216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 5: The siege according King Henry of England, October 6, 1421

The cannon fire is beautiful. Round upon round. Fire in the night. It is so beautiful. The first night of a siege. There's nothing like it. Hope still crackles in the distance. But it will be destroyed soon. They will not stand for long. Two months perhaps? I hope it's not done too early. They shouldn't be too easily broken. If we can breach the Market, then perhaps we'll have fighting in mines again. Melun was glorious. This bastard is surely cocky enough to fight me in the mines.
Just a beautiful winter's night. I have been writing at my desk. My hand is now numb, and eyes weary. So I came out here, to stand on top of the Abby, to watch the cannon fire. And the starlight. I was far too long in England. If the siege breaks by December we can spend the new year in Paris. Then press on into the south of France. The Dauphin is running scared. He's a coward.
But these men in Meaux aren't cowards. No, they have mettle. Who is this bastard who thinks he can mock me? Just a common man. He's no match for a king. Three weeks perhaps and I can break him? I'll have him leaping into the Marne before this siege is over. He thinks he's so clever? I'll string his body upon his hanging tree. Yet I don't think he expects anything less.
I look out through my spy glass. The darkness is only lit up by cannon fire, few torches burn in Meaux tonight. But in each flash I can count the bodies hanging in the tree. Nineteen. Then one lone figure, sprawled in the branches. I imagine, staring back at me. Well well. Our Bastard does have spirit.
"Well? Have you found a worthy opponent?"
"No," I say, lowering the spy glass.
"You were smiling. So that's a yes. But I'll ignore you, as you have probably gone two hours at my count without telling a lie so you were over due and I forgive you."
"I don't need a ghost's forgiveness," I say, looking over at the shadowy figure, also staring out at the cannon fire. "You're dead, Richard. Six years dead. Aren't you meant to be in heaven? I buried you."
"Yet you imagine me still here," he smiles.
I look away from him, back out the cannon fire.
"Yes, it is beautiful," he says, "That your Frenchman? In his hanging tree?"
"Not my Frenchman," I scoff.
"It's all right. I'm glad you've got a plaything. You've needed a new hobby," he says, strolling over to wrap his arm around my neck, resting his head on my shoulder to follow my gaze.
"I have a new hobby."
"Being cunty to Arthur isn't a hobby, Henry."
"Fucking is."
I feel him laugh as he leans against me. Cold. As I remember last holding him, his body cool with death yet still slick with sweat from the fever that took him from me.
"You wouldn't want it to be easy," he says, stepping back to observe me, he frowns a little, "Were you out here looking for him? Or looking at the cannons like you like?"
"You don't know me."
"I should."
"But you don't. And it doesn't matter. Aren't you dead?"
"Aren't you still talking to me? Don't you still see me even when you don't want to?" He asks, hand on my shoulder.
"I can get rid of you. Anytime I like," I say.
"Did you answer all your letters? Did you answer Catherine?" He asks, "The baby's coming soon, isn't it?"
"Yes. I told her if it's a girl it's to be named for my mother, Mary. But if it's a boy call it Henry," I say. Before I left I hired tutors, a governess, and the like so everything will be in place. I conducted all the interviews and I wrote up preliminary rules for minding the child.
"Oh. Did that take you a while to come up with? Henry? Did you think hard about that?"
"You know it's very inconvenient, you having died. I can't threaten to execute you."
"No, but you can take a wife."
"You were aware of that plan; you're not jealous."
"No, I'm not jealous. Not really, but I'm just a shadow in your head now. Slipping farther and farther from what I'd really tell you. Who knows? Ten years from now I'll just be echoes of your own mind. Not even the faintest thing like the counsel you once got from me."
"If you're going to give dramatic speeches can you haunt someone else? I'm trying to enjoy myself, it's the first night of the siege I should enjoy it," I say, still looking through the spy glass. The Bastard is still sitting in the tree, also watching the cannon fire.
"Stars are pretty," Richard says, making no attempt to leave and go haunt someone else. Useless ghost of my head. But damn if I don't speak to him still.
"When I was a boy I once wept to my mother. I asked her if my father was all the way in France, how would he get home again to England? She told me there were maps in the stars, that anyone can follow to guide them back home," I say, looking up.
"Where are they guiding you now?"
"South of France. Then the promise land, onward. Never back to England. Well, perhaps for a visit, but god it was dull. You don't know how dull it was."
"Being dead and haunting you isn't exciting."
"You should be proud to haunt your king."
"Oh I am. I am," he says, running a cold hand along my shoulders, as he walks behind me. "You wouldn't go back to England to her?"
"Not this again," I sigh.
"You're married to her, Henry. She's having your child."
"I left her fine care. I am a king, I need a queen, and an heir. And they are well in England. As they should be. And I'm where I'm meant to be. Here, in France, claiming my birthright," I say.
"With me."
"Not with you. You're dead."
"You're very exact tonight."
"You're exactly dead—shh, footsteps."
"They can't hear me. You're talking to thin air because losing one battle, the flux that took me that you could not fight, finally damaged some small remaining part of your brain and your stubborn mind refuses to give up so you pretend I'm still here so you've not lost. And so they cannot hear me it is really just you. You quiet yourself," Richard, hands on hips. I completely ignore him. Because of course he's right.
"My lord," Cornwall bows, panting from the stairs. He's married to my aunt, and I like him, generally. Arthur is behind him, they've clearly run all the way. "Arthur said you needed me?"
"Yes, please tell Arthur that I need him to check on the third wheel of the Holy Spirit, on the southern front, then report back to the Duke of Exeter. After that you may go back to your duties, thank you," I say.
"Arthur, go check on—,"
"I heard him," Arthur, wheezing. I estimate he'll defect to the French and I'll be able to start passing information through him in five days.
"—go check on the third wheel of the cannon known as the Holy Spirit, it's on the southern front then tell the Duke of Exeter," Cornwall says, not daring to question this.
The ghost is laughing, but I would ignore him doing that in life.
"Thank you, Cornwall," I say, nodding.
"This is hell," Arthur breaths, possibly because of what just happened, possibly because he walks directly into Jack on the stairs. Jack is dragging the corpse still? I did tell him to get rid of that? Oh, then I sent him to do other things. He did not expand. Hm. He does follow instructions to the letter which is helpful, however.
"My lord," Jack bows, just dragging the corpse by a foot.
"This is hell," Arthur repeats, leaving but not after staring at the corpse for a solid minute.
"You can go and get rid of that now," I say, "You don't need to keep dragging it around."
"Oh. Well I was going to, but it's boosted morale, three people thinking of deserting just didn't, apparently," Jack nods.
"Oh. Carry on then."
"We really needed a me in this little, eh, equation," Richard breaths, gesturing generally to the two of us and the corpse, "Things got buried on time at least. That was a standard we were maintaining."
"Better yet, Arthur's coming to give you some information I don't actually need about one of the cannons. Have him get rid of it, have him bury it—well tell him to pick somewhere and we'll have him dig it up tomorrow," I say, nodding.
"Very good."
"Then get some rest yourself," I say, looking back out at the cannon fire.
"Very good," he retreats down the stairs, and I hear the corpse smacking the steps behind him.
Richard looks at me, tipping his head back, demanding to be noticed.
"You shouldn't have died if you wanted my attention that badly."
"Oh, I know."