|
|||||||||
| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
|
Falstaff
|
|||||||||
|
“But Sir John, I saw you die.”
I ran my stubby fingers over my sparse, white beard. “You heard of my death. You may have even seen my corpse in the street, or in the ground. But as I am not dead, you could not have witnessed it. Now drink.” That gave him pause, but it would take more than a moment’s breathe to recover from the thumping I’d given him. At first pass, he refused to drink of my flask, but he understood that he was beaten already, his refusal symbolic only, and swallowed whole. He made a face as the liquid passed over his tongue, then when he spoke his voice was only a whisper. “I saw you in that tavern alive, and your king dead, when it was you who should be dead. I knew the two could not be separate events.” “I doubt it to be true- you did not stumble upon me- I came here for you.” “You’re a liar, Sir John, and we’ve known long enough not to trust you.” “My lies, yes… the histories would have you believe that Prince Henry killed Hotspur Percy at Shrewsbury, that I took credit for his victory. Henry was 16 at the time, and gangly even for that age. Hotspur was a man of 39, who had fought enough and fiercely to earn his name as a horseman. Hotspur was impetuous- and that was his downfall- but it was not at the sword of Henry, nor in truth at the end of a sword at all.” “In the heat of battle, Hotspur lifted the visor on his plate for fresher air, only to have a bolt lodge in his jaw. I have little doubt Henry fired that bolt; he was one of very few on the field to carry a crossbow. But Hotspur was removed from the field, and taken to a tent with his surgeon, and here is where my claim at his death originates. You see, a noble may not die from even so grievous a wound; Henry himself survived an arrow through his cheek that day, due to the skill of his father’s surgeon.” “The conflict has been called part of the war of roses; Henry fought under the red rose of Lancaster, Hotspur under the white rose of York. So with white rose thread through my tunic, I walked cross Hotspur’s line unchecked. I was nary bothered at the entrance to his surgeon’s tent, where I killed patient and physician in silence upon a dagger. The better part of valour is discretion. I see ‘coward’ quiver on your lips; to kill a noble man in darkness is better than to kill a hundred-fifty peasants in day’s light, and that was the bargain I struck when I struck him down. His rebellion ended there- though his father’s agitation did not.” “As to others of my lies, the king is dead, that much is true, but my hands were not upon him for a cause, neither by touch nor by spirit, and I mourn him. No father should outlive his son- and no servant outlive his king.” “He permitted the church to hang you.” “We permitted the church its spectacle, and their acquiescence bought their continued salvation.” “I don’t understand; I saw you drunk, stumbling as you left, when I followed from the tavern.” “It’s soft cider, fool,” I said, splashing the remnants of the flagon across his face. “You thought me drunk; you thought me old; you thought me fat; you thought me weak. In sum, you thought naught at all. You saw the man I showed you, not the man who breathes here.” “But to business: you’ve been from Owain; I know he’s an old man, now, but he tried to kill Henry’s father, and I have little doubt he’ll try to murder Henry’s son for his crown. Speak quickly now, if you would not die as you have lived: a traitor to your king.” He coughed, and either I had talked too much, or he’d refused this last opportunity for confession. “I’ll find Owain, and the tuppence he’s given you won’t pay the ferryman’s toll, leave do you spit’s good now. Mayhaps you noticed your throat tighten- a poison, from an true apothecary whose drugs are quick.” His lips, already burned blue, curled in anguish. “I’ll prepare your place in hell, Lollard.” It was not an unsullied refrain, and I replied as I do: “I’ve done no wrong, simply performed in my vocation- and it is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.” “Vocation,” he chortled. “You’re a, thief. Heretic. Charlatan… murderer.” “I am the king’s man, and that’s all you bloody well need to know.” I pushed his head hard against the stone wall; it was necessary he die, that Owain be not counseled of my progress, but not that he feel it. |
|||||||||