hands over to the pansensorum.
“No-no, I don’t think I am,” Freya protested as Vivienne stuck in her ear plugs. “Listen, wait-I found-”
But Vivienne whipped the top into a spin and the room gave a lurch. Freya grabbed for a chair and pulled herself onto it.
II
London
Henry sat in his cell, more than a broken man-a broken king. Only fifty years old, Henry looked a hundred. He had seen too much of this world; his heart longed for the next. When would he see golden skies? How long would he be forced to endure the arduous pain of this world? The horror of existence?
There was a rattle at the door and it opened. The guard, without a word, let a hooded man into the narrow room.
“You,” Henry said. It was a declaration more than a statement. An accusation. “You. .”
He didn’t have the energy to hate anymore. He was tired-all passion had left his body. He stared down at his old, impotent hands.
Ealdstan took down his hood and stared at the king, who turned weary, wet eyes up at him. For the briefest moment, Ealdstan experienced an unfamiliar sensation-that of looking into eyes older than his own. With a shift that he felt in his gut, the feeling passed and he was staring instead into the cloudy eyes of a sad, beaten madman. He took a few steps toward the window, and Henry, as though possessing no will of his own, also turned his face to the bars.
The sky was shades of russet and orange, fading into a light purple.
“I never betrayed you,” Ealdstan said. “You must think that I did, but I always did what was best for the kingdom, for the crown.”
Ealdstan turned from the window to see that Henry had also turned away. “You are in your silent mood again.”
“No. No, I am not. I am just tired. It is exhausting. First ruling, then deposed, then enthroned once again, only to be deposed once more. All the fighting, all the battles. English blood on English soil for the first time in over a hundred years. How did I fail my people? Where have I erred?”
“They wanted leadership. They wanted safety.”
“I would have led them to safety. I would have led them to piety.”
“They would sooner have the safety that victory over your enemies promised. A warm bed and a full belly. Even very pious men falter with a blade at their neck.”
“‘My enemies.’ I never understood that phrase. We are all brothers. We all bear the burdens of reality in this world. Who is my enemy? God knows, I have been an enemy to many, but has a man ever been mine?”
“You are too philosophical-that has always been your weakness.” Ealdstan sucked in his breath at this last word-the word he had told himself not to say. Weakness was the beginning and end with this man. It would not do to taunt him. “The opposer is in every man you meet. You say every enemy is your brother-every brother is your enemy. We war not just outside the world, but within ourselves also, for the opposer is also there. The evil builds in season, like a flood tide, and will one day overrun us and wash away all that cannot stand.”
“And will you rouse your sleepers and save us at that time?”
“You could have been strong. You could have more readily drawn strength from others. Your wife, for instance.”
“I would have been stronger if I let others fight for me, you mean?” Henry looked up, his eyes flashing. “Is that strength? Or is strength the power to stand for peace when all around you war? You who have known. . how many kings now? In your wisdom, perhaps you can answer me this question: Why do hands clenching swords inspire men more than hands clenched in prayer? Why are there always far more willing to rip apart than to knit together?”
“Your father knew the reason. He brought peace, and he carried a sword.”
“Father’s victories were the worst part about him. If he were to have died at Agincourt, or somewhere along his French campaigns. .” Henry was lost in wishes and thoughts he dared not speak.
“And he saddled me with a nation falling apart, piece by piece, like a castle of sand washed into the sea. I was never a warrior. I was not the man he was. I have walked the battlefields of England and seen Lancastrian fathers weeping for Yorkist sons. A man was brought to me for the crime of looting the battlefield. He was distraught, inconsolable. While rummaging through one of the stiffening bodies, he prised a golden bauble from cold hands that he himself had once owned and given to his son on his marriage. It wasn’t until he held it in his own hands that he recognised the form of the body beneath him. What is a rational man’s response to this madness? And what is a king’s? It is the curse of the king that the curse of the nation be visited on his body. My own subjects war against me, just as my mind wars against my body. I loved my father, I truly did, but I have often wondered, if he had lived to see me grown, would he have even known me for his own? What do you think?”
“The old king was religious, in his own, direct way. He owned a warrior’s piety. He would have recognised that in you.”
“And you? What do you think?” He turned his gaze up, this time a young child looking for approval. Ealdstan felt sick.
Weak, he wanted to say. Weak in mind and body. He could almost spit bile at the limp, pathetic lump of flesh that had once owned the throne and yet now rotted in prison.
“I know what you think,” Henry said, bowing his head. “You think I was just unlucky. Some days I think God torments me for a purpose, in order to teach me and the kingdom; other times I think He just does it to prove how powerless we all are before His magnificence.”
“There’s still a chance for you. The people still love you-you can unite them. But you must follow my lead!”
“No,” Henry said, shaking his head. “No, I know where you would lead me. I know the cost you would extract from something the Lord knows is only too poor.”
“Please, I ask you for your sake.”
“Never. I will never give you what you ask of me-it goes against every nature of my spirit. It was never I who weakened these isles-it was you. Only ever you.”
Ealdstan frowned. And that frown became hard and set. How dare he?
“So be it,” Ealdstan said. “You brought this on yourself.” He raised his staff high, almost to the ceiling, and then brought it down on King Henry VI’s head.
The king groaned and rolled onto the floor. Ealdstan restrained himself from issuing more blows and knelt beside the figure, pressing a hand to the prone man’s chest and whispering an incantation of stopping.
Henry grimaced in pain. Or was he smiling? Was that a gasp or a laugh? His lips were moving. Ealdstan halted his incantation. “What is it?”
“I see. . I see. .” the king whispered.
“What do you see, old man?”
Henry swallowed, throat dry, almost choking. “I see. .”
“What? What?”
His eyes swivelled sightlessly. “Golden skies.” And then he died.
Ealdstan rose and looked out the window. It was dark.
“God save me from pious kings,” he said.
He knocked on the door and the guard let him out.
