" The king asks, almost laughing.
"Yeah, you weigh less than my Oakshotte," the duke says, smiling but I can see hurt in his eyes. He's envisioning carrying his brother's body home. He's referring to a type of great sword, that might weigh fifteen pounds or twenty perhaps. Ergo, he's saying his brother weighs nothing to him. I'm sure he doesn't.
"First step, we break the curse," the queen says, looking at me, "I am fine, they will not harm me."
"I can see his hand on your neck," the duke growls. Her neck is bruised from in the night, when Henry stopped them on the road. I saw it, but I didn't elaborate on that part. Nor did she, but she's fair, and bruises easily. And the King was far from gentle. I mean, she was attacking him with a sword he didn't actually hurt her anywhere near what he could have. Her statement stands, he's not going to harm her. He was getting her to surrender that was all and I doubt if he'd even be so rough off the battle field.
"I am fine," she says, strongly, "Gideon and I can at least attempt to break the curse, worst case I just assassinate Courtenay, hoping that does it, and we escape."
"We can break it, they did the curse so that it would be easier to take the throne because your nobles wouldn't trust you in your illness, and you'd be weak. Mission accomplished, they won't care about it so much now, which means that maybe I can find out how he's doing it by going through his evil plans," I say. I'm basically envisioning a parchment that says 'Our evil plan: by Henry Rex and Richard Courtenay' but I realize it might not be quite that simple. Or it might. You never know.
"To that end. You might as well go see what they're up to," the queen says, "We're not accomplishing anything new here, we have our plan."
"They'll be getting ready to march, they won't do anything, that I want to witness," I sigh. It's been two days. Two days is enough.
"You're not going to be a very good little ghost spy if you mind watching people kiss," the King laughs a little.
"That is not what is going on! I wish it was! It would be less revolting!" I sigh, "Fine, I'll go and I'll see what they're doing then I'll tell you all about it verbatim so you also have to suffer."
"It can't be worse than being chained up with us," The Duke says, almost cracking a smile.
"Completely is," I mutter. I swear somebody needs to tell these two there are things you can do alone with the person you love other than talk and be evil and clever. You can do other fun couple activities that don't endanger the free world.
I walk over towards the Saxon tents. We're not far outside of London, we weren't going to pitch tent here, but the horses kept acting up because a sad little ghost kept running in front of them because his emotional support King of Wales kept coughing and needed to stop for the night. So we stopped for the night.
We had a tent put up for us but we were all outside because they took our tent down first. Naturally, the clever fancy people get their tents up till the last minute because whatever, they're the conquering war lords. They get pretty red tents to be clever in as long as they please.
I crawl into Henry's tent underneath a flap and curl up as small as I can manage behind some cases. They're mostly packed and he's adjusting his sword on his belt in front of a mirror.
As always I'm against my will impressed by his presence. There's no mistaking him, unlike many kings who could and did blend into a crowd, Edward III entering jousts under another name, and Edward II, rumor has it, smuggling himself out of England (fun story, ask me later). No, our Henry Rex is unmistakable. Taller than most men in this age, not too lean or broad he's balanced and deadly, exactly as he's meant to be, like a lion. He has almost big, dark eyes, that can turn in a flash. I've seen his cunning and ruthlessness first hand, and died by one of his arrows. Yet now he looks cool and calm. The man who's going to go greet his family and his people. He's not as sunburnt as we are, but his face is flushed with a healthy color from the days riding, which only accentuates the scarring on the right side of his face. An old arrow wound that should have cost him his life if not his sanity, and left most of his right cheek deformed in a mass of twisted scars and lumpy broken skin. He's lucky to still have his eye let alone his life, and what should be a painful reminder of his own mortality is instead proof that god dares not take his life. If he believes his own press. Which I think he does.
"Are you ready, your majesty?" Courtenay ducks in. Ah, this tool. God, how I hate this man. This beautiful beautiful man. Prettiest man on the island, probably planet, with piercing blue eyes rimmed with black, and cover model cheek bones, a jawline that could cut ice. He'd do better cased in marble and called Adonis than walking around here in the middle of England. He's not small in his own right, a solid six feet of gorgeousness yet still three inches shorter than his monarch. As though they were made to stand together. Their movements are fluid and eerily similar, from gestures to posture like they're the missing piece to the others puzzle. Friends since their youth at Oxford, they are the others only intellectual equal and that amounts to a bond it would be callous to call friendship.
"I'm supposed to be ready, but I look great," Henry scoffs, looking back in the mirror as he adjusts his shirt.
"You're not supposed to look great, why do you look great?" Courtenay turns Henry to inspect him, fluidly like dancers moments before a performance, or old lovers used to dressing the other. The second one is more apt, but any term I use is too crass to describe two people who long since accepted they were meant to exist together.
"I don't know why I look great. I woke up like this," Henry mutters, tugging at Courtenay's coat to adjust it.
"You do look great," Courtenay says, looking him up and down.
"I know! But I'm not supposed to look great I'm supposed to look like I just returned from battle—powerful, and Christ-like," Henry sighs.
"I know. But you don't, you look great you like you're having a pleasant time—,"
"I'm not, we lost three ships to that child, I'm trying to look like it was a hard won battle which I personally participated in which is true by the way," Henry sighs.
"Yeah, well, truthfully, you look great; your skin hasn't looked better and you know how you do in the sun—,"
"Why do you think I'm upset? I don't want to look like going to war is good for me—,"
"It clearly is—,"
"But it doesn't need to look it! Christ-like is what our people see, I am their savior I'm not supposed to be looking great, saviors don't look great they look like they sweat blood for their country—,"
"I realize that, Your Majesty, but you look sensational, just come here," Courtenay reaches up and messes up Henry's dark brown curls. They're not tight curls, loose ones that he keeps quite short. Now they have grey strands in them but they're none the less thick.
"Well?" Henry asks.
"Didn't work, if anything you look better," Courtenay says, which is completely correct if anything he looks slightly more ruggedly handsome than he previously did. He seriously does look more like a newly spawned god than a Christ figure like he wants. I would be glad he's not looking like he wants to, but I'm also mad he looks this good after conquering my country.
"That is not productive then is it? Forget it, I'm just going to look great apparently."
"Obviously yes, but we can resort to drastic measures and I punch you in the face," Courtenay says, almost grinning, but clearly trying not to.
"Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you?"
"I am trying to help, Your Majesty."
In case you hadn't noticed, we are accomplishing nothing here. With this spying. Or otherwise. Nothing is being accomplished this is negative time and incidentally why I didn't want to go do this. I can accomplish nothing while haunting my friends not the psycho murder husbands who burned down my country and are enslaving my people. That's dramatic, but I'm hiding behind a set of luggage while the previous and following conversation continues:
"If you punch me in the face I'll be bruised which I was not yesterday and the way this morning is going the bruise won't even come up till we're through London you know I don't bruise easily," Henry reasons.
"I mean—we're not going to know unless we try. You can punch me in the face as well," Courtenay is going to laugh.
"You're very very very funny that would look entirely logical wouldn't it? What kind of Archbishop are you if you won't reliably help me to look like Jesus when I most need it?" Henry asks, tugging Courtenay's shirt before going to get his own mail. He'll put a jacket over it. Paranoid much Henry? Invaded a couple of countries so you have to walk around in mail because tons of people want to kill you? Ignore me I'm being cynical he's bothering me at the moment. To be clear it's not beyond the realm of logic that monarchs might wear mail when out and about in London. Mail can prevent a stabbing or an indirect arrow so it's some use.
"I'm an Archbishop who will punch his King in the face when required I think that's beyond the call of duty," Courtenay says, coming to help him get the mail on. There are usually men at arms or the like to do that but some Kings do travel with limited servants especially if like Henry they're fit and have someone that they're comfortable dressing with. Henry's probably strong enough and accustomed to putting it on himself but for a man his size the shirt alone weighs thirty pounds so it's unwieldy to slip over your head.
"Well then, help me look more like Jesus Christ born again and less like I just had a pleasant little sail around the coast and a nice walk through a country I took over, in one day, which is very remarkable and proves I am God's messenger on earth for them," Henry mutters, fastening his mail. His fastens at the side to secure it, and has plates down the front over his heart and vital organs. Plates like that can stop an arrow or a sword, but the mail will be more comfortable on his arms and shoulders where there's nothing too important to damage.
"I'm trying—okay, I really give up you keep looking better," Courtenay says, fussing more with his King's hair and rubbing his cheek.
And yes, this is completely typical. And no I can't be searching Courtenay's tent right now because this is also Courtenay's tent. Yeah. But Henry makes it sound normal, they set up the tents and Henry says something like, "The Archbishop remains with me I must seek religious council at this time" and everyone ever goes "Yeah that tracks no need to fact check that or use any critical thinking whatsoever" and then these two go in the tent and talk for nine hours or until my brain melts. I mean, we've been on the road only like two days, but I still have established a pattern. It's not a great pattern. But it's a pattern.
"Fine, forget it, I'll just look great then, and hope they don't notice," the King says. To be clear, he does look great, the cool air agreed with him and the soft winter sun didn't burn his usually ruddy complexion so he looks healthy if god-like as opposed to his desired Christ-like. He's clean shaven, as usual, which is an exception for monarchs, those who can grow a beard usually do. By his shadow I guess he can, so I assume it's personal preference? Richard II didn't grow a beard either, nor will Henry VI, but not all men can grow a decent one. Could be personal preference though, especially with the scarring messing up part of his face it would probably only draw attention to the wound. Courtenay is similarly clean shaven, but knowing them that's in solidarity.
"They're going to notice you look great, I'm just warning you in advance," Courtenay says, "You don't usually look great after battle, usually you get more sun so you get redder and look like you did something."
"I did do something! This is what we get for attacking at night."
"No, maybe this is just how you look now."
I give up. This is not getting more coherent this can and will go on for hours. I really want to go, but Courtenay can see me sometimes I don't know why but I'm not chancing it or what he can do to my spirit.
"I'll meet you at the horses, Archbishop," Henry says.
"You're gonna punch yourself in the face aren't you?" Courtenay doesn't move.
"I would not," Henry says.
"If I leave you and you do that then I'll do it as well," Courtenay says.
"Why?"
Courtenay shrugs.
"Just—never mind then, forget it. It wouldn't have worked anyway."
"We don't know that do we though?"
"We do because the way my morning was going I'd wind up looking better," Henry says, getting his jacket. Courtenay fluidly goes to hold it so he can put it on, it hides the mail well.
"Oh you definitely would, that's why I want to do it."
"You are no help at all sometimes are you, Archbishop?"
"I'm doing the Lord's work," Courtenay says, walking around him to help finish securing the coat. "Now. Your subjects await, Your Majesty."
That's my cue. They are moving towards the front of the tent so I rise and slip out the back, hurrying through the cold morning air back to my party.
"They were having conversations not relevant to the plot, and making me lose my last two remaining braincells," I say, as I stroll back to my crew. There are knights bringing them horse and preparing to get them mounted and ready.
"What?" The king asks. He talked to himself all the time so he talks to me the most when other people are around.
"It's really not important," I sigh, "You're happier not knowing."
"Tell us," the queen mutters.
"They just spent the past fifteen minutes talking about how great King Henry looks and how they're striving for him to look like Jesus not Heracles," I say, folding my arms.
"I was happier not knowing that. You were right," the King nods.
"Well, now we know," I say, moving to stand with the queen. I or rather my spirit, rides with her, that's how we've been doing it anyway. I can't do any good but the King and the duke are already together and the horses absolutely know I'm here. Most of the horses like me but a couple, namely King Henry's huge war horse, do not. It's big, and white, and very gentle for the most part but it's also a bit attached to its master, and the great stallion tends to shy away from me.
"Yes," the queen says, quietly, looking towards the gathering English with disgust.
"They haven't won, we are not finished yet," I say, quietly. But with me dead and my friends in chains, I'm feeling pretty close to finished.