Days of the Dead Book 1: The Thief's End

Chapter 6: Did you miss me?

Gideon
A little over six years ago, I was a freshman working a summer internship at a museum. There, I found a magic ring, which transported me some seven hundred odd years in the past, to an alternate version of 1432, in the British Isles. I landed in Wales, where I became the court wizard. War broke out, Wales was nearly destroyed for good. I've fought in battles, both with and against the Saxon forces. I've been kidnapped and mercilessly hunted. I died once and nearly died more times than I can count. I've watched my friends be poisoned, cursed, and tortured. I've learned to fight, made dozens of new friends and a lot more new enemies. I've lost track of the number of times I've been shot at or stabbed. At this point my skin is a tapestry of past battles. I've met God (she's really nice), and resurrected an ancient dragon. Been betrayed and double crossed innumerable times mostly by one specific person. Against all odds I'm still here, and alive.
All that. Enough material for a set of YA adventures. Betrayal, murder, curses, raising the dead, having my best friend kill me, getting kidnapped by ghosts, killing a cave troll. And I have never, in my entire life some twenty two very fun filled years on this planet, experienced such severe mental whiplash as I do standing in Westminster Cathedral on this fine autumn day.
"This is the most traumatic experience of my life," I breath, watching as the Archbishop Courtenay actually performs his official duties as an archbishop, in his actual bishop's robes, being more beautiful than anyone alive, crystal blue eyes, and rich black hair underneath the tipped hat (called a miter). I have gone to war this man. He's tried to kill me more than once, and kidnapped me more times than I can count. I've spied on him, fought with him, and one very awkward time he actually hugged me. And now I'm taking irreparable mental damage from watching him perform his real duties and doing his best impression of a normal person. Which is not good at all by the way.
Richard Courtenay. His name will be lost to history, because in my original world, he dies in his twenties, after spending his life serving the crown. He was one of the youngest ever ordained priests, impossibly clever. But his talents lay beyond the religious. Now, he's doing a good impression of a man of cloth when in fact his interests and talents are more akin to Butch Cassidy than a devout priest.
Because the Sundance Kid is right over there in the first pew, being taller than anyone alive. One of the most dangerous men on the planet. Henry Rex. Henry Roi. But immortalized as the epic Henry V. He lives up to the legends, too clever for the good of anyone around him, his heart was set on winning France, and he did by the time he was thirty. In this world he doesn't die on campaign, instead living to conquer another day, rapidly claiming Scotland and Wales, and uniting his island. Why? We can only assume entertainment. He's a successful warlord, absurdly popular with his court. For if he has the heart of Ares, he has the silver tongue of Hermes. Henry's charm was evident from his boyhood and he has few enemies beyond those he conquers for sport. From early in his reign, he and Courtenay who manages the countries' finances, raised money for Henry's wars through what I'm going to simply by describe as a the world's first pyramid scheme. That's not exactly what it was, but effectively, that's what they did.
And it paid off. And now the English landed gentry are wealthy, Henry can tax all of his empire to pay for any future wars he might like to start in his spare time. He's at the top of game and is addicted to success. And he's always gotten his fix.
I love him, and I also hate him. You have to admire the man, but damn if he isn't enslaving my country.
Yeah, I'm Welsh. Wales didn't fall to Edward I in this reality, but it did fall to Henry V. As the Welsh court wizard that's a problem for me. Now, Henry hasn't killed us all. No, he's too practical for that. He's set up the Welsh nobles as a puppet regime, they retain administrative power for Henry doesn't care to administrate. He cares to fund more wars, and he is. So we're in a fragile sense of a peace. We'd rather not be under his thumb, but we're also not about to wake the lion. Henry can crush us anytime he likes, and we all know it. So we have to play nice.
The long game is this. Henry some years ago contracted his youngest son, a boy called Edmund, to marry the Welsh princess, our dear Lowri. Both were infants at the time, and now are just five and six years old. So wedding bells are at least a good five to ten years in the future, which gives us some time to figure out how to get out of the agreement entirely.
But for now, we have to get along, and be good. That involves, occasionally, the Welsh royal family and my good self, traveling to London as a show of good will. Which is what we're doing right now. Henry's come to Wales a time or two (irritating story, don't remind me to tell you later). But this is a show of power so we have to come here. The future bride and groom get to meet, and both parents get to look at the other kid, sort of like selling dogs. But you know. More formal. Arranged marriages work all sorts of ways, but it's nice form to let the kids at least meet a few times. So that's what we're doing here. In London. Specifically, we got in late last night, and as today is Sunday we have to go to church with them. And receive irreparable mental damage from watching Courtenay act like a real person and not a snake in a person suit.
"I'm not going to recover from this," Rhiannon, the queen, mutters. She's the queen of Wales, or was now Henry stripped the title and she's Lady Protector, or something of that kind that he completely made up. Easily one of my best friends, Rhiannon is my age, well about a year younger, and we've figuratively though nearly literally, been to hell and back together primarily due to Henry and things he's done. But point being we're understandably bonded.
"You two are so dramatic," Elis mutters. King Elis once, he was king of Wales, the rightful descendant of Llwellyn the Great. But then Henry happened, and now he's merely protector of the Wales.
We're speaking in Welsh and I put a spell over us so that no one can hear what we're saying. Because I was not going to get through this experience without talking. The priests are doing the ceremony up front. I tried for an afternoon to care about Catholicism then I gave up. In this day and age, the ceremony is primarily in Latin, and I do not know enough Latin to be entertained.
"How long are we expected to do this?" The Duke of Conwy asks, moving my hand which was fidgeting against him. We're all packed into a pew, but the duke and I are behind the the king and queen, because I'm technically just the help. And while he's a Duke, he's lower in station and just a member of the party. He's one of my favorite people. Allergic to sunlight, and undeniably sadistic, he's a walking encyclopedia of weapons and torture equipment. I love him dearly. He's probably old enough to be my father, though he acts like more of an older sibling or uncle, because he's usually more likely to help me do the stupid thing than to stop me from doing the stupid thing. As always he's dressed completely in black, and his face is stone, though I can sense his annoyance. He's neither a fan of crowds nor humans in general. The only reason he appears in public is to aid his little brother, the King. Elis and he are half brothers through their mother, and despite their age difference of some fifteen odd years, they get along quite well and the Duke is fiercely loyal to his baby brother.
"It's church, it's mass—this is why I should make you two go to church more often," Elis whispers. He traditionally does not make the duke and I attend mass each Sunday. Something about not wanting to press his luck. We're not known for being able to stand still or participate in society for long periods without diverting our attention. This is long before diagnosis and the like. In my world, growing up, I was called autistic. Here I'm called a wealth of sometimes useful information. Yeah, no, in all seriousness, Elis is aware enough of our neurodivergence and in general doesn't force us to participate in things like weekly mass.
"You didn't make Lowri go, she gets to skip out," the Duke points out.
"She is FIVE, you are grown men," Elis hisses, glancing to look at us.
We say nothing. Children of that age don't go to church, they're too little to sit still that long. I knew that. I'm going to safely assume that the Duke didn't. "I think the two of you can handle one morning."
"Guess we'll find out," the duke says.
"It's not even the fact that it's mass, it's the fact that we have to watch Courtenay—be an Archbishop," Rhiannon says.
"Okay, thank you!" I say.
"Look, he chased Gideon and I around Windsor palace, in my night dress. That man has seen me in my night dress. He tried to kill you," Rhiannon sighs, "It's—disturbing."
"I know! I have to talk to King Henry all the time and that's also disturbing, look at him, I have to have conversations with that man," Elis sighs.
King Henry is at the front of the church, a few rows up from us. Looking as well as ever, thick, dark hair streaked with steel grey, still nearly curly though short as always trimmed above his ears. The right side of his face is sunken away from a fortuitous Welsh arrow, when he was just a boy. As always he's dressed in simple, but expensive robes, dark red, trimmed with fur. No coronet as he doesn't need one; everyone knows who he is. He's impossible to mistake, at six three he's a solid eight inches taller than the average man, though Courtenay himself is tall at six foot even. Henry's eyes are dark brown, now soft though I've seen the cruelty flash in them all too often. He's nothing like handsome, but he's distinctly unforgettable, and his silver tongue and accolades quickly immortalize him to all he meets. At the moment he's solemn, staring ahead, his face stone. His person suit is long since practiced and only a few see the lion that he'll so casually release. Right now, he's the dutiful monarch. Good husband. Good father. Perfect King.
Yes, his whole family is here. His wife, Queen Catherine. Fourteen solid years her husband's junior, and while he's in his late forties, she's in her thirties and still England's rose. They play the perfect couple, a pageant perfected over the years, and not at all uncommon one for arranged marriages such as theirs. Catherine is quiet, she prefers to remain out of the public eye, either for mental health reasons or personal preference. Henry only exposes her to the spotlight when necessary, which is kind enough I suppose. She's only here I'm sure to meet the bride of her youngest son. She and Henry have four. It's anybody's guess if Henry has illegitimate ones, though I would sincerely doubt he'd engage in a hobby that wasn't warfare or getting wine-drunk with Courtenay inventing the world's first pyramid scheme to fund a war. Catherine I fully believe has her own entertainments of the romantic fashion. Good for her. Courtenay is the first and last human being to consider Henry fun to be around. Anyway, I like Catherine, I've not had a lot of dealings with her, but she's married to Henry she has my sympathies. Catherine is dressed similarly to Henry, in a deep red dress, simple jewelry, her hair done up tight on her head.
Next to the royal couple stand their three oldest sons. Oldest is Prince Henry, or Harry. Easily one of my favorite people in this millennium or the next. He's kind, clever as his father, but his fixation is religion, not war. He'll be seventeen this December, getting tall but still lean with youth, with soft fair curls, and a kind expression, big brown eyes, and a quiet demeanor. He's getting the look of a man about him, with firmer cheekbones and he nearly has his mother's quiet smile, though he's taller than she these days, and while he just reaches his father's shoulder, he's decently taller than most other men. He's as always dressed in a simple, thin shirt this one wine red. A lifelong preference for lighter, humble clothes, one his parents apparently honor, as he's dressed much more simply than they or his little brothers. Thomas, and Ned, they're just about ten and eleven, both with blonde hair and blue eyes, unlike their dark eyed, dark haired parents. They're striving to be good, as they're both old enough to know to sit still and behave but also they're young and full of energy. Thomas sits by his father and I've seen Henry lean over to say a word or two to him, and the boy smiled. Harry sits on the other side by Catherine, and then Ned by him, Ned is mostly bored looking though Catherine has glanced his way a couple of times.
Harry is, I think, the only person enjoying this or paying full attention. I mean, my party isn't. The English courtiers look either asleep, or there to watch their King and his wife on a rare family outing. Like, Harry's completely into it, paying rapt attention, actually praying instead of pretending to.
Courtenay is, to be clear, Archbishop so that means he like, talks the most? And yes it's very sickening if you've watched him get wine drunk with the King while discussing how to kill you specifically.
"I think I should get to go. I'm with child, I'm ill, I'm allowed to leave," Rhiannon says. To be clear, yes she is pregnant, but she's completely fine. She's not ill. She's fine. We all know this.
"Aye, and Gideon and I will come with you, escort you somewhere to recover, good idea," the Duke, agreeably.
"Yeah, let's do that," I nod, about to move to go.
"Don't you DARE," Elis snarls. "If you three. Leave me. In this place. With these people including my attempted murderer dressed better than I am? I'll—-I won't actually do anything, but I'll cry and then you'll feel bad."
"You—you think they're dressed better than you?" Rhiannon asks, frowning. For reference, Elis is as usual dressed like a color-blind gay child picked out his clothing, with eighteen different shades of pinks and reds and purples all mixed together elegantly sewn into a long loose set of robes. Rhiannon is much more conservatively dressed like a sane person, who can perceive color, in just a dark purple dress, her hair braided up of course, and simple gold jewelry. It's a new dress actually, for this, she's only about five months gone with the pregnancy and she was still wearing old dresses, because she and her baby are tiny. But since we were coming here Elis made the executive decision she was looking pretty in new things. He does this, to all of us, it's how I wound up here in a deep green and grey shirt and doublet.
"The priest robes? It's hot, it's a thing," I agree.
"Yes. I wanted to be a priest when I was a boy, did I ever tell you that?" Elis asks, nicely.
"No," Rhiannon, like, she's upset to learn that I and her husband both find priests hot.
"I did. I asked my father and mother, if I couldn't be a priest instead of King," Elis says.
"What did they say?" I ask.
"My father stared at me for a really long time and then, and I'd never heard him so disappointed, he said 'it's because of the robes isn't it?', and of course I said 'yes I want to look pretty', and he just stared at me for a really long time then said to my mother, 'I told you we needed to have another one', and she said 'you've met Jac we're not rolling the dice again do what you can with this one'," Elis explains, nodding.
"That's mean to talk about Jac like that behind his back," Rhiannon says.
"I was there."
"He was there."
I nearly laugh at that.
"Aye and then your father had me teach you how to split logs," the duke says.
"You can split logs?" Rhiannon asks.
"No. I cried and watched him and then he went and fetched Gareth because I wouldn't stop crying, and then Gareth said I could wear pretty things and not be a priest and here we are," Elis says, proud, tugging on his shirt. Gareth is his illegitimate half-brother on his father's side. Not an usual occurrence in this day and age nor an unusual relationship, Gareth just sort of is about to support his younger brother, same as the duke is. Gareth's a longbowmen, he did come with us to Windsor, but he stayed back at Windsor he's not invited to church as he is illegitimate and therefore nobody really. I for my part am also nobody but being court wizard elevates my status. Also, I tried to stay back and sleep and I got ordered to come, because apparently King Henry doesn't trust me in his house for whatever reason. I think he's just paranoid. No, I'm kidding, I steal his stuff all the time. Usually it was originally my stuff or was being used to curse people (long story, ask me later).
"You look very pretty. I won't leave. I'm just still in shock Courtenay didn't evaporate when he set foot in church," Rhiannon says.
"They're not really vampires, that's just a rumor we made up," I say. We were bored. And not sober. She wasn't pregnant at the time, not that in this time period there's any abstinence from alcohol during child bearing. That said Rhiannon never drank much anyway so while I told her it likely wasn't healthy she already didn't consume that much.
"That would make them too easy to kill," The Duke mutters, looking at Courtenay with hate.
"Yeah right? Sunlight, garlic, like Vampires are so easy to kill," I say.
"And a wooden stake is a convenient weapon, very easy to make," the duke says.
"Why do they know that much about vampires?" Elis asks.
"Are you emotionally ready for the answer to that question?" Rhiannon asks.
"What? Seriously? You three killed—vampires outside the castle and I'm finding out about it now, while we're standing here? In church? With him up there looking so much better than me?" Elis sighs.
"No," I say.
"No," the Duke says.
"No," Rhiannon says, "I wasn't involved at all."
"We don't know they were vampires, but they were breaking in and we—,"
"Were not sober and thought it wouldn't hurt to practice so we treated them as vampires. Dry run," the Duke says.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Elis breaths, "Why is Dancer not here again?"
"Dancer was involved," the Duke and I say, in unison. Dancer is one of my best friends, he's a fellow wizard, or was until Courtenay stripped his powers. Wow. Gee, Gideon. It sounds like Courtenay and Henry are the villains of basically all of your life stories. Yeah. Yeah they are. Anyway, Dancer and Elis grew up together, they're best friends and Dancer serves as his steward, which is a nice way of saying his emotional support human. That's kind of how stewards or ladies in waiting roll. Yes, they're performing a job and helping dress and all, but at the end of the day they're also the person closest to the royal. This is the person who sees the monarch at their worst, tiredest, who helps take shoes off aching feet, who fetches midnight snacks, everything. Often times these people slip under the radar of historians, with few written records or public appearances, but they were none the less vital.
"Dancer stayed at Windsor because Lowri needs to be with someone Lowri listens to. You will be fine, we're not that bad," Rhiannon says, squeezing her husband's arm. Lowri is their daughter, well our daughter, and she's everyone's princess. Five years ago when Henry made the deal for the engagement, Elis and Rhiannon were childless as she was just turning fifteen and didn't want to get pregnant. On top of that, Elis is and has known he's infertile. I have no idea how or why he knows that, considering he said he knew prior to marriage. I assume since he's always stated it as a fact, that he's intersex, or something of that kind. Either way, they had no heir, and needed one to seal the deal for the engagement. So while us boys were off invading France (fun story. Ask me later), Rhiannon pretend to be pregnant. When we got back from invading France, because she and I don't strictly make great decisions together, we both come up with something and are like 'yeah that's fine', anyway, I kind of summoned the Fae and offered to adopt a baby. And the Fae said yes. And so we got Lowri. She's eighteen kinds of trouble I really love her. But she's a handful and doesn't strictly do as she's told half the time, so Dancer got lucky and is back minding her with the governesses.
We didn't just summon a Fae child to engage to Henry's warlike spawn out of spite. That was like fifty percent of the motive, ninety percent tops. The main motive was Rhiannon didn't want to actually have a baby then because we were actually children as well at that point. Five years on, now she did actually want to have a baby of her own, so she's pregnant. The baby won't come till January, maybe late December. Her first, of course we have to pretend it's her second. She blessedly has felt completely fine the entire pregnancy, no real morning sickness to speak of, and despite her small stature she hasn't shown much at all, wearing her usual clothes, only since the end of summer has the bulge even been noticeable. For this reason Elis got tired and ordered new dresses for her, and when the maternity cuts hid the pregnancy if anything, insisted on different ones. He wants to make Henry aware that we could be having a Welsh prince, and just like vaguely threaten that. That makes Elis sound bad, but be aware Rhiannon also wants to do that. So anyway, now she's in dresses that are actually cut tighter fitting than her usual ones, finally showing her belly just a little.
"My god this goes on forever," the duke mutters.
"I know. I'm gonna go to sleep, or get bored, this spell so they couldn't hear us was the best thing I ever learned, seriously," I say, stuffing my fist in my mouth, "Does anybody want to know a lot about piracy? Hmm?"
"No, yes, but you'll say something funny in the middle like you always do and I'll laugh and they can see that," Elis hisses.
"Okay," I pout, fist mostly in my mouth.
"I was thinking of showing Lowri to fight with two swords. I think she'd like it," the duke says.
Elis makes a strangled noise.
"You should Conwy, yeah," Rhiannon says, then to her husband, "Stop crying. It's not that bad. Gideon taught her how to summon fire. You should be glad we're alive."
Okay, so we might all treat Lowri like our little pet. Because I'm magic she super bonded to me which is great I love her. But the Duke and Gareth are not better they spoil her too.
"Okay, can we pick a different topic? That won't make me make weird facial expressions this entire time?" Elis asks, "Names, for the baby, anybody have any new suggestions on that front?"
"I like Glyndowr, I think we should do it, I think it would be funny," Rhiannon says. Little backstory. Owain Glyndowr in my world, was the last Welshman to hold the title of Prince of Wales, he lead long running revolts against the English, notably holed up in Harlech castle, and opposed the English. Aka. The guy who led the revolt that landed a welsh arrow in Henry V's face. Now. In this world Llwellyn the Great's descendants controlled Wales longer, making Elis a cousin of Owain, who still supported the Welsh crown. Owain is still a national hero, September 16 is Owain Glyndowr day in Wales even in the modern era. He's often equated with King Arthur as it's believed he's coming back. But point being naming the baby that is pretty much a middle finger to Henry which is exactly what we're going for.
"I like it, call 'em Glyn," I say.
"I mean, yes, however, it has to be subtly a dig, like, it can't be obviously a dig this is Henry he'd invade on principal," Elis says, "If it's a girl I'm suggesting Argoel. It means omen."
"That's—-that's very much a dig yeah," I say, almost laughing. If it sounds like we're being petty and ridiculous yes, we are. We spent Christmas Eve in Henry's Tower. Dying. We're petty as hell.
"It's not a girl," Rhiannon says, putting her hand on her belly a little, smoothing the thick fabric down, "I think I'd know."
"My mother said he was a girl and wasn't going to survive," the duke grunts.
"It hasn't been—easy to survive," Elis says, weakly.
"Your mother also said you'd kill someone someday," Rhiannon says, to the Duke.
We all struggle not to laugh. He's killed lots and lots of people.
"I knew talking was a bad idea," Elis sighs.
"Oh shut up, you're bored as well," Rhiannon says.
"I am. All right, go on Gideon, tell us everything you know about piracy," Elis says, trying not to smile.