If It Be a Sin to Covet Honor
Sep. 30th, 2011 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morgynleriWord Count: 9807
Chapter Warnings: violence, sex
Characters Present:
The Chorus, James Stretton, Knight of Warwick, Baron Stretton
Henry of Monmouth, King of England
Blanche Stretton, Queen of England
Elizabeth de Beauchamp, wife of James Stretton
Henry Scroop, Baron Scroop of Masham
Robert of Stretton, Prince of Wales
Margaret of Lancaster, Princess
Joan of Lancaster, Princess
Thomas Beaufort, Earl of Dorset
Margaret Neville, Countess of Dorset
Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury
Montjoye, French Herald King at Arms
Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge
Edward of Lancaster, Prince
John, Duke of Bedford
Chapter Index ~ Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter
If It Be a Sin to Covet Honor
He gives his fealty to Henry as everyone else does, one of a bare handful of those who bear no title to be in the cathedral, with his wife at his side. Watching his sister, pale and looking wan even in her rich gown, worry pinching between her brows. It's a familiar line, seen more than once on his own wife's face when one of their children has died, and reminder that for all that Blanche has gained, it doesn't bring her surcease from the cruelties of life.
After, that he has the honor too of being invited to the banquet is as much a wonder as the command to attend upon the coronation. Richer fare than he can provide his own table, and largesse, and the pageantry of the champion. A Baron Scroop, his wife murmurs in his ear, who had been with Henry when he came to their home to collect his son years past. The man is still a favorite, then, to be Henry's champion for this.
There is little after to hold him in London save a command of the king to come to the palace. For what purpose, he can't imagine, and is surprised then to receive letters patent that grant unto him the title of Baron, and with that title his father's small estate. That young Robert is there to assure him there is no ill-will for the return of his inheritance is equal surprise. It speaks of a trust, perhaps, between father and son that he often thinks was absent between himself and his own father.
He has much to do after that audience, to remove his family to the home in which he spend his earliest years, and of which his sister had been so fiercely protective. That thought gives him pause and makes him wonder for a moment what she thinks of what has been done. If indeed she has worries at all beyond her children and her role as queen now, of which he would have no inkling as he has heard naught from her since the beginning of the year.
"She would no doubt make no objection to what disposal the king and her son make of the Prince's lands." His wife guesses well his thoughts after the long years of their marriage, even though he's seen her only in the months between military service. "Nor is any such thing a concern of yours any longer. You've your own family to tend to, and she has the king to look after her."
A reminder of that which he is meant to be doing now, and welcome distraction from his thoughts. He thinks little upon his sister, indeed, for many months, and then only briefly and fondly in memories.
~ ~~ ~
There are fewer days now that Henry can spend with his children around the business of being king, though he still takes that time, regardless of the press of duty. Taking Robert out to hunt, and Margaret too when she sulks for days at being denied the chance. Finding a tutor for them both in how to use a bow, for hunting and for longer ranges, as it is a weapon he can see little harm in teaching Margaret to use, and it makes the small girl smile all the brighter. A smile he is glad to see once more as spring takes full hold on London, missing as it has been since the turning of the year.
It's not the only smile he has missed, and Blanche's smile is slower to return to her face, particularly when he sees little of her from their morning meal to the same in the evening. Duty to England and indulgence of his children perhaps ought be laid aside for a day or two so he might take time to tend to his wife, a sentiment he is quietly reminded of by Scroop, ever able to provide an apt bit of advice when it is most needed.
A fortnight taken out at Clarendon, the children left to the care of their nurses and tutors under the careful eye of Henry's uncle Thomas. Just them and a handful of servants to attend upon them, though Henry makes no secret of where they are, and should others wish to approach him for an audience while he is here, they may.
Although, if they do, he thinks they'll find it odd to see a king with his hands covered in soil and bits of green weeds. It is, though, worth the indignity to see a smile creep across Blanche's face at his offer to help her with whatever she might wish to do while here, away from the bustle of London.
"Careful, my lord." Blanche reaches over to stop him from closing his fingers around the plant he was reaching for. "That herb is where it is meant to be," she adds, a faint smile flashing across her face. It isn't the first time she's had to stop him pulling some plant meant to be in the garden.
Henry chuckles, shaking his head. "I have little talent for plants, and would, I think, make a ruin of these gardens without you to point out my mistakes." He looks over at her, glad to see some of the shadowed expression that's haunted her face since March faded away in favor of her smile.
"You would learn, if you wished to, even without me." Blanche holds his gaze, a habit she's learned in the years since he'd met her. "And you do not have to do this for me, I am glad enough for simply your presence."
"I wish to do this. At least, so long as it earns me a glimpse of your smile, for I have so little seen it of late, I feel starved for it." Henry knows she grieves for their dead son, but he can still wish to return some joy to her life. "What can I give you that will make you smile?"
"I have what I would wish of you, my lord. Your affection and the children which you give me, a home to call my own - and a surfeit of that last, for all that I've not seen every one." Blanche looks away, back to the herbs she's been tending, gathering a few more of the tenderest leaves. "I would not know how to ask for more than what I have."
Henry reaches out, using a dirt-stained hand to turn her face toward him again, watching her for a long moment before he leans in to kiss her. Brief, almost chaste, if as full of emotion as he might make it. "You have my love, and all I might give you in this world, Blanche. I do not know how I might give you less than everything. Therefore, ask anything you would wish, and I shall do what I must to give it to you."
She's quiet for a long moment, watching him with an expression he can't read before she murmurs, "Give me another child, one that might live and grow as strong as those we left in London."
It is a request he cheerfully can attempt to fulfill, the basket of herbs left for one of the servants to collect later as they return to the apartments they have the use of here.
Responsibility returns when they are back in London, Henry once more working at his plans for bringing his kingdom together and to gather from it the means to invade France and lay claim to the throne there. It is a duty that takes up most of his days, one less enjoyable, perhaps, than that which takes up his evenings, but as necessary if he's to provide properly for his sons and for his daughter.
Of which, Robert still follows him closely when he's not kept busy at his lessons by tutors, both books and the more practical lessons that will serve him on battlefield and in council chamber. Henry is willing enough to let his son watch him at work, remembering doing some of the same when he was close to the same age in Richard's care and court. Answering questions quietly asked as he is able, the informal lessons as important to his son as those given by Robert's tutors.
With summer wearing into autumn, the time spent ruling his kingdom and teaching his son how to do the same expands, as Blanche once more grows with child, ill often in the early parts of it, and more prone to bouts of temper than she'd been when carrying Thomas or Edward. Henry wonders if perhaps she was such with Robert or Margaret, though he doesn't dare ask Maud about the first. The older woman, though a servant, is highly protective of Blanche, and he doubts she'd tell him what he wishes to know.
His aunt Margaret is more willing to speak, and she says only that even a woman who carries children well might have a difficult pregnancy. That it means nothing and will pass is what he takes from that, and is careful to keep a balance to his duties as so not to become the unwitting focus of Blanche's current temper. The birth of a daughter in early March is a welcome gift, and with the advance of spring, a return of Blanche's usual calm and ease with family and household.
~ ~~ ~
Blanche settles her littlest against her shoulder as she watches Robert and Margaret practicing at archery, acutely aware of the others who have gathered to watch the impromptu competition between the siblings. Of them, she thinks only Beaufort knows the outcome already, having had the teaching of them both in archery and riding for the last year. He's proved well able to keep six-year-old Margaret interested enough in the archery that she hasn't taken a mind to other mischief as she had when trying to avoid learning what Blanche would have her learn as well.
"His skill with the bow is almost remarkable." The quiet observation from Baron Scroop makes Blanche take her attention from her oldest two for a moment, looking over at him. Not at all certain what he means by that, and frowning at him. "Only that he seems to do better with the competition to hone his skills against, and has not shown so open an enthusiasm for learning to wield a sword."
"I am sure my son does well enough in learning other skills of a martial sort." Blanche watches Scroop for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her children. "And he is only ten. There is time enough for him to learn how to use other weapons still."
"Perhaps not as much time as you would hope." Scroop gives her a bland smile in return to her dark frown. "You can't be blind and deaf to what plans His Majesty has as regarding his French claims?"
She's not unaware, but Blanche hopes Henry would not risk Robert's life by taking him on a military expedition when so young. Even he had been fourteen when she first met him as he fought against the Welsh who rebelled against him and his father. "That matter touches on Robert, yes, in that the lands which Henry shall once more make his own shall one day be Robert's, and perhaps sooner if Henry should be killed in the reclaiming of the same. But beyond that, what concern would a war so far from home be for a boy of tender years?"
Scroop shrugs, his attention ostensibly on the archery now. "He is his father's son. I can't imagine he'll want to be anywhere else."
What he says is true enough, and it worries Blanche that Robert may wish to travel with his father when war inevitably is carried across to the French. Perhaps, if God smiles on her, another solution may be found to regaining Henry's lands in France. It would give Robert a few more years to grow before facing the French at his father's side, as she has no doubt he will in due time.
"That as it may be, one should hope war comes later rather than sooner." Blanche shifts Joan against her shoulder once more, the sleeping infant settling comfortably against her. "So that Robert, and all who will follow Henry on his conquest, may be better prepared for it. Including yourself, Baron Scroop."
A small smile crosses Scroop's face. "I am as ready for war as I may be, Your Highness." And with that, he moves away, still watching the archery, and leaving Blanche with a frown on her face. She isn't sure what he means by what he's said, and she has that same nagging feeling of something wrong that she had during the months living in her brother's home.
Looking over her oldest two a moment longer, Blanche stands to leave, trusting Beaufort to keep both Robert and Margaret to their studies. Those out in the open air and in with their tutors at their books alike. She takes a moment to ensure Edward is with his nurse before collecting a basket and going to her garden as she still does when she needs the quiet to think. Dismissing the ladies-in-waiting who follow her, preferring the solitude of her thoughts as she settles into the familiar rhythm of tending to her garden.
Lady Margaret joins her in the still room later, after Blanche has left her littlest with a nurse, her quiet presence become as familiar as Maud's with Beaufort remaining in London as he does. That Lady Margaret is also considered a more appropriate companion for a queen only means she's more likely to join Blanche when Maud feels it's not her place to ask on what troubles Blanche.
"What did Baron Scroop say to upset you?" she asks after a little while, watching Blanche with an assessing gaze.
Blanche is quiet a moment, her hands moving automatically in preparations for soaps she's planning. "It is not what he said, I think, but perhaps why he said it. And that I cannot know, for he gave no sign of what he might have thought. After all, nothing he said is anything which I do not already know, and that I think he may well have known. Yet he spoke of war coming, and that Robert would follow Henry into such - and well I know my son would do so - as if I might be not aware. Perhaps to frighten me? I don't know."
"It would frighten any mother to know the danger her son would court, particularly so young as His Highness is." Lady Margaret worked with mortar and pestle to crush other herbs for the soaps, her gaze moving between her work and Blanche. "It needs no encouragement by any man."
"No." Blanche shakes her head, keeping her attention on the heating mix for the soap. "But I cannot be certain what caused my worry, not truly. Only that the last time I felt such concern for my son, my brother had care of me and Robert. That was solved easily enough, but this I doubt will be so simple. I do not even know if it is anything more than a mother's fears, with naught to cause them."
"There is nothing to tell if they are or are not, and even if they should prove to be nothing, I think it would do little harm to speak of them with His Majesty. Robert is his son, after all, and it would be hoped he has some of the same concern for his safety as you."
"Perhaps some of the same concern, but that I do not think would stop him from allowing Robert to accompany him to war with France." Blanche stirs her boiling mixture with care, watching it for the signs it's ready for the herbs to be added. "Though of our children, I think Robert the only one he would allow to follow him so far as that, and for that I am glad. I shall still have Margaret and Edward here as well as Joan, and that shall have to be enough, unless war waits enough time that I should have another."
"I do not think His Majesty shall wait that long, unless something should change." Lady Margaret exchanges a smile with Blanche, worry underlying their expressions. That matters are unlikely to change enough for that to be the course of things is something both know far too well to believe otherwise.
~ ~~ ~
Henry settles onto his throne, his council settling into their own seats, a double-row that forms something of a gauntlet for anyone approaching the throne. It's an effect that he's planning to take full advantage of when he meets the ambassador from France, particularly he has little doubt of the answer to his offer to the French court. An offer made with the likely answer already in mind, and plans to use that answer to his advantage.
He looks over his council without speaking, knowing the position of each on his plans to invade France. To a man inclined to this course, if some more eager than others. Even his son, who perches on the chair brought for today's audience, looking far more patient than Henry recalls being at ten. Watching the door as if he could see the French ambassador through it, still as a hunter waiting for the right moment to loose his arrow. Though Henry isn't entirely certain Robert will be so eager for war should the French surprise them all, and take up the chance to conclude this with some measure of peace.
"Our Archbishop of Canterbury, tell us what you might know of this ambassador the French have sent with their reply to our most gracious offer." Henry wants to know what he can before he meets the herald Charles has sent with his reply - though the choice of messenger may well be indication enough of his answer.
"The Montjoye King of Arms, His Majesty's principal herald, Your Majesty. A man seen often as closer to King Charles than any other in his court, and perhaps more attuned to the moods of this king." Canterbury looks thoughtful as he spoke, a faint frown in his expression. "Certainly a messenger of some importance, though I would doubt sent to signal acceptance of Your Majesty's most generous offer."
Henry nods, before signaling for the guards at the doors to allow the French ambassador in. Watching the tall, thin man who enters as he comes closer, stopping several feet from Henry's throne. Utterly composed despite where he is, the men around him, and whatever message he has brought.
"What answer does our cousin of France give to the offer our embassy made to him this past year?" That it's been so long in coming also gives the answer without the reply having to be made in words.
"This message my king bids me give to Your Majesty's bold demands. That Your Majesty wish to conclude agreement between England and France to wed the Princess Katherine to His Highness your son is most admirable, but the dowry you would demand of His Majesty is too great. He sends instead this offer of what he would provide as dowry for his daughter, if indeed she were to be wed to His Highness. This is all my king sends, though not all my message."
The parchment the herald has is brought to Henry, and he'll look it over later, once this audience is concluded. Particularly since he has no intention even to settle for what he had asked.
"What other message do you bring?" Henry is curious who else has used the herald to convey some message to him.
"From the Dauphin, if Your Majesty would give me leave to speak it in what words were told to me to give unto you?"
That the question is even asked makes the message to be something that is perhaps more insult than anything else, and Henry nods. He doesn't need any further reasons to war, but if the Dauphin offers one, he'll not refuse it.
"That Your Majesty thinks too highly of his birth, and that of His Highness. A son of a usurper should not hold even the crown he does, and shall not take the crown of France. Nor shall the illegitimate son of a common girl and that usurper's son ever be wed to a woman of such rank as is the Princess of France." The message is delivered with the same scorn and arrogance that the Dauphin no doubt imbued the words with, though there's something in the herald's gaze that suggests he finds the entire thing distasteful to say.
Henry can see the scowl on Robert's face out of the corner of his eye, and he meets Montjoye's gaze with an inscrutable expression of his own. "Your honesty, we thank you for. And tell the Dauphin, that he will find such words cause more weeping among the people of France when they must bury their kinsmen for them than they shall cause insult to me and mine. Our answer to your king, that our demands being not met, we shall not settle for lesser lands, but come in force to obtain that which is rightfully ours."
He pauses, nodding to Scroop and Cambridge. "See that the herald is given safe conduct to deliver our message back to France."
"Wait, if you would." Robert glances at Henry a moment, a moment's apology and plea for permission in his gaze before Henry nods. What message his son would ask sent in return as well, he'll allow. It's only fair that he too answer the insult given to him. "Tell the Dauphin that his insults are no better than those made by my sister, who is but six years old."
There are smiles gracing the faces of several of the nobles seated to either side, those who know the temperament of the girl Robert refers to. The expressions draw a faint amusement to the herald's face, and he nods to Robert.
"I shall so deliver your message, Your Highness." Montjoye bows briefly to Henry before he leaves in the company of those given charge of his safe conduct. The room remains silent until the doors have shut on the French herald, and Henry lets his council have their say on both message and reply. It has merely strengthened their resolve to follow him to France, and to war, and he could ask for no better message from France than what they sent.
The fire of that resolve spreads from London in the coming months, all of England preparing for the war that looms on the horizon. Henry coordinates it all, parchment a constant flow to and from Westminster, with barely a moment's peace to spend watching Robert at his lessons with Henry's uncle or to soothe the worries of Blanche for their son's fast-approaching first forays into warfare.
"He is in but his eleventh year, Henry." Blanche shifts their youngest against her shoulder, watching him with fear for Robert mixed with simple worry writ in her expression. "A child who should not be so far from the safety of his own home. Not so soon."
"Better for him to learn now, when I might be there to guide him, than for him to be thrown into it later." Henry watches Blanche pace from the chair he'd settled into when he returned to the rooms they share. "He has no little skill with the bow, and his skill with sword is not yet great enough that I would insist he be by my side in every battle. Indeed, I would think him best in the company of the men-at-arms who I would have as archers, and they will do all they might to keep him from pitched battle and the dangers of such."
"I do not want him to go." Blanche turns back again, her skirts swirling heavily around her. "I fear for him, that I shall not see my son return from this. Please, do not take him so far."
"He needs to learn the skills of war if he is to be a king who may rule effectively, as much as he needs to learn to manage money and law and people." Henry presses his lips together, not willing to yield on this. "Those skills cannot all be learned in safety, and he is well old enough to begin to learn the practical lessons as well. Or I would not have allowed him to sit at council to hear the embassy of the French."
"Practical lessons, learned at your side, and I have no say in the safety of my son." Blanche's face is a shade paler, and she draws in a deep breath as she turns away once more. "At least I shall still have my daughters to me, and Edward. Unless, when you go again after this sortie - and I should think that you shall, it would be ill-done not to - you should take our younger with you as well, and I shall risk losing both to sword or arrow."
"And if we should lose one or both, we shall have another." Henry pushes out of his chair to go to Blanche, resting his hands on her shoulders. "And if all we should have after are daughters, Margaret would make a queen as powerful as any king born outside of England."
"I fear to lose any of them, still. I would keep them all close to protect them, and yet still God might take them from me, further from my reach than you shall take Robert." Blanche leans into him, her voice little more than a whisper. "Do not ask me not to fear, nor to plead still that Robert remain here, for I doubt I shall be able to keep myself from asking such until you take your leave of London to this war with France."
"Then I shall not ask you not to try, but to remember it shall do little but vex us both." Henry presses a kiss to her temple, his voice nearly as quiet as hers. "And I shall do all that is in my power to keep Robert safe all the while we are in France and to bring him home to you as whole and hale as I shall do so with my own self."
"Then you must return without new scars to show, nor injured or ill." Blanche smiles wanly at him as she turns so she might lean her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "For all that I shall have Edward and my daughters with me, I think I shall not cease to worry until all my family is returned to me."
"All that is in my power to do, I shall, on that you have my promise." Henry wraps one arm around her shoulder, keeping her close for a long moment before the sound of feet on stone gives warning of the other three children coming, and the momentary peace they've constructed between them shatters into happy voices and smiles.
~ ~~ ~
He is summoned to London to serve in Parliament in February, that body to give permission and funds for a war with France that Henry might redress grievances and reclaim his birthright there. After, he returns home only long enough to prepare to join the sortie. Elizabeth refuses to remain in Church Stretton alone, and though she would stay with her cousin, he sends a letter to his sister instead, to ask that his wife remain with her there.
Her response is swift, if less encouraging than he might hope. He still remembers the promise to his sister when he first left, that his wife would be a sister to her, and he has hopes that they shall find some bond between them while they are each left bereft of husband. That his nephew also shall travel with the sortie does not occur to him until he joins the gathering troops near Southampton, and catches a glimpse of Robert.
Nor is that the only surprise of the wait, though he says a prayer of thanks when the news spreads of the plot uncovered to murder the king. Perhaps too the prince, it is whispered, and to have the Earl of March placed on the throne over the younger prince still in London. It would be ill-done to murder Henry, and worse still to do such to Robert, as yet only in his twelfth year.
~ ~~ ~
Henry keeps Robert with him as they finish the preparations to sail, especially after the Earl of March approaches him with news of men coming to him to ask if he might take the throne once they've cleared it of the current king. That he refused is a given, and that he pointed out that it still would not be him upon the throne, with Henry having sons and daughters alike, and three brothers to follow them. They'd claimed it little problem, and easily solved.
That one of the conspirators is his own cousin is no real surprise, Richard being one with ambitions beyond his means. And perhaps there he had fed the fire with neglecting a detail that he sees too late to do ought but have his cousin executed privately for his part in the plot, if not quietly. The second, too, surprises him little, with his family connections to Richard, though his execution is not nearly as private as that of Richard.
He still, though, does not understand the third's reasons for becoming involved, nor why he would seek to put someone so distant from Henry upon the throne. Scroop hadn't admitted anything, either, though letters in his possession and those of Richard are damning enough. Only that he had no intention of putting March on the throne, as the other two had planned. What he had planned he takes to the block and from there to the grave, refusing to confess his reasons even to the priest before he is sent to execution.
"They had French gold in their purses as well. It could be as much a reason as any for Scroop to betray you." His uncle Thomas is pragmatic as ever in his opinion, and as blunt, as they take their evening meal. All three traitors have been executed, and they sail on the tide tomorrow, so it's little concern why Scroop betrayed him, though it is still a curiosity. "Still, it was an evil thing to betray a man he's called friend these last fourteen years."
"Why would he do something like that for money?" Robert looks puzzled, perched in his seat to Henry's right. Safely surrounded by his father and uncles and a few trusted others, where it will take greater effort than most would manage to murder him.
"Greed is a sin that can corrupt even a friendship that appeared as deep as that of Scroop for your father." Bishop Chichele shrugged, shaking his head. "And that sin is upon the heads of the advisors to His Majesty of France, as well, for they provided the gold with the thought to keep all that is properly the inheritance of Your Highness's father."
"And we're going to reclaim that inheritance from them." Robert looks to Henry with a question in his expression. Seeking confirmation that his supposition is correct, and Henry gives him a nod. It isn't entirely his plan for this year, but for the longer-term, that is what he intends, and that his son so easily can see that reassures him that even if he should fall in the effort to reclaim what should be his, his son shall carry on that work.
"As well as address grievances and insults given to His Majesty and to Your Highness," adds Bedford from the far side of Robert. "All fine reasons to take war to France, instead of waiting for them to raid our shores as they've done in the past. Remove the threat to English merchants on the Channel, as well."
"If God smiles on our cause, we should see all of this done." Henry takes another bite of his meal and a sip of his wine before adding, "Perhaps not in a year, or even two, but however long it should take, see it completed."
Discussion turns from there to the matters of the plans for the coming sortie into France; details of the sort that Henry will not entrust to parchment that might fall into the hands of the French and thus give them warning of his plans. Those in the room with him he trusts enough to be certain they will not share the information with others save as is needed to ensure all arrive where he intends. Nor have they, as this is only the latest in meals over which the plans have been made for his taking of Harfleur.
The crossing of the channel between England and France goes well enough, and they make a safe landing at Kydicaus the next day. It only takes two days to surround Harfleur, his ships creating a blockade that will completely cut off Harfleur from assistance, even should one or another party of the French make some effort to help the besieged city. Something he doesn't find highly likely, though he does make plans in case they stop posturing at each other long enough to do so.
As August stretches on, it is a matter that seems less likely, though the city still holds out against him despite the terrible din of bombardment and the constant worrying of his army at the walls. The return to his call for surrender is silence and gates still kept shut against him and his, though he expected little else. So he continues to direct the siege, and to wait for starvation, illness, and the constant bombardment to take their toll enough for the city to break.
September comes, and with it, illness in his men as well as in the city. It doesn't leave even those closest to him untouched, though at least Robert has no sign of having contracted it, and for that, Henry offers a prayer of thanks. He would not care to send his son home to recover as he must send Clarence and others home, not the least of the reasons which would be the worry it would inflict upon Blanche to have another child ill, for all that Robert is a strong lad and like to recover from any such.
Another call on the city to surrender is once more met with defiance, although tempered by a desperation that compels them to agree to provide him hostages in return for the permission for an envoy to pass through his army to seek aid from the French court. That the envoy returns with no such aid is little surprise, and Henry gives orders that a dais be prepared for the ceremony of the city's surrender. He'll do this properly, and impress upon those who still would hold out who was properly master of the city.
It's a matter of a week to settle his uncle Thomas in the city as its captain, and to convene a close council to hear the tenor of their wishes in returning to England, for that much, at least, he has in mind. His objective has been achieved, and there is little more he can or will do this year in France. But to return back the way they came, over the sea to Southampton, seems too much a retreat, for all that his commanders agree it would be best for the men - ill and wishing for home as they are.
"I will not simply retreat over the channel." Henry shakes his head, despite the dismay he can see in some of the faces around him. "I will have passports made for those who are ill, or have pressing news of family that requires their close attention, but for myself, and the rest, we will march to Calais, and take ship from there."
"Not the best of plans, Your Majesty." His uncle is ever blunt with his observations, and he shrugs at the raised eyebrow from Henry. "It is still your will to which they, and we, will bend, but you asked what our thoughts were on where next to go, and we have given you them."
"So noted, and yet I shall march to Calais." He has hopes that it would only take little more than a week to reach the coastal city, perhaps a fortnight at the worst, and he makes preparations for the march with that in mind.
What starts out a pleasant enough journey, with some small towns offering food and drink along the way, turns into a draining fortnight as they race the French along the Somme to a point where they might cross. Still several days march from Calais, and exhausted when a small party comes riding to meet them, with the only familiar face among them being that of Montjoye.
Henry watches the heralds - for heralds they must be, as he can see no weapons about them, nor armor, save tabards which bear the arms of their masters upon them - as they approach, reining in his own horse to wait for them to come closer. Robert draws his horse closer to Henry, as do Bedford and Gloucester. All waiting to hear what the heralds have to tell them, though there is little doubt of what it might be.
"Your Majesty." Montjoye bows his head briefly as he brings his horse to a halt a comfortable distance from the small party waiting for him. "Your Highness, my lords. From the Constable of France, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, I bring greetings, and likewise from the king, my master."
"And what message from them do you bear?" Henry watches Montjoye patiently, though the herald's expression is unreadable now, when he is surrounded by armed men and must have some small fear for his life if the message is one Henry does not like. No matter that Henry knows full well he has charged his soldiers not to assault the French, nor otherwise cause them harm, even when he must dispense justice to those who would rebel against their rightful lord.
"The king, my master, says that he might have rebuked you at Harfleur, had he thought it good time to constrain your bloody chevauchée, and commands you look to your ransom. For my lord Constable, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon stand now to challenge your army in open battle, as commanded by His Majesty."
Silence reigns a moment before Henry tilts his head briefly in Montjoye's direction. "Your message thus delivered, turn back, and take this to your masters all," he says just loudly enough for the other heralds to hear as well. "That we do not seek battle, but nor shall we turn aside to avoid it, though all of France and what neighbors would stand with her bar the road between here and Calais. No ransom shall they have of me, nor of those who march with me but bones and blood."
Montjoye once more bows his head in acknowledgement of the message. "I shall so deliver it, Your Majesty."
Henry has no doubt he will, words and tone alike, though there is a faint pensiveness about his expression as he turns his horse away, returning along the same road now that he has delivered his message to Henry. First, no doubt, taking the message to what army awaits them before he would ride on to deliver it also to his king. But with what thoughts in his head, that he had such an expression on his face, Henry can't tell, and after a moment's thought, dismisses the concern for now.
Instead turning his thoughts to what lies ahead on the road as he gives the order to march on, already contemplating how to win a battle against what army waits for them, traces of which he can see in the road - wagons and horses and men in great numbers. Larger an army, certainly, than his own.
Four days later, they cross another river, smaller than the Somme, and catch the first glimpse of what army awaits them. Three, perhaps four men to every one of his, and impressive in armor that gleams in the weak sunlight. The afternoon is spent trying to pick the ground on which to fight, and preparing for a battle that would be fought the next day. And watching the French, trying to discern numbers and composition of the army that he faces.
Men at arms, certainly, and cavalry, those he can see. Even a cannon, though if they will use it, he is uncertain. After all, to do so, they will risk the loss of honor, and that is something Henry doubts they will wish. What he sees all but nothing of are archers of any sort, even ones bearing a heavier crossbow rather than a good longbow. A failing, he thinks, and smiles faintly to himself.
"Would that we had another ten thousand archers, and the arrows to spare for them." The comment comes from one of the knights in his retinue behind him, though he can't see which, and Henry shakes his head.
"Those we have shall suffice, God willing, and as I have done all justly and with proper reverence to him, I should think he will smile upon us." He watches the French across the field for a moment longer before turning away. "There will be no battle today, and I would have the men get what sleep they may. Give orders that the night shall be spent strictly in silence, and camp made."
And while his nobility scatter to do as he's told them, Henry turns his attention to the prisoners they have taken from Harfleur, and who have marched with them from that place. Commanding that they should be released - but only on condition that they return to their captivity should the English win the field on the morrow. It gives him more men to spare for the battle, and he needs every man he can field.
The night is spent in tense silence, though Henry has little doubt most of his men eventually sleep, despite the cold rain that begins with the setting of the sun. He finds little of it himself, and abandons the pretense before dawn to ensure he's armed and armored well before there is a stirring in the French camp across the muddy fields they'll fight on today.
Robert joins him for masses as the sun rises, his armor no more and no less than that of the other archers. Save that no other bears the arms of England on their surcoat, even differenced as his are to let all who see know that here is the Prince of Wales, the heir to Henry's throne. A valuable hostage, should they capture him, for all that Henry has denied there shall be ransom for any captured English.
After, Robert is drawn with the other archers to the wings where Henry has ordered them, safely surrounded by men who will die to keep him safe and out of the hands of the French - not when he chose to accompany them on this march rather than take ship for England when given the chance. A gesture that is not lost on Henry, and draws a smile to his face at his son's quiet loyalty, even if perhaps merely to him.
A smile that fades after a moment, and Henry secures his bascinet, with the gleaming circle of gold fixed to its crown to draw the eye, and mounts his horse. His banners are raised, and the line of battle spreads across the field as he's ordered it, a thin enough line, but ready. Waiting for the French across the field in their glittering steel to charge to meet them. A wait that is more prolonged than he likes, and Henry narrows his eyes after long hours, and draws a breath.
"Now is good time, with all of England praying for us. Therefor, with good cheer let us go upon our journey." His voice carries to those closest, but not much further, and he raises his voice in a battlefield bellow that he knows most of his men will hear. "In the name of Almighty God, and Saint George, avaunt banner! And Saint George, this day thine help!"
There is some brightening of the expressions around him, and Henry nudges his horse into motion, picking his careful way across the muddy field until the archers are within range of the French. A slow smile crosses his face as the archers drive their stakes, waiting patiently for the first volley, which has the desired effect. The cavalry charge goes as awry as he hopes, and he draws his sword as he waits for the advancing French.
From there, his world both narrows and broadens, target and strike, maneuver and command. The first are so deeply ingrained they are instinct and reaction that never rise to the level of thought, the second learned in much the same uncompromising school as the first. Only when the first two battles stand captured to the rear, or dying in the clinging mud can he allow himself to let go of some of that strange mood that is the grip of battle.
Two battles, when there were three drawn up that he had seen at the start of the day - and a third, many mounted, still wait on the high ground. Not yet attacking, and yet, if they do, there is the risk his victory, tenuous, could become defeat, and rob England of king and heir in one blow. Henry can't afford that, and he watches them for a long moment before having Robert come to him, and some of the archers with him.
"Get the prisoners off the field. If they refuse to move, kill them." They are as much a risk as the cavalry that looms on the top of the low hill, and for all the protests he can hear now coming from those men-at-arms who expect a ransom, he cannot afford the risk. And he can see none of the doubt of his men-at-arms in his son's eyes, as Robert nods, drawing himself up with a dignity Henry thinks he could not have emulated at that age.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
It is a command that perhaps later Henry will regret, but it is one that is effective - the archers are without arrows, and can be spared, and when a few of the most stubborn prisoners fall prey to the archer's daggers, the rest allow themselves to be herded away. And perhaps it is that which convinces the last of the French to yield the day, and leave the field.
Allowing Henry to have the heralds come from their places observing the battle, accepting the formal bow that Montjoye makes from his saddle with a nod, waiting patiently for the words that he must gain from the French herald. To formalize his victory, and perhaps to find what village lies closest to the fields they've fought upon.
"The day is yours, Your Majesty." There is nothing else Montjoye can say, and he doesn't waste breath on more elaborate words of surrender, his face expressionless save for the agony that lurks in his eyes for the sheer numbers of the dead. "With your leave, that we may count the dead and put name to what bodies we might."
"You so have it, good herald. What is the name of the village that lies nearest?" Henry needs perhaps a bit more than that to truly start handling the aftermath of the battle, but the rest, he shall ask after the dead have been counted and what might be stripped from the bodies has been.
"Agincourt." Montjoye looks curious a moment, before Henry says to name the battle after it, and then he merely nods, his expression shuttered once more. Another bow, and he takes his leave to do as he's asked to be allowed, though Henry catches the gleam of pain in his eyes again as he turns his horse toward the battlefield.
Henry directs his own horse toward Maisoncelle, giving orders that they'll spend the night there again before preparing to march for Calais in the morning. And to strip the bodies of what can be used, outfitting each man with what they need, and burning the rest. He is looking forward to sleeping that night, better than he had the night before.
Sleep that he finds he'll be denied, as one of the archers comes to fetch him while he's still giving orders, and waiting to hear the numbers and names of the dead. It seems his son has the full measure of his own stubborn nature, and it's taken the battle being over for Robert to admit to having been injured in a too-close encounter with some French man-at-arms during the battle. If only in collapsing once out of sight of the prisoners, and being taken into one of the houses of Maisoncelle, where the royal physician is already in attendance.
"He will recover well enough, Your Majesty." The physician doesn't even give him a chance to speak, glancing up a moment when the door opens before returning his attention to his careful stitches. "The wound isn't very deep, and I have cleaned it well with wine to help prevent him from taking wound-fever." He tilts his head slightly to the waiting pot of honey. "That shall assist further, once spread upon the wound, if Your Majesty would recall some years ago his own experience. There shall barely be a scar to upset Her Majesty."
That recalls the promise Henry had made to Blanche before leaving England, and while he shall tell her he had done all he might, there is some small doubt that he had done. Save that he knows he would not have been able to keep Robert with the baggage - his son would have chafed much at being left inactive when he'd been meant to learn some of the realities of war from this sortie. He had done as he'd said, and kept Robert with the archers where he was safest, for all that he'd not been entirely safe from harm in the end.
He settles on a stool near the bed where Robert is lying with eyes screwed tightly shut, as the physician does his work. Reaching out a hand to press it against Robert's shoulder, feeling the tension in the young frame as his son tries to hold still for the needle that is sewing up his flesh.
"I've given him a dose of poppy syrup, if less than I'd like for the pain." The physician gives Robert a mildly exasperated look, though there's little surprise there. He's been in his position long enough to know well the stubborn nature of Henry and his children, having treated all of them for one or another illness or injury. "And he should travel in a horse litter if that may be contrived, rather than atop his horse."
"No matter what you think of such a thing, Your Highness," he adds when Robert lets out a huff. "And if it hurts rather a bit more than you expected, perhaps you ought to have accepted the full dose of poppy syrup."
A recommendation that Henry listens to, despite Robert's protests, the physician riding near the litter to keep a close eye on his patient, and Henry on the other side. The march to Calais is uneventful, the French army broken and scattering without providing further resistance. Only once they have arrived in Calais does trouble show its face once more, in the lack of supplies to give his army even a few days rest, and it takes a great effort to find all he needs to return his soldiers to England while he remains. He'll return soon enough, once everything that must be settled has been, and he has given London time enough to prepare as they wish for his return - and Blanche the same.
~ ~~ ~
When news arrives of the battle, Blanche is glad for the quiet company of her brother's wife, and of Lady Margaret. No matter that Henry won the day, though it does give her some comfort that they will be returning rather than a demand coming for the ransom of her husband and son, a battle on open ground had still been fought, and that would risk Robert, no matter how well protected he might be.
The pealing of church bells doesn't raise her spirits any, and she frets until the message comes that Henry and Robert have landed at Dover, over a fortnight later. Along with a brief note that they shall come to the manor at Eltham before entering London, and that has Blanche determinedly moving her small retinue and the children to the manor so she might greet the return of Henry and Robert sooner.
A greeting marred by Robert's grimace and stiff movement when he slides from his horse, and the physician's close attendance to her son. Blanche presses her lips together to keep from asking what has happened in sharper a tone than should be taken in full view of all, though she can see in Henry's expression that he knows what she wishes to ask. Enough, she hopes, that he will give her the full tale of all that has happened, even that which will cause her some grief.
She follows Robert and the physician inside as Margaret and Edward all but attach themselves to Henry's sides, loudly demanding tales of the last three months and the fighting that has kept their father from home. She only hopes they don't attempt to recreate the siege or battle in their play, or she will have more to worry about than whatever has happened to Robert.
"He will be well enough with some rest, Your Majesty." The physician slows his steps a moment to drop back to walk beside her once Robert shakes off his supporting arm with a wordless, irritable sigh. "The wound is healing well enough, and shallow as it was, I do not think there shall be even all that much of a scar."
Words meant to soothe her worries, though Blanche hopes they are honest in as far as the physician will speak of what has happened. Knowing that will better bring calm to her frayed spirit than anything else. "Can you tell me what happened, that my son was injured? Save what must be easily imagined, that it happened in that battle at Agincourt."
"More than that you shall have to ask His Highness or His Majesty, as I have only the knowledge pressed upon me by His Highness' comrades and the viewing of the wound when I was brought to provide care for it. And that I shall not describe, if Your Majesty will forgive me, if neither His Highness nor His Majesty ask that it be done."
The physician looks at her a moment before returning his gaze to Robert, watching him carefully as they turn down the corridor on which Robert's room is. "So long as His Highness rests as he is instructed, there should not even be need for Your Majesty to dote more closely upon him than you would your other children."
Blanche frowns a moment before she draws a deep breath, thinking on Robert's shrugging off the help of the physician, and nodding. Her close attention to her son may well be unwelcome, though she worries for him, and would do all she might to keep him safe and well. She keeps silent as she thinks, searching for a solution even as she makes sure Robert is safely tucked into his bed, with a page sent to bring dinner for him as the physician instructed.
Only in returning to the solar, and the bright cheer of Margaret and Edward cajoling Henry for more stories, does she hit upon what might be the best way to keep Robert resting as he's told. A small smile crosses her face as she watches her family a moment, and adds keeping her elder daughter and younger son out of mischief to what having them keep Robert company might do. If, at least, she has them remain under the careful eye of one of their nurses.
"Perhaps you might see if Robert would wish some company for his dinner, to tell his own tales of France." She meets Henry's gaze over the children's heads as they fall quiet, blond heads bent toward each other as they exchange whispers. Seeing new lines etched into his face, and a hint of grief lurking in his eyes that she doubts he'd let show around the children.
She waits until the older two have gone to take up her suggestion before telling Joan's nurse to take her to the garden, to let her play there a while and give Blanche and Henry some quiet to make their own delayed greetings.
"He is whole, even if I shall worry about whatever wound he took." Blanche's voice is quiet, and she crosses the room once she shuts the door. Watching Henry's face fall into more tired lines, the cheer melting away once there is some privacy. She bites her lips a moment before cupping his face in her hands and leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. Meeting his gaze when she draws back, searching to see if she might discern something of his thoughts. "And I think though you do not show any sign that you have taken an injury to your body, you have not come back as whole as I might wish."
Henry is quiet a long moment, looking away with a faint frown and a distance in his expression that she's not seen before. "I would wish not nearly so many dead as have fallen, even those who stood across the field at Agincourt to bar the way to Calais. For God's protection I will give thanks, but it does not take away the folly of the French that cost them so many dead on that field."
There's little she can say to that, save to reach for his hand, tugging him after her from the solar to their bed room. Carefully undressing him, and then herself; offering him what solace he might find in her body and affection, to perhaps wear at the edges of his anger and grief so they don't cut so deep.
Chapter Warnings: violence, sex
Characters Present:
The Chorus, James Stretton, Knight of Warwick, Baron Stretton
Henry of Monmouth, King of England
Blanche Stretton, Queen of England
Elizabeth de Beauchamp, wife of James Stretton
Henry Scroop, Baron Scroop of Masham
Robert of Stretton, Prince of Wales
Margaret of Lancaster, Princess
Joan of Lancaster, Princess
Thomas Beaufort, Earl of Dorset
Margaret Neville, Countess of Dorset
Henry Chichele, Archbishop of Canterbury
Montjoye, French Herald King at Arms
Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge
Edward of Lancaster, Prince
John, Duke of Bedford
Chapter Index ~ Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter
He gives his fealty to Henry as everyone else does, one of a bare handful of those who bear no title to be in the cathedral, with his wife at his side. Watching his sister, pale and looking wan even in her rich gown, worry pinching between her brows. It's a familiar line, seen more than once on his own wife's face when one of their children has died, and reminder that for all that Blanche has gained, it doesn't bring her surcease from the cruelties of life.
After, that he has the honor too of being invited to the banquet is as much a wonder as the command to attend upon the coronation. Richer fare than he can provide his own table, and largesse, and the pageantry of the champion. A Baron Scroop, his wife murmurs in his ear, who had been with Henry when he came to their home to collect his son years past. The man is still a favorite, then, to be Henry's champion for this.
There is little after to hold him in London save a command of the king to come to the palace. For what purpose, he can't imagine, and is surprised then to receive letters patent that grant unto him the title of Baron, and with that title his father's small estate. That young Robert is there to assure him there is no ill-will for the return of his inheritance is equal surprise. It speaks of a trust, perhaps, between father and son that he often thinks was absent between himself and his own father.
He has much to do after that audience, to remove his family to the home in which he spend his earliest years, and of which his sister had been so fiercely protective. That thought gives him pause and makes him wonder for a moment what she thinks of what has been done. If indeed she has worries at all beyond her children and her role as queen now, of which he would have no inkling as he has heard naught from her since the beginning of the year.
"She would no doubt make no objection to what disposal the king and her son make of the Prince's lands." His wife guesses well his thoughts after the long years of their marriage, even though he's seen her only in the months between military service. "Nor is any such thing a concern of yours any longer. You've your own family to tend to, and she has the king to look after her."
A reminder of that which he is meant to be doing now, and welcome distraction from his thoughts. He thinks little upon his sister, indeed, for many months, and then only briefly and fondly in memories.
There are fewer days now that Henry can spend with his children around the business of being king, though he still takes that time, regardless of the press of duty. Taking Robert out to hunt, and Margaret too when she sulks for days at being denied the chance. Finding a tutor for them both in how to use a bow, for hunting and for longer ranges, as it is a weapon he can see little harm in teaching Margaret to use, and it makes the small girl smile all the brighter. A smile he is glad to see once more as spring takes full hold on London, missing as it has been since the turning of the year.
It's not the only smile he has missed, and Blanche's smile is slower to return to her face, particularly when he sees little of her from their morning meal to the same in the evening. Duty to England and indulgence of his children perhaps ought be laid aside for a day or two so he might take time to tend to his wife, a sentiment he is quietly reminded of by Scroop, ever able to provide an apt bit of advice when it is most needed.
A fortnight taken out at Clarendon, the children left to the care of their nurses and tutors under the careful eye of Henry's uncle Thomas. Just them and a handful of servants to attend upon them, though Henry makes no secret of where they are, and should others wish to approach him for an audience while he is here, they may.
Although, if they do, he thinks they'll find it odd to see a king with his hands covered in soil and bits of green weeds. It is, though, worth the indignity to see a smile creep across Blanche's face at his offer to help her with whatever she might wish to do while here, away from the bustle of London.
"Careful, my lord." Blanche reaches over to stop him from closing his fingers around the plant he was reaching for. "That herb is where it is meant to be," she adds, a faint smile flashing across her face. It isn't the first time she's had to stop him pulling some plant meant to be in the garden.
Henry chuckles, shaking his head. "I have little talent for plants, and would, I think, make a ruin of these gardens without you to point out my mistakes." He looks over at her, glad to see some of the shadowed expression that's haunted her face since March faded away in favor of her smile.
"You would learn, if you wished to, even without me." Blanche holds his gaze, a habit she's learned in the years since he'd met her. "And you do not have to do this for me, I am glad enough for simply your presence."
"I wish to do this. At least, so long as it earns me a glimpse of your smile, for I have so little seen it of late, I feel starved for it." Henry knows she grieves for their dead son, but he can still wish to return some joy to her life. "What can I give you that will make you smile?"
"I have what I would wish of you, my lord. Your affection and the children which you give me, a home to call my own - and a surfeit of that last, for all that I've not seen every one." Blanche looks away, back to the herbs she's been tending, gathering a few more of the tenderest leaves. "I would not know how to ask for more than what I have."
Henry reaches out, using a dirt-stained hand to turn her face toward him again, watching her for a long moment before he leans in to kiss her. Brief, almost chaste, if as full of emotion as he might make it. "You have my love, and all I might give you in this world, Blanche. I do not know how I might give you less than everything. Therefore, ask anything you would wish, and I shall do what I must to give it to you."
She's quiet for a long moment, watching him with an expression he can't read before she murmurs, "Give me another child, one that might live and grow as strong as those we left in London."
It is a request he cheerfully can attempt to fulfill, the basket of herbs left for one of the servants to collect later as they return to the apartments they have the use of here.
Responsibility returns when they are back in London, Henry once more working at his plans for bringing his kingdom together and to gather from it the means to invade France and lay claim to the throne there. It is a duty that takes up most of his days, one less enjoyable, perhaps, than that which takes up his evenings, but as necessary if he's to provide properly for his sons and for his daughter.
Of which, Robert still follows him closely when he's not kept busy at his lessons by tutors, both books and the more practical lessons that will serve him on battlefield and in council chamber. Henry is willing enough to let his son watch him at work, remembering doing some of the same when he was close to the same age in Richard's care and court. Answering questions quietly asked as he is able, the informal lessons as important to his son as those given by Robert's tutors.
With summer wearing into autumn, the time spent ruling his kingdom and teaching his son how to do the same expands, as Blanche once more grows with child, ill often in the early parts of it, and more prone to bouts of temper than she'd been when carrying Thomas or Edward. Henry wonders if perhaps she was such with Robert or Margaret, though he doesn't dare ask Maud about the first. The older woman, though a servant, is highly protective of Blanche, and he doubts she'd tell him what he wishes to know.
His aunt Margaret is more willing to speak, and she says only that even a woman who carries children well might have a difficult pregnancy. That it means nothing and will pass is what he takes from that, and is careful to keep a balance to his duties as so not to become the unwitting focus of Blanche's current temper. The birth of a daughter in early March is a welcome gift, and with the advance of spring, a return of Blanche's usual calm and ease with family and household.
Blanche settles her littlest against her shoulder as she watches Robert and Margaret practicing at archery, acutely aware of the others who have gathered to watch the impromptu competition between the siblings. Of them, she thinks only Beaufort knows the outcome already, having had the teaching of them both in archery and riding for the last year. He's proved well able to keep six-year-old Margaret interested enough in the archery that she hasn't taken a mind to other mischief as she had when trying to avoid learning what Blanche would have her learn as well.
"His skill with the bow is almost remarkable." The quiet observation from Baron Scroop makes Blanche take her attention from her oldest two for a moment, looking over at him. Not at all certain what he means by that, and frowning at him. "Only that he seems to do better with the competition to hone his skills against, and has not shown so open an enthusiasm for learning to wield a sword."
"I am sure my son does well enough in learning other skills of a martial sort." Blanche watches Scroop for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her children. "And he is only ten. There is time enough for him to learn how to use other weapons still."
"Perhaps not as much time as you would hope." Scroop gives her a bland smile in return to her dark frown. "You can't be blind and deaf to what plans His Majesty has as regarding his French claims?"
She's not unaware, but Blanche hopes Henry would not risk Robert's life by taking him on a military expedition when so young. Even he had been fourteen when she first met him as he fought against the Welsh who rebelled against him and his father. "That matter touches on Robert, yes, in that the lands which Henry shall once more make his own shall one day be Robert's, and perhaps sooner if Henry should be killed in the reclaiming of the same. But beyond that, what concern would a war so far from home be for a boy of tender years?"
Scroop shrugs, his attention ostensibly on the archery now. "He is his father's son. I can't imagine he'll want to be anywhere else."
What he says is true enough, and it worries Blanche that Robert may wish to travel with his father when war inevitably is carried across to the French. Perhaps, if God smiles on her, another solution may be found to regaining Henry's lands in France. It would give Robert a few more years to grow before facing the French at his father's side, as she has no doubt he will in due time.
"That as it may be, one should hope war comes later rather than sooner." Blanche shifts Joan against her shoulder once more, the sleeping infant settling comfortably against her. "So that Robert, and all who will follow Henry on his conquest, may be better prepared for it. Including yourself, Baron Scroop."
A small smile crosses Scroop's face. "I am as ready for war as I may be, Your Highness." And with that, he moves away, still watching the archery, and leaving Blanche with a frown on her face. She isn't sure what he means by what he's said, and she has that same nagging feeling of something wrong that she had during the months living in her brother's home.
Looking over her oldest two a moment longer, Blanche stands to leave, trusting Beaufort to keep both Robert and Margaret to their studies. Those out in the open air and in with their tutors at their books alike. She takes a moment to ensure Edward is with his nurse before collecting a basket and going to her garden as she still does when she needs the quiet to think. Dismissing the ladies-in-waiting who follow her, preferring the solitude of her thoughts as she settles into the familiar rhythm of tending to her garden.
Lady Margaret joins her in the still room later, after Blanche has left her littlest with a nurse, her quiet presence become as familiar as Maud's with Beaufort remaining in London as he does. That Lady Margaret is also considered a more appropriate companion for a queen only means she's more likely to join Blanche when Maud feels it's not her place to ask on what troubles Blanche.
"What did Baron Scroop say to upset you?" she asks after a little while, watching Blanche with an assessing gaze.
Blanche is quiet a moment, her hands moving automatically in preparations for soaps she's planning. "It is not what he said, I think, but perhaps why he said it. And that I cannot know, for he gave no sign of what he might have thought. After all, nothing he said is anything which I do not already know, and that I think he may well have known. Yet he spoke of war coming, and that Robert would follow Henry into such - and well I know my son would do so - as if I might be not aware. Perhaps to frighten me? I don't know."
"It would frighten any mother to know the danger her son would court, particularly so young as His Highness is." Lady Margaret worked with mortar and pestle to crush other herbs for the soaps, her gaze moving between her work and Blanche. "It needs no encouragement by any man."
"No." Blanche shakes her head, keeping her attention on the heating mix for the soap. "But I cannot be certain what caused my worry, not truly. Only that the last time I felt such concern for my son, my brother had care of me and Robert. That was solved easily enough, but this I doubt will be so simple. I do not even know if it is anything more than a mother's fears, with naught to cause them."
"There is nothing to tell if they are or are not, and even if they should prove to be nothing, I think it would do little harm to speak of them with His Majesty. Robert is his son, after all, and it would be hoped he has some of the same concern for his safety as you."
"Perhaps some of the same concern, but that I do not think would stop him from allowing Robert to accompany him to war with France." Blanche stirs her boiling mixture with care, watching it for the signs it's ready for the herbs to be added. "Though of our children, I think Robert the only one he would allow to follow him so far as that, and for that I am glad. I shall still have Margaret and Edward here as well as Joan, and that shall have to be enough, unless war waits enough time that I should have another."
"I do not think His Majesty shall wait that long, unless something should change." Lady Margaret exchanges a smile with Blanche, worry underlying their expressions. That matters are unlikely to change enough for that to be the course of things is something both know far too well to believe otherwise.
Henry settles onto his throne, his council settling into their own seats, a double-row that forms something of a gauntlet for anyone approaching the throne. It's an effect that he's planning to take full advantage of when he meets the ambassador from France, particularly he has little doubt of the answer to his offer to the French court. An offer made with the likely answer already in mind, and plans to use that answer to his advantage.
He looks over his council without speaking, knowing the position of each on his plans to invade France. To a man inclined to this course, if some more eager than others. Even his son, who perches on the chair brought for today's audience, looking far more patient than Henry recalls being at ten. Watching the door as if he could see the French ambassador through it, still as a hunter waiting for the right moment to loose his arrow. Though Henry isn't entirely certain Robert will be so eager for war should the French surprise them all, and take up the chance to conclude this with some measure of peace.
"Our Archbishop of Canterbury, tell us what you might know of this ambassador the French have sent with their reply to our most gracious offer." Henry wants to know what he can before he meets the herald Charles has sent with his reply - though the choice of messenger may well be indication enough of his answer.
"The Montjoye King of Arms, His Majesty's principal herald, Your Majesty. A man seen often as closer to King Charles than any other in his court, and perhaps more attuned to the moods of this king." Canterbury looks thoughtful as he spoke, a faint frown in his expression. "Certainly a messenger of some importance, though I would doubt sent to signal acceptance of Your Majesty's most generous offer."
Henry nods, before signaling for the guards at the doors to allow the French ambassador in. Watching the tall, thin man who enters as he comes closer, stopping several feet from Henry's throne. Utterly composed despite where he is, the men around him, and whatever message he has brought.
"What answer does our cousin of France give to the offer our embassy made to him this past year?" That it's been so long in coming also gives the answer without the reply having to be made in words.
"This message my king bids me give to Your Majesty's bold demands. That Your Majesty wish to conclude agreement between England and France to wed the Princess Katherine to His Highness your son is most admirable, but the dowry you would demand of His Majesty is too great. He sends instead this offer of what he would provide as dowry for his daughter, if indeed she were to be wed to His Highness. This is all my king sends, though not all my message."
The parchment the herald has is brought to Henry, and he'll look it over later, once this audience is concluded. Particularly since he has no intention even to settle for what he had asked.
"What other message do you bring?" Henry is curious who else has used the herald to convey some message to him.
"From the Dauphin, if Your Majesty would give me leave to speak it in what words were told to me to give unto you?"
That the question is even asked makes the message to be something that is perhaps more insult than anything else, and Henry nods. He doesn't need any further reasons to war, but if the Dauphin offers one, he'll not refuse it.
"That Your Majesty thinks too highly of his birth, and that of His Highness. A son of a usurper should not hold even the crown he does, and shall not take the crown of France. Nor shall the illegitimate son of a common girl and that usurper's son ever be wed to a woman of such rank as is the Princess of France." The message is delivered with the same scorn and arrogance that the Dauphin no doubt imbued the words with, though there's something in the herald's gaze that suggests he finds the entire thing distasteful to say.
Henry can see the scowl on Robert's face out of the corner of his eye, and he meets Montjoye's gaze with an inscrutable expression of his own. "Your honesty, we thank you for. And tell the Dauphin, that he will find such words cause more weeping among the people of France when they must bury their kinsmen for them than they shall cause insult to me and mine. Our answer to your king, that our demands being not met, we shall not settle for lesser lands, but come in force to obtain that which is rightfully ours."
He pauses, nodding to Scroop and Cambridge. "See that the herald is given safe conduct to deliver our message back to France."
"Wait, if you would." Robert glances at Henry a moment, a moment's apology and plea for permission in his gaze before Henry nods. What message his son would ask sent in return as well, he'll allow. It's only fair that he too answer the insult given to him. "Tell the Dauphin that his insults are no better than those made by my sister, who is but six years old."
There are smiles gracing the faces of several of the nobles seated to either side, those who know the temperament of the girl Robert refers to. The expressions draw a faint amusement to the herald's face, and he nods to Robert.
"I shall so deliver your message, Your Highness." Montjoye bows briefly to Henry before he leaves in the company of those given charge of his safe conduct. The room remains silent until the doors have shut on the French herald, and Henry lets his council have their say on both message and reply. It has merely strengthened their resolve to follow him to France, and to war, and he could ask for no better message from France than what they sent.
The fire of that resolve spreads from London in the coming months, all of England preparing for the war that looms on the horizon. Henry coordinates it all, parchment a constant flow to and from Westminster, with barely a moment's peace to spend watching Robert at his lessons with Henry's uncle or to soothe the worries of Blanche for their son's fast-approaching first forays into warfare.
"He is in but his eleventh year, Henry." Blanche shifts their youngest against her shoulder, watching him with fear for Robert mixed with simple worry writ in her expression. "A child who should not be so far from the safety of his own home. Not so soon."
"Better for him to learn now, when I might be there to guide him, than for him to be thrown into it later." Henry watches Blanche pace from the chair he'd settled into when he returned to the rooms they share. "He has no little skill with the bow, and his skill with sword is not yet great enough that I would insist he be by my side in every battle. Indeed, I would think him best in the company of the men-at-arms who I would have as archers, and they will do all they might to keep him from pitched battle and the dangers of such."
"I do not want him to go." Blanche turns back again, her skirts swirling heavily around her. "I fear for him, that I shall not see my son return from this. Please, do not take him so far."
"He needs to learn the skills of war if he is to be a king who may rule effectively, as much as he needs to learn to manage money and law and people." Henry presses his lips together, not willing to yield on this. "Those skills cannot all be learned in safety, and he is well old enough to begin to learn the practical lessons as well. Or I would not have allowed him to sit at council to hear the embassy of the French."
"Practical lessons, learned at your side, and I have no say in the safety of my son." Blanche's face is a shade paler, and she draws in a deep breath as she turns away once more. "At least I shall still have my daughters to me, and Edward. Unless, when you go again after this sortie - and I should think that you shall, it would be ill-done not to - you should take our younger with you as well, and I shall risk losing both to sword or arrow."
"And if we should lose one or both, we shall have another." Henry pushes out of his chair to go to Blanche, resting his hands on her shoulders. "And if all we should have after are daughters, Margaret would make a queen as powerful as any king born outside of England."
"I fear to lose any of them, still. I would keep them all close to protect them, and yet still God might take them from me, further from my reach than you shall take Robert." Blanche leans into him, her voice little more than a whisper. "Do not ask me not to fear, nor to plead still that Robert remain here, for I doubt I shall be able to keep myself from asking such until you take your leave of London to this war with France."
"Then I shall not ask you not to try, but to remember it shall do little but vex us both." Henry presses a kiss to her temple, his voice nearly as quiet as hers. "And I shall do all that is in my power to keep Robert safe all the while we are in France and to bring him home to you as whole and hale as I shall do so with my own self."
"Then you must return without new scars to show, nor injured or ill." Blanche smiles wanly at him as she turns so she might lean her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "For all that I shall have Edward and my daughters with me, I think I shall not cease to worry until all my family is returned to me."
"All that is in my power to do, I shall, on that you have my promise." Henry wraps one arm around her shoulder, keeping her close for a long moment before the sound of feet on stone gives warning of the other three children coming, and the momentary peace they've constructed between them shatters into happy voices and smiles.
He is summoned to London to serve in Parliament in February, that body to give permission and funds for a war with France that Henry might redress grievances and reclaim his birthright there. After, he returns home only long enough to prepare to join the sortie. Elizabeth refuses to remain in Church Stretton alone, and though she would stay with her cousin, he sends a letter to his sister instead, to ask that his wife remain with her there.
Her response is swift, if less encouraging than he might hope. He still remembers the promise to his sister when he first left, that his wife would be a sister to her, and he has hopes that they shall find some bond between them while they are each left bereft of husband. That his nephew also shall travel with the sortie does not occur to him until he joins the gathering troops near Southampton, and catches a glimpse of Robert.
Nor is that the only surprise of the wait, though he says a prayer of thanks when the news spreads of the plot uncovered to murder the king. Perhaps too the prince, it is whispered, and to have the Earl of March placed on the throne over the younger prince still in London. It would be ill-done to murder Henry, and worse still to do such to Robert, as yet only in his twelfth year.
Henry keeps Robert with him as they finish the preparations to sail, especially after the Earl of March approaches him with news of men coming to him to ask if he might take the throne once they've cleared it of the current king. That he refused is a given, and that he pointed out that it still would not be him upon the throne, with Henry having sons and daughters alike, and three brothers to follow them. They'd claimed it little problem, and easily solved.
That one of the conspirators is his own cousin is no real surprise, Richard being one with ambitions beyond his means. And perhaps there he had fed the fire with neglecting a detail that he sees too late to do ought but have his cousin executed privately for his part in the plot, if not quietly. The second, too, surprises him little, with his family connections to Richard, though his execution is not nearly as private as that of Richard.
He still, though, does not understand the third's reasons for becoming involved, nor why he would seek to put someone so distant from Henry upon the throne. Scroop hadn't admitted anything, either, though letters in his possession and those of Richard are damning enough. Only that he had no intention of putting March on the throne, as the other two had planned. What he had planned he takes to the block and from there to the grave, refusing to confess his reasons even to the priest before he is sent to execution.
"They had French gold in their purses as well. It could be as much a reason as any for Scroop to betray you." His uncle Thomas is pragmatic as ever in his opinion, and as blunt, as they take their evening meal. All three traitors have been executed, and they sail on the tide tomorrow, so it's little concern why Scroop betrayed him, though it is still a curiosity. "Still, it was an evil thing to betray a man he's called friend these last fourteen years."
"Why would he do something like that for money?" Robert looks puzzled, perched in his seat to Henry's right. Safely surrounded by his father and uncles and a few trusted others, where it will take greater effort than most would manage to murder him.
"Greed is a sin that can corrupt even a friendship that appeared as deep as that of Scroop for your father." Bishop Chichele shrugged, shaking his head. "And that sin is upon the heads of the advisors to His Majesty of France, as well, for they provided the gold with the thought to keep all that is properly the inheritance of Your Highness's father."
"And we're going to reclaim that inheritance from them." Robert looks to Henry with a question in his expression. Seeking confirmation that his supposition is correct, and Henry gives him a nod. It isn't entirely his plan for this year, but for the longer-term, that is what he intends, and that his son so easily can see that reassures him that even if he should fall in the effort to reclaim what should be his, his son shall carry on that work.
"As well as address grievances and insults given to His Majesty and to Your Highness," adds Bedford from the far side of Robert. "All fine reasons to take war to France, instead of waiting for them to raid our shores as they've done in the past. Remove the threat to English merchants on the Channel, as well."
"If God smiles on our cause, we should see all of this done." Henry takes another bite of his meal and a sip of his wine before adding, "Perhaps not in a year, or even two, but however long it should take, see it completed."
Discussion turns from there to the matters of the plans for the coming sortie into France; details of the sort that Henry will not entrust to parchment that might fall into the hands of the French and thus give them warning of his plans. Those in the room with him he trusts enough to be certain they will not share the information with others save as is needed to ensure all arrive where he intends. Nor have they, as this is only the latest in meals over which the plans have been made for his taking of Harfleur.
The crossing of the channel between England and France goes well enough, and they make a safe landing at Kydicaus the next day. It only takes two days to surround Harfleur, his ships creating a blockade that will completely cut off Harfleur from assistance, even should one or another party of the French make some effort to help the besieged city. Something he doesn't find highly likely, though he does make plans in case they stop posturing at each other long enough to do so.
As August stretches on, it is a matter that seems less likely, though the city still holds out against him despite the terrible din of bombardment and the constant worrying of his army at the walls. The return to his call for surrender is silence and gates still kept shut against him and his, though he expected little else. So he continues to direct the siege, and to wait for starvation, illness, and the constant bombardment to take their toll enough for the city to break.
September comes, and with it, illness in his men as well as in the city. It doesn't leave even those closest to him untouched, though at least Robert has no sign of having contracted it, and for that, Henry offers a prayer of thanks. He would not care to send his son home to recover as he must send Clarence and others home, not the least of the reasons which would be the worry it would inflict upon Blanche to have another child ill, for all that Robert is a strong lad and like to recover from any such.
Another call on the city to surrender is once more met with defiance, although tempered by a desperation that compels them to agree to provide him hostages in return for the permission for an envoy to pass through his army to seek aid from the French court. That the envoy returns with no such aid is little surprise, and Henry gives orders that a dais be prepared for the ceremony of the city's surrender. He'll do this properly, and impress upon those who still would hold out who was properly master of the city.
It's a matter of a week to settle his uncle Thomas in the city as its captain, and to convene a close council to hear the tenor of their wishes in returning to England, for that much, at least, he has in mind. His objective has been achieved, and there is little more he can or will do this year in France. But to return back the way they came, over the sea to Southampton, seems too much a retreat, for all that his commanders agree it would be best for the men - ill and wishing for home as they are.
"I will not simply retreat over the channel." Henry shakes his head, despite the dismay he can see in some of the faces around him. "I will have passports made for those who are ill, or have pressing news of family that requires their close attention, but for myself, and the rest, we will march to Calais, and take ship from there."
"Not the best of plans, Your Majesty." His uncle is ever blunt with his observations, and he shrugs at the raised eyebrow from Henry. "It is still your will to which they, and we, will bend, but you asked what our thoughts were on where next to go, and we have given you them."
"So noted, and yet I shall march to Calais." He has hopes that it would only take little more than a week to reach the coastal city, perhaps a fortnight at the worst, and he makes preparations for the march with that in mind.
What starts out a pleasant enough journey, with some small towns offering food and drink along the way, turns into a draining fortnight as they race the French along the Somme to a point where they might cross. Still several days march from Calais, and exhausted when a small party comes riding to meet them, with the only familiar face among them being that of Montjoye.
Henry watches the heralds - for heralds they must be, as he can see no weapons about them, nor armor, save tabards which bear the arms of their masters upon them - as they approach, reining in his own horse to wait for them to come closer. Robert draws his horse closer to Henry, as do Bedford and Gloucester. All waiting to hear what the heralds have to tell them, though there is little doubt of what it might be.
"Your Majesty." Montjoye bows his head briefly as he brings his horse to a halt a comfortable distance from the small party waiting for him. "Your Highness, my lords. From the Constable of France, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, I bring greetings, and likewise from the king, my master."
"And what message from them do you bear?" Henry watches Montjoye patiently, though the herald's expression is unreadable now, when he is surrounded by armed men and must have some small fear for his life if the message is one Henry does not like. No matter that Henry knows full well he has charged his soldiers not to assault the French, nor otherwise cause them harm, even when he must dispense justice to those who would rebel against their rightful lord.
"The king, my master, says that he might have rebuked you at Harfleur, had he thought it good time to constrain your bloody chevauchée, and commands you look to your ransom. For my lord Constable, and the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon stand now to challenge your army in open battle, as commanded by His Majesty."
Silence reigns a moment before Henry tilts his head briefly in Montjoye's direction. "Your message thus delivered, turn back, and take this to your masters all," he says just loudly enough for the other heralds to hear as well. "That we do not seek battle, but nor shall we turn aside to avoid it, though all of France and what neighbors would stand with her bar the road between here and Calais. No ransom shall they have of me, nor of those who march with me but bones and blood."
Montjoye once more bows his head in acknowledgement of the message. "I shall so deliver it, Your Majesty."
Henry has no doubt he will, words and tone alike, though there is a faint pensiveness about his expression as he turns his horse away, returning along the same road now that he has delivered his message to Henry. First, no doubt, taking the message to what army awaits them before he would ride on to deliver it also to his king. But with what thoughts in his head, that he had such an expression on his face, Henry can't tell, and after a moment's thought, dismisses the concern for now.
Instead turning his thoughts to what lies ahead on the road as he gives the order to march on, already contemplating how to win a battle against what army waits for them, traces of which he can see in the road - wagons and horses and men in great numbers. Larger an army, certainly, than his own.
Four days later, they cross another river, smaller than the Somme, and catch the first glimpse of what army awaits them. Three, perhaps four men to every one of his, and impressive in armor that gleams in the weak sunlight. The afternoon is spent trying to pick the ground on which to fight, and preparing for a battle that would be fought the next day. And watching the French, trying to discern numbers and composition of the army that he faces.
Men at arms, certainly, and cavalry, those he can see. Even a cannon, though if they will use it, he is uncertain. After all, to do so, they will risk the loss of honor, and that is something Henry doubts they will wish. What he sees all but nothing of are archers of any sort, even ones bearing a heavier crossbow rather than a good longbow. A failing, he thinks, and smiles faintly to himself.
"Would that we had another ten thousand archers, and the arrows to spare for them." The comment comes from one of the knights in his retinue behind him, though he can't see which, and Henry shakes his head.
"Those we have shall suffice, God willing, and as I have done all justly and with proper reverence to him, I should think he will smile upon us." He watches the French across the field for a moment longer before turning away. "There will be no battle today, and I would have the men get what sleep they may. Give orders that the night shall be spent strictly in silence, and camp made."
And while his nobility scatter to do as he's told them, Henry turns his attention to the prisoners they have taken from Harfleur, and who have marched with them from that place. Commanding that they should be released - but only on condition that they return to their captivity should the English win the field on the morrow. It gives him more men to spare for the battle, and he needs every man he can field.
The night is spent in tense silence, though Henry has little doubt most of his men eventually sleep, despite the cold rain that begins with the setting of the sun. He finds little of it himself, and abandons the pretense before dawn to ensure he's armed and armored well before there is a stirring in the French camp across the muddy fields they'll fight on today.
Robert joins him for masses as the sun rises, his armor no more and no less than that of the other archers. Save that no other bears the arms of England on their surcoat, even differenced as his are to let all who see know that here is the Prince of Wales, the heir to Henry's throne. A valuable hostage, should they capture him, for all that Henry has denied there shall be ransom for any captured English.
After, Robert is drawn with the other archers to the wings where Henry has ordered them, safely surrounded by men who will die to keep him safe and out of the hands of the French - not when he chose to accompany them on this march rather than take ship for England when given the chance. A gesture that is not lost on Henry, and draws a smile to his face at his son's quiet loyalty, even if perhaps merely to him.
A smile that fades after a moment, and Henry secures his bascinet, with the gleaming circle of gold fixed to its crown to draw the eye, and mounts his horse. His banners are raised, and the line of battle spreads across the field as he's ordered it, a thin enough line, but ready. Waiting for the French across the field in their glittering steel to charge to meet them. A wait that is more prolonged than he likes, and Henry narrows his eyes after long hours, and draws a breath.
"Now is good time, with all of England praying for us. Therefor, with good cheer let us go upon our journey." His voice carries to those closest, but not much further, and he raises his voice in a battlefield bellow that he knows most of his men will hear. "In the name of Almighty God, and Saint George, avaunt banner! And Saint George, this day thine help!"
There is some brightening of the expressions around him, and Henry nudges his horse into motion, picking his careful way across the muddy field until the archers are within range of the French. A slow smile crosses his face as the archers drive their stakes, waiting patiently for the first volley, which has the desired effect. The cavalry charge goes as awry as he hopes, and he draws his sword as he waits for the advancing French.
From there, his world both narrows and broadens, target and strike, maneuver and command. The first are so deeply ingrained they are instinct and reaction that never rise to the level of thought, the second learned in much the same uncompromising school as the first. Only when the first two battles stand captured to the rear, or dying in the clinging mud can he allow himself to let go of some of that strange mood that is the grip of battle.
Two battles, when there were three drawn up that he had seen at the start of the day - and a third, many mounted, still wait on the high ground. Not yet attacking, and yet, if they do, there is the risk his victory, tenuous, could become defeat, and rob England of king and heir in one blow. Henry can't afford that, and he watches them for a long moment before having Robert come to him, and some of the archers with him.
"Get the prisoners off the field. If they refuse to move, kill them." They are as much a risk as the cavalry that looms on the top of the low hill, and for all the protests he can hear now coming from those men-at-arms who expect a ransom, he cannot afford the risk. And he can see none of the doubt of his men-at-arms in his son's eyes, as Robert nods, drawing himself up with a dignity Henry thinks he could not have emulated at that age.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
It is a command that perhaps later Henry will regret, but it is one that is effective - the archers are without arrows, and can be spared, and when a few of the most stubborn prisoners fall prey to the archer's daggers, the rest allow themselves to be herded away. And perhaps it is that which convinces the last of the French to yield the day, and leave the field.
Allowing Henry to have the heralds come from their places observing the battle, accepting the formal bow that Montjoye makes from his saddle with a nod, waiting patiently for the words that he must gain from the French herald. To formalize his victory, and perhaps to find what village lies closest to the fields they've fought upon.
"The day is yours, Your Majesty." There is nothing else Montjoye can say, and he doesn't waste breath on more elaborate words of surrender, his face expressionless save for the agony that lurks in his eyes for the sheer numbers of the dead. "With your leave, that we may count the dead and put name to what bodies we might."
"You so have it, good herald. What is the name of the village that lies nearest?" Henry needs perhaps a bit more than that to truly start handling the aftermath of the battle, but the rest, he shall ask after the dead have been counted and what might be stripped from the bodies has been.
"Agincourt." Montjoye looks curious a moment, before Henry says to name the battle after it, and then he merely nods, his expression shuttered once more. Another bow, and he takes his leave to do as he's asked to be allowed, though Henry catches the gleam of pain in his eyes again as he turns his horse toward the battlefield.
Henry directs his own horse toward Maisoncelle, giving orders that they'll spend the night there again before preparing to march for Calais in the morning. And to strip the bodies of what can be used, outfitting each man with what they need, and burning the rest. He is looking forward to sleeping that night, better than he had the night before.
Sleep that he finds he'll be denied, as one of the archers comes to fetch him while he's still giving orders, and waiting to hear the numbers and names of the dead. It seems his son has the full measure of his own stubborn nature, and it's taken the battle being over for Robert to admit to having been injured in a too-close encounter with some French man-at-arms during the battle. If only in collapsing once out of sight of the prisoners, and being taken into one of the houses of Maisoncelle, where the royal physician is already in attendance.
"He will recover well enough, Your Majesty." The physician doesn't even give him a chance to speak, glancing up a moment when the door opens before returning his attention to his careful stitches. "The wound isn't very deep, and I have cleaned it well with wine to help prevent him from taking wound-fever." He tilts his head slightly to the waiting pot of honey. "That shall assist further, once spread upon the wound, if Your Majesty would recall some years ago his own experience. There shall barely be a scar to upset Her Majesty."
That recalls the promise Henry had made to Blanche before leaving England, and while he shall tell her he had done all he might, there is some small doubt that he had done. Save that he knows he would not have been able to keep Robert with the baggage - his son would have chafed much at being left inactive when he'd been meant to learn some of the realities of war from this sortie. He had done as he'd said, and kept Robert with the archers where he was safest, for all that he'd not been entirely safe from harm in the end.
He settles on a stool near the bed where Robert is lying with eyes screwed tightly shut, as the physician does his work. Reaching out a hand to press it against Robert's shoulder, feeling the tension in the young frame as his son tries to hold still for the needle that is sewing up his flesh.
"I've given him a dose of poppy syrup, if less than I'd like for the pain." The physician gives Robert a mildly exasperated look, though there's little surprise there. He's been in his position long enough to know well the stubborn nature of Henry and his children, having treated all of them for one or another illness or injury. "And he should travel in a horse litter if that may be contrived, rather than atop his horse."
"No matter what you think of such a thing, Your Highness," he adds when Robert lets out a huff. "And if it hurts rather a bit more than you expected, perhaps you ought to have accepted the full dose of poppy syrup."
A recommendation that Henry listens to, despite Robert's protests, the physician riding near the litter to keep a close eye on his patient, and Henry on the other side. The march to Calais is uneventful, the French army broken and scattering without providing further resistance. Only once they have arrived in Calais does trouble show its face once more, in the lack of supplies to give his army even a few days rest, and it takes a great effort to find all he needs to return his soldiers to England while he remains. He'll return soon enough, once everything that must be settled has been, and he has given London time enough to prepare as they wish for his return - and Blanche the same.
When news arrives of the battle, Blanche is glad for the quiet company of her brother's wife, and of Lady Margaret. No matter that Henry won the day, though it does give her some comfort that they will be returning rather than a demand coming for the ransom of her husband and son, a battle on open ground had still been fought, and that would risk Robert, no matter how well protected he might be.
The pealing of church bells doesn't raise her spirits any, and she frets until the message comes that Henry and Robert have landed at Dover, over a fortnight later. Along with a brief note that they shall come to the manor at Eltham before entering London, and that has Blanche determinedly moving her small retinue and the children to the manor so she might greet the return of Henry and Robert sooner.
A greeting marred by Robert's grimace and stiff movement when he slides from his horse, and the physician's close attendance to her son. Blanche presses her lips together to keep from asking what has happened in sharper a tone than should be taken in full view of all, though she can see in Henry's expression that he knows what she wishes to ask. Enough, she hopes, that he will give her the full tale of all that has happened, even that which will cause her some grief.
She follows Robert and the physician inside as Margaret and Edward all but attach themselves to Henry's sides, loudly demanding tales of the last three months and the fighting that has kept their father from home. She only hopes they don't attempt to recreate the siege or battle in their play, or she will have more to worry about than whatever has happened to Robert.
"He will be well enough with some rest, Your Majesty." The physician slows his steps a moment to drop back to walk beside her once Robert shakes off his supporting arm with a wordless, irritable sigh. "The wound is healing well enough, and shallow as it was, I do not think there shall be even all that much of a scar."
Words meant to soothe her worries, though Blanche hopes they are honest in as far as the physician will speak of what has happened. Knowing that will better bring calm to her frayed spirit than anything else. "Can you tell me what happened, that my son was injured? Save what must be easily imagined, that it happened in that battle at Agincourt."
"More than that you shall have to ask His Highness or His Majesty, as I have only the knowledge pressed upon me by His Highness' comrades and the viewing of the wound when I was brought to provide care for it. And that I shall not describe, if Your Majesty will forgive me, if neither His Highness nor His Majesty ask that it be done."
The physician looks at her a moment before returning his gaze to Robert, watching him carefully as they turn down the corridor on which Robert's room is. "So long as His Highness rests as he is instructed, there should not even be need for Your Majesty to dote more closely upon him than you would your other children."
Blanche frowns a moment before she draws a deep breath, thinking on Robert's shrugging off the help of the physician, and nodding. Her close attention to her son may well be unwelcome, though she worries for him, and would do all she might to keep him safe and well. She keeps silent as she thinks, searching for a solution even as she makes sure Robert is safely tucked into his bed, with a page sent to bring dinner for him as the physician instructed.
Only in returning to the solar, and the bright cheer of Margaret and Edward cajoling Henry for more stories, does she hit upon what might be the best way to keep Robert resting as he's told. A small smile crosses her face as she watches her family a moment, and adds keeping her elder daughter and younger son out of mischief to what having them keep Robert company might do. If, at least, she has them remain under the careful eye of one of their nurses.
"Perhaps you might see if Robert would wish some company for his dinner, to tell his own tales of France." She meets Henry's gaze over the children's heads as they fall quiet, blond heads bent toward each other as they exchange whispers. Seeing new lines etched into his face, and a hint of grief lurking in his eyes that she doubts he'd let show around the children.
She waits until the older two have gone to take up her suggestion before telling Joan's nurse to take her to the garden, to let her play there a while and give Blanche and Henry some quiet to make their own delayed greetings.
"He is whole, even if I shall worry about whatever wound he took." Blanche's voice is quiet, and she crosses the room once she shuts the door. Watching Henry's face fall into more tired lines, the cheer melting away once there is some privacy. She bites her lips a moment before cupping his face in her hands and leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. Meeting his gaze when she draws back, searching to see if she might discern something of his thoughts. "And I think though you do not show any sign that you have taken an injury to your body, you have not come back as whole as I might wish."
Henry is quiet a long moment, looking away with a faint frown and a distance in his expression that she's not seen before. "I would wish not nearly so many dead as have fallen, even those who stood across the field at Agincourt to bar the way to Calais. For God's protection I will give thanks, but it does not take away the folly of the French that cost them so many dead on that field."
There's little she can say to that, save to reach for his hand, tugging him after her from the solar to their bed room. Carefully undressing him, and then herself; offering him what solace he might find in her body and affection, to perhaps wear at the edges of his anger and grief so they don't cut so deep.