Chapter Twelve #2
Thomas was so angry that he was twitching. “Who do you think you are?” he snarled through clenched teeth. “A lowly wife to a lowly knight!”
“My grandfather was Henry of Bolingbroke,” she fired back with some restraint. “I am of royal blood, you foolish swine. Gloucester and Bedford are my uncles. If you are going to sling insults, sling them where you will have more accuracy.”
Now, the veins on Thomas’s face were starting to bulge. He knew he had to be very careful with this woman and dare not insult her any more than he already had if she was indeed related to the king. He was on uncertain ground and he hated it. He hated not being in control, especially with a woman.
“I will not confess the truth to any rumors if that is your intention,” he finally spat.
Gisella’s manner hardened. “My intention is for you to leave my husband alone,” she said. “Any more words from you to him, or about him, and I will quash you like a bug. Is that, in any way, unclear?”
Thomas didn’t reply. He simply glared at her with enough hatred to fill a moat.
But it was enough for Gisella. Leaving the young lord white-faced with shock and trembling with fury, she turned away and returned to her position over near the lancet windows where she had been originally standing.
She made eye contact with Thomas once more, only to offer him a smug smile, before turning her attention elsewhere.
Aye, she’d heard about Thomas de la Pole. And Bastian would, too.
*
It was cool in the corridor outside the king’s chamber in the St. Thomas Tower as Bastian and the young monarch made their way down the narrow stairs that dumped them out into the outer ward of the Tower of London.
The Wakefield Tower was directly in front of them, a massive stone cylinder that reached for the sky.
They were next to the river and a cool breeze blew in off the water, making the humidity of the weather more bearable.
Bastian waited for the young king to take the lead and go in the direction he wanted to go but the child stood there, looking at him.
It was clear he was waiting for someone to tell him where to go, so Bastian began to walk, heading towards the Develin Tower towards the east. The young king followed.
“May I speak, Your Grace?” Bastian asked.
The boy nodded his head, but he was looking around rather curiously. He almost tripped over his feet twice because his attention was on other things. Bastian couldn’t help but notice the great interest in his surroundings.
“Are you looking for someone or something, Your Grace?” he asked. “Can I help you locate whatever it is you seek?”
The boy shook his head, then looked to Bastian with a rather confused expression. “I do not go out without my nurses or my guards,” he said. “They are so tall that I do not get to see much. They are always crowded around me.”
Bastian came to a halt, remembering what Gisella had told him once.
I wonder if he even has a free will? Bastian knew the young monarch was closely guarded, his every move dictated, but he’d never really seen it for himself.
Now, he was starting to understand what she had meant. The seeds of pity sprouted.
“Come with me,” he said softly.
Henry did. Bastian took the boy into the Cradle Tower, which was off to their right, and passing by the guards that were on the ground level, he took him to the upper floor where there was a big room with a window that overlooked the river.
The breeze was steady now, blowing through the young king’s reddish-brown curls, and the boy was riveted to the river before him and the city beyond.
Bastian leaned on the windowsill next to him, watching the awe in the boy’s expression, the naked emotions of a young man with the weight of a country on his slender shoulders.
A weight that had been thrust upon him too soon.
“What do you see?” Bastian asked quietly.
Henry thought on that question as he studied the land, the water, and the sky beyond the window. “God’s greatest creation,” he finally said, looking at Bastian. “He gave it to me.”
Bastian smiled faintly. “He did,” he replied, eyeing the child as his attention returned to the river. “As He gave it to your father also. I knew your father very well. Did you know that?”
Henry nodded. “I have been told,” he said. “My father trusted you. Is that why you are here to watch over me?”
Bastian shrugged. “Partly,” he said. “Your uncles have asked me to assume this post. They feel that you are growing up and need more protection. That is why I am here, to protect you and to mayhap educate you in the ways of a warrior. Your father was a great warrior, after all.”
Henry looked at him, confusion etched on his face. “My father died when he was away at war.”
Bastian nodded. “He did, but it was because he fell ill, not because he was wounded.”
“Were you with him when he died?”
Bastian’s expression softened as he thought back to those days of Henry V. “I was,” he replied quietly. “His last thoughts were of you, but I suppose you already know that.”
The young king pondered the explanation. “How old are you, Sir Bastian?”
“I have seen thirty years.”
“Then you have seen a great deal in your life.”
“I have seen enough.”
Henry studied his face a moment and Bastian could literally see the questions and ideas rolling through his soft brown eyes.
When the lad spoke, it was pensively. “Do you suppose God was punishing my father for fighting in France?” he asked.
“By letting him die, I mean. God does not like greed. He likes mercy and kindness.”
Bastian wondered if the boy was repeating what he had heard or if these were indeed opinions formed by a free will. He nodded to the lad’s statement.
“God likes mercy and kindness,” he said. “But he also gives us the power to stand up for ourselves. That is what we are doing in France, you know, standing up for what belongs to you.”
Henry seriously mulled that over, watching birds as they hovered in the river breeze.
“But the French do not want to give me what belongs to me,” he said.
“I have heard the reports from France. Sometimes Uncle Humphrey tells me what is happening, but mostly I listen to him when he thinks I am not in the room. I heard him and de Beauchamp speak of the Maid of Orleans many times. They said that you showed pity towards her.”
Bastian looked at the boy. There was no telling what all he had heard out of context even though, Bastian was sure, people like Gloucester and Bedford tried to keep most things from him.
But he was a curious young boy. It was natural.
As he gazed into the lad’s brown eyes, he was coming to think that Henry was indeed an intelligent young man who had probably heard much more than he should have.
Something in his expression suggested it.
“As a knight, it is my duty to be fair to the less fortunate and loyal to my king,” he said. “You are my king and you have my fealty. The Maid of Orleans was simply a woman I showed fairness to, in all things.”
Henry’s brow furrowed, perplexed. “But how can you be fair to her when she opposes me? She does not want me to have what belongs to me.”
He had a point but Bastian wasn’t going to argue about it. He was careful in how he phrased his reply.
“Think on it this way, Your Grace,” he said. “Let us pretend, for argument’s sake, that Charles of France believed he was entitled to rule England and he came over to this country to fight you for it. You resisted him. Does that make you a bad person? Does it make you a traitor?”
Henry shook his head. “It is my country.”
Bastian nodded his head. “Exactly,” he said. “You must understand that the Maid was fighting for her country. That does not make her bad although many people wanted to believe she was bad. She loved France, just the way you love England, and she wanted France to be free of English rule.”
Henry understood that simple explanation.
In fact, it appeared as if he was somehow enlightened by it.
But there was still more he did not understand and no one had ever been so willing to explain things, so he was very eager to speak with Bastian about it.
He’d had many questions for quite some time and they all seemed to come tumbling forth.
“But she said that God spoke to her,” he said. “That is blasphemy.”
Bastian didn’t agree or disagree. He simply cocked his head thoughtfully. “She did not say God talked to her, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “She said that Saints Michael and Catherine spoke to her. Let me ask you this, Your Grace – do you believe God hears your prayers?”
Henry nodded fervently. “He does. I know He does.”
“Does He speak to you?”
Henry shook his head slowly. “He does not.”
Bastian’s gaze moved out to the river, watching the white birds on the wind, the boats rocking gracefully upon the water, as he thought of his reply.
“Your Grace, have you ever prayed for something that you wanted very badly?” he asked. “For instances, have you ever prayed for a sick person to be healed or for good weather on a hunting day?”
Henry nodded. “I… I prayed for my dog once,” he admitted, looking as if he had done something quite wicked. “My dog was sick and he died.”
“Did you pray for him to live?”
“I did.”
Bastian shrugged. “Then God spoke to you but you did not realize it,” he said.
“You must understand that God’s answer to you was that your dog must pass from this life.
You prayed for the dog to get well but God told you that it was the dog’s time to die.
Now he is no longer in pain. Do you understand that God’s manner of speaking to us is not always the obvious way? ”
Henry’s eyes widened. No, he hadn’t considered that at all. He pondered that great revelation seriously. “Then… then the Maid of Orleans… mayhap the saints did speak to her?”
Bastian nodded faintly. “Anything is possible, Your Grace,” he said. “Just because we did not see it does not mean that it did not happen.”
Bastian had opened an entirely new world up for Henry as the young king leaned on the windowsill and gazed out over the mighty river that flowed through his country.
But the young king wasn’t done with his questions yet.
It was rare that anyone would answer any serious questions he had so this was a prime opportunity he would not waste.
“Do you think the saints talked to her?” he asked Bastian.
Bastian had to be very careful with what he said.
He was afraid anything he told the boy would get back to Gloucester or Bedford, or worse – any enemies he might have in young Henry’s entourage.
He didn’t want to give them any ammunition against him, especially when he still had a trip to Winchester to make in the next few weeks.
He didn’t want his comings and goings to be watched.
“If she believed it, then mayhap they did,” he replied. “I never saw them but that does not mean they did not speak to her.”
He skirted the answer but it was enough for Henry. He seemed satisfied, gazing up at Bastian as the river breeze caressed his freckled face.
“Did you know her well?” Henry asked.
“I did.”
“Was she kind?”
Bastian thought back to the Maid he knew, the woman with the strength of an entire nation. “She was very kind.”
Henry fell silent a moment, his gaze now drawn to two birds down on the water, fighting over something. There was so very much on his young mind.
“I think they did talk to her,” he finally said. “And I think my uncle is going to go to Hell for killing her.”
Bastian didn’t reply. He didn’t want to agree or disagree with the young king in spite of the fact that he was in concurrence with his statement.
It was his feeling, and had been all along, that Bedford was going to burn for what he’d done.
But he didn’t particularly want to discuss that subject so he pushed himself off the windowsill and turned in the direction of the stairs that led down to the ground floor.
“Shall we return to your retainers, Your Grace?” he asked. “They are probably wondering where we are.”
Henry climbed down from the windowsill and headed to the steps, looking at Bastian as he did so.
“Can we come back here, Bastian?” he asked. “Can we come here again and talk?”
Bastian could see that the lad was starved for attention and conversation, an odd state for a child who was surrounded by people all of the time. That pity Bastian had been starting to feel deepened.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said. “Whenever you wish.”
“Tomorrow?” Henry asked eagerly as they began to descend the steps.
Bastian had to reach out a hand to steady the lad and keep him from falling down the stairs. “If that is your wish.”
“It is,” Henry said firmly. “I want to come back here every day and talk to you.”
Bastian smiled faintly as they reached the ground floor. “Can I bring my wife, Your Grace?” he asked. “She is your cousin, after all, and a very smart and humorous woman. I think you will like speaking with her.”
It was clear that Henry wanted Bastian to himself with no intrusions but he shrugged hesitantly. “If you want her to come.”
“I do, Your Grace.”
Henry wasn’t any too pleased about a woman being a part of their private discussions but he didn’t say anything.
He was thrilled that his new protector was a knowledgeable and friendly man, providing him with the male figure in his life that he had so sorely lacked.
Henry liked to think that his father would have been this way; patient, strong, and wise.
But Bastian had known his father so it was perhaps the closest he would ever come to speaking with him in the flesh, for his dreams were vivid things where the powerful king who had been his father, Henry V, appeared upon a white horse, but as the young boy drew up alongside to see the glory and comfort that only a parent could provide, the long-dead monarch would disappear like a puff of smoke.
Perhaps it was even Henry who had sent Bastian to look over his son.
Young Henry could only hold out hope that it was true. Perhaps with the introduction of his personal protector, his lonely days were to be a distant memory.