"I haven't seen him out in two days—what the devil is he playing at? Get in, Edmund, shut the door, quickly," I growl. I'm kneeling on the bed, looking out the window with a spyglass.
"My lord, there's a doctor for you? Are you unwell?" Edmund asks.
"Of course not, the doctor is for the Bastard, don't be ridiculous. I'm fine," I say, waving a hand dismissively.
"I put on a disguise and bought a case of tennis balls for you and this is STILL the strangest thing you've ever done," Richard says, he's slumped on the bed next to me, not helping.
"You—sent for a doctor—what do you want me to do with the doctor?" Edmund asks, choosing to not understand it.
"Pay him to remain, in the hall, perhaps a day? Something like that, perhaps two I'll decided later. Then send him on his way, if anyone asks you must say I'm ill," I say.
"Do I—my lord—can I ask why?" Edmund asks.
"It makes less sense explained," Richard says, cheerfully. I kick him subtly.
"Because I had not seen the Bastard in a day. I want him to know I've sent for a doctor, it will surely prompt him to come out. Last time I saw him he was just standing by the edge of the market. And since yesterday I have not seen his spyglass in his window. And I'm sure Arthur and other people are passing messages inside which is quite vital at the moment. Hence the doctor," I explain.
"See?" Richard says, "Still does not make sense. But don't worry. It gets worse."
"So you want the bastard to think you're ill, so he'll come out?" Edmund asks.
"No! Don't be ridiculous. He's not going to think I'm ill. He'll know I'm not ill. He knows me. He'll know that I sent for it and then he'll be prompted to try to draw me out because he knows I'm not ill that I'm just sending for a doctor and saying I'm ill, for him. He knows this," I say, disgusted. It's really not that complicated.
"Just let it go," Richard advises.
"And so I'm paying the doctor and pretending you're ill—so he won't think you're ill?" Edmund confirms.
"Correct, very good," I say, condescendingly.
"Because you think—,"
"Know"
"Know that he'll know you're not actually ill. You're wanting him to come out—,"
"And play games with you," Richard finishes.
"It's his move. The donkey does not count we both know that. I'm waiting for him to do something. He needs to move on he knows it's time. I don't know what he's waiting for. It's like he's not playing anymore. I don't understand," I say, leaning down to look back out the window. It's less comfortable than the roof with a worse angle, but I can hardly stand up there when I'm meant to be pretending to be ill.
"Right, yes, very good my lord," Edmund says.
"Do you understand?" I ask.
"No, but I think I'm happy like this. I'm paying the doctor to stay here and say you were ill. But—recovered?"
"Yes, very good. Go."
I look back out. Why isn't he taking the bait? He knows me. He knows I'm fine. He knows I'm not really ill. So why is he ignoring me? To vex me intentionally? What is the meaning of that? He wants me here. Come chase me, Achilles. That's what he said. He wants to run. So run. Let me chase you. Why are you hiding?
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216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)
أدب تاريخي216 days, 5,184 hours, 311,040 minutes. 20,000 English soldiers led by England's greatest warrior king of all time. 4 English cannons. 1,000 French soldiers on a suicide mission to stop the 100 years war. They shouldn't have lasted a week. They last...
