Fic: To Mock the Expectation of the World
Title: To Mock the Expectation of the World
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard II / 1 Henry IV
Characters / Pairings: Hal, Humphrey, John, with random cameo appearances.
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 3342
Warnings: Occasional profanity, references to suicide.
Summary: There had been rumours--ghastly rumours--but Father had assured them there was nothing to fear. After all, Richard had suffered collapses before, and he'd come back. But that was before the decision that had rendered him--as he put it--inconvenient. It no longer seemed like an odd choice of words.
NB: Originally written for faithhopetricks for Yuletide NYR 2009, who asked for something about Hal. I suppose this technically takes place during Richard II, but it's got more direct impact on 1 Henry IV. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU.
Re: angevin2's remarks about collaboration -- I'm happy to leave this AU open for collaboration for the time being (it's already netted a very fun fic from speak_me_fair), although we do appreciate if people notify us first.
Of all the days of the year, it had to be the day of the Fives match. Humphrey Lancaster had never cared for his half-uncle Beaufort, but the man's singular lack of tact was beyond belief. Father would have mumbled something about Americans not quite comprehending the import of cricket in general and a match against Harrow in particular, but Beaufort had been born in London and bloody well ought to have known better.
All Humphrey knew was that Beaufort had turned up to speak to Harry, and that Harry had vanished. Which left Eton without their best batsman.
"I'm sorry, Humphrey," Beaufort was saying. If anyone had asked Humphrey--which nobody ever did, even if it was the sensible thing to do--he'd have pointed out that Beaufort didn't look sorry in the least. "He just ran off."
"Ran off?" Humphrey resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What precisely did you tell him?"
Beaufort shrugged. "I thought he knew your cousin Richard was dead. May he rest in peace," he added with a quick genuflect.
Humphrey was vaguely aware that his mouth had dropped open, and forced himself to focus on the older man's face. "But...Richard was in Switzerland. For his health. Everybody knew that. You don't just die..." But the words were ringing more and more hollow. Harry hadn't had a letter from Cousin Richard for months now, and that wasn't like him at all. There had been rumours--ghastly rumours--but Father had assured them there was nothing to fear. After all, Richard had suffered collapses before, and he'd come back. But that was before the decision that had rendered him--as he put it--inconvenient. It no longer seemed like an odd choice of words.
"How did you know?" Humphrey demanded, eyes narrowing.
"Humphrey, really." Beaufort's smile was positively cloying. "You're so isolated here. I did think you and your brothers had been told. And, when you think about it, this is hardly a surprise. Everybody knew your cousin would come to a bad end." Fingering the collar of his cassock, he shook his head. "The wages of sin, Humphrey. The wages of sin."
Father would have disapproved. There was no question of that. But Humphrey turned on his heel and strode away without a second glance.
John was pacing back and forth in Harry's room, his face paled almost to the colour of his uniform. "Have you seen him?"
"What?" Humphrey closed the door behind him. "You mean Harry?"
"Have you seen him?" John repeated, and Humphrey ducked to avoid the dangerously waving cricket bat. "Where the hell is he?"
"Did you know Cousin Richard was dead?"
It was John's turn to stare. "What has that to do with anything?"
"Bloody Beaufort told Harry, and now Harry's gone." Humphrey sank onto the bed. "And, before you ask again, no, I don't know where."
"But..." John sputtered, "he can't be gone. We have a match. Harrow will be here any moment."
"Then use Harry Percy instead. Johnny," Humphrey took a deep breath, "we need to find Harry. Something isn't right about all this."
"Harry Percy has no sense of moderation."
"Well, unless you can engineer a miracle, he's what you've got."
Dropping the bat to the floor with a clatter, John buried his face in his hands. "You've got no idea where Harry might have gone?"
Humphrey gestured helplessly to the window. "Someplace that isn't here. And certainly not home. The last person he'd want to see is Father."
At that, John's head jerked up, eyes narrowed. "And what do you mean by that, exactly?"
"Johnny, you're not as dim as you look," he sighed. "Or as you pretend to be. Did you actually believe Father when he told us Cousin Richard was in Switzerland?"
"Of course I did. Where else would he be...have been...are you sure he's dead?"
"I haven't seen the body, if that's what you're asking," Humphrey said, rolling his eyes. "But doesn't it strike you as suspicious? That after Father took control of all of Cousin Richard's estates, he disappeared?"
"He's always been ill. That's what they said, Humphrey. The doctors declared him legally mad," John replied. "It's the only rational explanation for his behaviour. Everybody knew the balance of his mind was upset after Cousin Anne's accident..."
"...and I am clearly wasting my time," he concluded wearily. "I'll wait for Harry here if you don't mind. I can't concentrate on cricket right now."
John shook his head, but picked up his bat and stalked from the room, muttering a litany of curses against their absent elder brother. Humphrey sighed again, checked his watch, and examined Harry's bookcase for a few moments before settling on a battered copy of Bleak House.
It was testament to Mr Dickens' skill--or, just as easily, to Humphrey's ability to lose himself in a book under even the most trying of circumstances--that he barely looked up from the book until he'd finished it, pausing only to light the lamp at sunset, and roll his eyes at John when he stumbled in well after dark, smelling of Pimm's and taking back every criticism he'd ever made of Harry Percy.
He'd only just set the book down to doze for a short while when a knock on the door jolted him awake, heart hammering against his ribs. "Who's there?"
The door opened to admit what had to be a first-year, judging from his size. "Are you Henry Lancaster's brother?" At Humphrey's nod, he continued, "There's someone here to see you."
The first awful thought was that it was his father, but Father surely had no reason to turn up at Eton at a quarter to one in the morning. Unless...no, he couldn't think about that. Swallowing his dread, Humphrey followed the younger boy down to Weston's Yard, where he saw a figure lounging against one of the walls and, though he would never admit it to anyone, for a split-second was convinced it was Cousin Richard come back from the dead.
"You must be Lancaster's brother." The sharp accent of East London dispelled any lingering illusions even before the man stepped into the light, fingers twitching at the collar of his cheap but fashionable suit. Even the tumbled, curly hair was far darker. Humphrey's heartbeat slowly began to return to normal. "You've got the look of him."
Humphrey shooed the first-year back toward the door and crossed his arms in the best manner of his father. Whatever bizarre fancies he was having, there was certainly nothing to be gained from admitting to them, least of all to strange men in dark corners. "And you are?"
"Name's Poins, if you please."
"You said you'd come from my brother. Why isn't he here, himself?"
Poins sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. "He's in a bad way. I 'spect he would have come, if he could walk. Drunk," he added quickly, seeing the expression on Humphrey's face, "nothing else. Just drunk. Very, very drunk."
Humphrey cursed under his breath. "Where is he?"
"Southwark. The Boar's Head Tavern. I can take you there, if you like. Though I'll warn you, he's drunk all the mistress' gin and had started on the whisky when I came to fetch you." He eyed Humphrey dubiously. "You'll need to pay the reckoning, I daresay."
"We'll see when we get there," Humphrey said, wincing inwardly at how much he sounded like John. "Right. I'll be back in a moment. If he's in that bad a state, I'll need some help."
He could hear John snoring from the far end of the corridor. Bracing himself and thanking God silently that his brother had been too drunk to lock the door, he pushed it open. John was sprawled across the bed, still in his cricket whites, and Humphrey carefully moved the bat out of reach before shaking him sharply by the arm.
"John! John, I need your help," he hissed. "We need to fetch Harry."
"Fuck Harry," muttered John, giving him a half-hearted shove. "...abandoned me. Leave me alone."
"You're a right bastard, you know that?"
"Humphrey, it is an ungodly hour of the morning, and I drank half a bottle of Pimm's. Why the hell are you here?"
"Harry needs our help," Humphrey snapped. "He's in Southwark."
"What on God's green earth is he doing there?"
"Drinking some poor woman out of house and home, from what I'm hearing."
John gave him a baleful glare. "And why precisely should I care?"
"Because he's our brother. Because he's unhappy." John's expression did not change. With an inward sigh that he was about to waste the best weapon in his arsenal on Harry's account, Humphrey hissed, "And because, if you don't, I will tell you in excruciating detail what Father's valet told me about him and a certain Philippa De--"
"Don't you dare--"
"Oh, I will. Excruciating detail."
For several seconds, they both glared at one another. Finally, muttering a steady stream of profanity under his breath, John crawled out of bed. "I am going to kill him. Then you."
"Best of luck with that. Now, hurry."
Much to Humphrey's relief, the mysterious Mr Poins was still waiting outside, despite John's taking an inordinately long time to change into something more suitable. With an unreadable look at John, he led them to a hansom cab waiting in the Slough Road--a hansom cab about which Humphrey refrained from asking, despite his gnawing curiosity.
The Boar's Head Tavern had an innocuous enough exterior, but the combination of cigarette smoke and stale beer hit Humphrey in a wave as he and John followed Poins through the swinging doors. There were blessedly few patrons left at this time of night, and he spotted Harry's bright head slumped against a corner table almost instantly.
After about thirty seconds of determined shaking, Harry opened his eyes and stared blearily about. "Where am I?"
"You," John informed him in tones of acid, "are in Southwark."
"Harry, you need to come with us," Humphrey said, pointedly ignoring John. "You're in a bad way, and we're here to take you home. To school, that is," he added quickly, "Not home."
Harry's head sank in what might have been relief or simply the result of the five or so bottles scattered around him. "Where's Jack?"
"Jack? Who on earth is Jack?"
"Sir John Falstaff," came a booming voice from behind them, and Humphrey turned to face an enormously fat man who looked to be perhaps ten years younger than his grandfather had been when he died. The floor creaked ominously beneath him as he bowed with a flourish of his cane. "At your service. You must be the brothers of this miscreant."
"You're one to talk," Harry retorted, wrinkling his nose. "Did you not just spend these interminable hours talking about your own misdeeds? Not, mind you, that I'm surprised you forgot. Men of your girth are seldom known for their wits."
John looked horrified, though it was difficult to discern whether the expression was directed at Sir John Falstaff or Harry's uncharacteristic rudeness. It would not have surprised Humphrey if both equally offended John's sensibilities. It was, after all, quite rare to find anything that didn't.
Falstaff, on the other hand, was roaring with laughter. "From the mouths of babes."
"We are all babes to one as ancient as--"
Humphrey stepped between the half-risen Harry and Falstaff, catching his brother round the waist. "Harry, we should go. We'll have a devil of a time finding a cab as it is."
From behind, he could hear Falstaff clearing his throat, accompanied by a decidedly female sniff. Standing beside the old man was a woman--he hesitated to call her a lady--of perhaps Humphrey's father's age, her cheeks bright with rouge above a dress meant for a woman half her years. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but your brother's drunk me out of house and home."
"I'm certain," John interjected darkly, gesturing at the empty bottles, "that Harry wasn't responsible for all of that."
Falstaff sighed. "You weren't here, sir."
"You matched me drink for drink," Harry slurred, his head slumping against Humphrey's shoulder. "Bloody liar."
"And you told me," Falstaff said, "that you'd pay the reckoning."
"I paid my half already!" From the corner of his eye, Humphrey could see several shadows detaching themselves to block the door. "Poins! Tell them!"
Poins held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Already tried, mate. Five against one, the odds aren't in my favour."
Humphrey dug into his pockets and pulled out what was left of this term's pocket money. "Here," he snarled, shoving it into the innkeeper's hand, "that should be more than enough."
"Afraid not, sir," she said with a shake of her head.
"Afraid not?" John all but shouted. "You'll take it and be--"
"That's enough, Johnny. Give me yours."
"Are you mad?"
"Give it to me."
John stared. "That's all my pocket money. Every last penny. I'm not giving it up because he," gesturing to the half-conscious Harry, "was stupid enough to get drunk in Southwark."
"John." Humphrey took a deep breath. "You can ask Father for more. Tell him you're upset about Cousin Richard."
"Bloody Cousin Richard. If it weren't for him and his nancy-boys, none of this would have happened."
"You shut up!" Before Humphrey knew what was happening, Harry had lunged at John, overturning a nearby table. Falstaff, despite his girth, was quick on his feet, snatching at Harry's arm as John backed away, his face suddenly white. "You don't know anything. You're a bloody fool, John Lancaster, and someday you'll realise it."
"That's enough from both of you!" Humphrey's voice carried rather more than he'd expected, and he held out his hand to John. "We're leaving. This has gone on long enough."
With a grimace, John handed him the wad of notes and coins. "I'm telling Father."
"I'm telling Father," mimicked Harry acidly. "Tell him all you like. He can rot in Hell for all I care."
"Harry!"
"Of course, he'll be there anyway," he murmured, eyes suddenly very far away. "Caïna or Judecca, I wonder. If your master was your kin..."
Humphrey groped for words, but found none. Instead, he slapped the money on the table, grabbed Harry's arm, and dragged him through the door. Unexpectedly at his elbow, he heard Poins' voice, "The hansom down the street. It's mine, so he won't ask for anything. Now, hurry."
With whispered thanks, Humphrey obeyed. He could hear John muttering something behind him, but keeping Harry upright required concentration enough that he didn't respond.
It was only when the hansom jolted into motion and they were several streets away from the Boar's Head that Humphrey finally managed to voice his question. "Do you really think he did it, Harry?"
The nod was barely perceptible, but Humphrey felt a pit open up in his stomach. "Even if it wasn't his hand, he was responsible. Whoever did it, it was on Father's behalf."
"He killed himself," John said without looking at them. "That's what Beaufort told me. Richard killed himself. He was mad, Harry. Everybody knew that."
"When did you speak to Beaufort?" Humphrey demanded.
"After you told me about Cousin Richard, what do you think I did?" John leant back against the cushioned seat. "Harry, I don't blame you for being upset, but you cannot honestly believe..."
Harry's eyes seemed slivers of ice in the wavering moonlight. "If you stopped lapping up every word Father said for half a second and allowed one original thought to penetrate that skull of yours, you'd understand that the last thing Cousin Richard would have wanted to do was die. All other things aside, I think he rather liked being an awkward inconvenience to Father." The brief smile, razor-edged, made Humphrey shudder. "What did Beaufort tell you, then? How did that grievous sinner meet his well-deserved end?"
For the first time, John looked visibly uncomfortable, a greenish tinge to his face. "Arsenic."
"And how, pray tell, does an inmate in a sanatorium, an asylum for the insane, come by arsenic? They don't call it the inheritance powder for nothing."
"He paid someone. I don't know how these things work in Switzerland. And it wasn't an asylum, it was a hospital..."
"An asylum, John. He never went to Switzerland. You know that as well as I do. You just don't want to believe it." Harry's voice was low, hypnotic, and John was watching him uneasily. "That was what happened the last time, too, except it was Grandfather sent him away. They said it was the Continent, but Richard told me--"
"And you believed him? He burnt Shene House to the ground trying to kill himself before, and you believed him?"
"John, stop," Humphrey tugged on his brother's arm. "This isn't helping."
"Of course it isn't. He's gone mad. As mad as Richard."
"And if they send me off for my health as they did him, you'd be the heir," Harry said, that same, chilling smile glittering in the darkness. "Don't tell me you haven't considered it."
"I've done nothing of the sort, and if you had half the sense you claim to have, you'd see that." John's voice shook, and he turned to stare into the darkness outside the window. "He doesn't deserve your loyalty, Harry."
"And Father does?"
"Father loves you." Humphrey was shocked to see what might have been tears at the corners of John's eyes. "He does, Harry. And he knows you always loved Richard best."
Harry's face could have been carved from stone. "The arsenic was only the beginning. Did Beaufort tell you that? He told me the pain was too much, that they found Richard in the bath with his wrists slit because he couldn't stand it anymore. Or maybe he was just taking too long."
"Harry, for God's sake--"
"What sort of person would inflict that much pain on themselves, John? If Richard had wanted to die, there are countless other ways he could have done it." Without warning, he let out a bark of laughter, balanced on a knife-edge of hysteria. "Arsenic leaves a dreadful corpse. He'd never have done that by choice."
"Harry, please stop," Humphrey hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Please."
"He was mad," John murmured. "Mad people are desperate."
"John, that's enough!" Humphrey's voice cracked, embarrassingly, and both his brothers turned to look at him. "Will you both just...be quiet?"
Harry nodded briefly and settled back against the seat. John eyed him dubiously, but did the same, and Humphrey let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. After a few moments, he said, "He's dead. We can't change that now. Whoever is responsible...there's nothing we can do."
"Not yet." Harry looked at him, his face unreadable. "It's only a matter of time."
"Do you really think that's going to help?" Humphrey hated how uncertain he sounded, how childish. "Harry?"
"I don't know," said Harry softly. "But I need to try, Humphrey. Do you understand?"
Humphrey nodded, and the smile Harry gave him in response almost quelled his fear. But then he remembered where he'd seen that smile before, and the image of bloodstained tiles flashed against his eyelids. "You won't..." he swallowed, "you won't do anything rash, will you?" Not like Richard, he wanted to say, but forced the words back.
"Nothing rash, I promise." Harry closed his eyes. "But unexpected, certainly. Ghosts always are."
Humphrey caught John's eye and shook his head briefly, willing his brother not to say anything. Thankfully, John obliged, turning to watch as dark streets gave way to the blackness of the countryside.
Ghosts always are. He shuddered, remembering his own reaction to Mr Poins earlier that night. There were ghosts everywhere now, it seemed, and not of Christmases, but of blood.
'Tis now the very witching time of night when churchyards yawn and hell itself breaks out contagion to this world.
Cousin Richard, it seemed, would not sleep in quiet.
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard II / 1 Henry IV
Characters / Pairings: Hal, Humphrey, John, with random cameo appearances.
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 3342
Warnings: Occasional profanity, references to suicide.
Summary: There had been rumours--ghastly rumours--but Father had assured them there was nothing to fear. After all, Richard had suffered collapses before, and he'd come back. But that was before the decision that had rendered him--as he put it--inconvenient. It no longer seemed like an odd choice of words.
NB: Originally written for faithhopetricks for Yuletide NYR 2009, who asked for something about Hal. I suppose this technically takes place during Richard II, but it's got more direct impact on 1 Henry IV. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU.
Re: angevin2's remarks about collaboration -- I'm happy to leave this AU open for collaboration for the time being (it's already netted a very fun fic from speak_me_fair), although we do appreciate if people notify us first.
Of all the days of the year, it had to be the day of the Fives match. Humphrey Lancaster had never cared for his half-uncle Beaufort, but the man's singular lack of tact was beyond belief. Father would have mumbled something about Americans not quite comprehending the import of cricket in general and a match against Harrow in particular, but Beaufort had been born in London and bloody well ought to have known better.
All Humphrey knew was that Beaufort had turned up to speak to Harry, and that Harry had vanished. Which left Eton without their best batsman.
"I'm sorry, Humphrey," Beaufort was saying. If anyone had asked Humphrey--which nobody ever did, even if it was the sensible thing to do--he'd have pointed out that Beaufort didn't look sorry in the least. "He just ran off."
"Ran off?" Humphrey resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What precisely did you tell him?"
Beaufort shrugged. "I thought he knew your cousin Richard was dead. May he rest in peace," he added with a quick genuflect.
Humphrey was vaguely aware that his mouth had dropped open, and forced himself to focus on the older man's face. "But...Richard was in Switzerland. For his health. Everybody knew that. You don't just die..." But the words were ringing more and more hollow. Harry hadn't had a letter from Cousin Richard for months now, and that wasn't like him at all. There had been rumours--ghastly rumours--but Father had assured them there was nothing to fear. After all, Richard had suffered collapses before, and he'd come back. But that was before the decision that had rendered him--as he put it--inconvenient. It no longer seemed like an odd choice of words.
"How did you know?" Humphrey demanded, eyes narrowing.
"Humphrey, really." Beaufort's smile was positively cloying. "You're so isolated here. I did think you and your brothers had been told. And, when you think about it, this is hardly a surprise. Everybody knew your cousin would come to a bad end." Fingering the collar of his cassock, he shook his head. "The wages of sin, Humphrey. The wages of sin."
Father would have disapproved. There was no question of that. But Humphrey turned on his heel and strode away without a second glance.
John was pacing back and forth in Harry's room, his face paled almost to the colour of his uniform. "Have you seen him?"
"What?" Humphrey closed the door behind him. "You mean Harry?"
"Have you seen him?" John repeated, and Humphrey ducked to avoid the dangerously waving cricket bat. "Where the hell is he?"
"Did you know Cousin Richard was dead?"
It was John's turn to stare. "What has that to do with anything?"
"Bloody Beaufort told Harry, and now Harry's gone." Humphrey sank onto the bed. "And, before you ask again, no, I don't know where."
"But..." John sputtered, "he can't be gone. We have a match. Harrow will be here any moment."
"Then use Harry Percy instead. Johnny," Humphrey took a deep breath, "we need to find Harry. Something isn't right about all this."
"Harry Percy has no sense of moderation."
"Well, unless you can engineer a miracle, he's what you've got."
Dropping the bat to the floor with a clatter, John buried his face in his hands. "You've got no idea where Harry might have gone?"
Humphrey gestured helplessly to the window. "Someplace that isn't here. And certainly not home. The last person he'd want to see is Father."
At that, John's head jerked up, eyes narrowed. "And what do you mean by that, exactly?"
"Johnny, you're not as dim as you look," he sighed. "Or as you pretend to be. Did you actually believe Father when he told us Cousin Richard was in Switzerland?"
"Of course I did. Where else would he be...have been...are you sure he's dead?"
"I haven't seen the body, if that's what you're asking," Humphrey said, rolling his eyes. "But doesn't it strike you as suspicious? That after Father took control of all of Cousin Richard's estates, he disappeared?"
"He's always been ill. That's what they said, Humphrey. The doctors declared him legally mad," John replied. "It's the only rational explanation for his behaviour. Everybody knew the balance of his mind was upset after Cousin Anne's accident..."
"...and I am clearly wasting my time," he concluded wearily. "I'll wait for Harry here if you don't mind. I can't concentrate on cricket right now."
John shook his head, but picked up his bat and stalked from the room, muttering a litany of curses against their absent elder brother. Humphrey sighed again, checked his watch, and examined Harry's bookcase for a few moments before settling on a battered copy of Bleak House.
It was testament to Mr Dickens' skill--or, just as easily, to Humphrey's ability to lose himself in a book under even the most trying of circumstances--that he barely looked up from the book until he'd finished it, pausing only to light the lamp at sunset, and roll his eyes at John when he stumbled in well after dark, smelling of Pimm's and taking back every criticism he'd ever made of Harry Percy.
He'd only just set the book down to doze for a short while when a knock on the door jolted him awake, heart hammering against his ribs. "Who's there?"
The door opened to admit what had to be a first-year, judging from his size. "Are you Henry Lancaster's brother?" At Humphrey's nod, he continued, "There's someone here to see you."
The first awful thought was that it was his father, but Father surely had no reason to turn up at Eton at a quarter to one in the morning. Unless...no, he couldn't think about that. Swallowing his dread, Humphrey followed the younger boy down to Weston's Yard, where he saw a figure lounging against one of the walls and, though he would never admit it to anyone, for a split-second was convinced it was Cousin Richard come back from the dead.
"You must be Lancaster's brother." The sharp accent of East London dispelled any lingering illusions even before the man stepped into the light, fingers twitching at the collar of his cheap but fashionable suit. Even the tumbled, curly hair was far darker. Humphrey's heartbeat slowly began to return to normal. "You've got the look of him."
Humphrey shooed the first-year back toward the door and crossed his arms in the best manner of his father. Whatever bizarre fancies he was having, there was certainly nothing to be gained from admitting to them, least of all to strange men in dark corners. "And you are?"
"Name's Poins, if you please."
"You said you'd come from my brother. Why isn't he here, himself?"
Poins sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. "He's in a bad way. I 'spect he would have come, if he could walk. Drunk," he added quickly, seeing the expression on Humphrey's face, "nothing else. Just drunk. Very, very drunk."
Humphrey cursed under his breath. "Where is he?"
"Southwark. The Boar's Head Tavern. I can take you there, if you like. Though I'll warn you, he's drunk all the mistress' gin and had started on the whisky when I came to fetch you." He eyed Humphrey dubiously. "You'll need to pay the reckoning, I daresay."
"We'll see when we get there," Humphrey said, wincing inwardly at how much he sounded like John. "Right. I'll be back in a moment. If he's in that bad a state, I'll need some help."
He could hear John snoring from the far end of the corridor. Bracing himself and thanking God silently that his brother had been too drunk to lock the door, he pushed it open. John was sprawled across the bed, still in his cricket whites, and Humphrey carefully moved the bat out of reach before shaking him sharply by the arm.
"John! John, I need your help," he hissed. "We need to fetch Harry."
"Fuck Harry," muttered John, giving him a half-hearted shove. "...abandoned me. Leave me alone."
"You're a right bastard, you know that?"
"Humphrey, it is an ungodly hour of the morning, and I drank half a bottle of Pimm's. Why the hell are you here?"
"Harry needs our help," Humphrey snapped. "He's in Southwark."
"What on God's green earth is he doing there?"
"Drinking some poor woman out of house and home, from what I'm hearing."
John gave him a baleful glare. "And why precisely should I care?"
"Because he's our brother. Because he's unhappy." John's expression did not change. With an inward sigh that he was about to waste the best weapon in his arsenal on Harry's account, Humphrey hissed, "And because, if you don't, I will tell you in excruciating detail what Father's valet told me about him and a certain Philippa De--"
"Don't you dare--"
"Oh, I will. Excruciating detail."
For several seconds, they both glared at one another. Finally, muttering a steady stream of profanity under his breath, John crawled out of bed. "I am going to kill him. Then you."
"Best of luck with that. Now, hurry."
Much to Humphrey's relief, the mysterious Mr Poins was still waiting outside, despite John's taking an inordinately long time to change into something more suitable. With an unreadable look at John, he led them to a hansom cab waiting in the Slough Road--a hansom cab about which Humphrey refrained from asking, despite his gnawing curiosity.
The Boar's Head Tavern had an innocuous enough exterior, but the combination of cigarette smoke and stale beer hit Humphrey in a wave as he and John followed Poins through the swinging doors. There were blessedly few patrons left at this time of night, and he spotted Harry's bright head slumped against a corner table almost instantly.
After about thirty seconds of determined shaking, Harry opened his eyes and stared blearily about. "Where am I?"
"You," John informed him in tones of acid, "are in Southwark."
"Harry, you need to come with us," Humphrey said, pointedly ignoring John. "You're in a bad way, and we're here to take you home. To school, that is," he added quickly, "Not home."
Harry's head sank in what might have been relief or simply the result of the five or so bottles scattered around him. "Where's Jack?"
"Jack? Who on earth is Jack?"
"Sir John Falstaff," came a booming voice from behind them, and Humphrey turned to face an enormously fat man who looked to be perhaps ten years younger than his grandfather had been when he died. The floor creaked ominously beneath him as he bowed with a flourish of his cane. "At your service. You must be the brothers of this miscreant."
"You're one to talk," Harry retorted, wrinkling his nose. "Did you not just spend these interminable hours talking about your own misdeeds? Not, mind you, that I'm surprised you forgot. Men of your girth are seldom known for their wits."
John looked horrified, though it was difficult to discern whether the expression was directed at Sir John Falstaff or Harry's uncharacteristic rudeness. It would not have surprised Humphrey if both equally offended John's sensibilities. It was, after all, quite rare to find anything that didn't.
Falstaff, on the other hand, was roaring with laughter. "From the mouths of babes."
"We are all babes to one as ancient as--"
Humphrey stepped between the half-risen Harry and Falstaff, catching his brother round the waist. "Harry, we should go. We'll have a devil of a time finding a cab as it is."
From behind, he could hear Falstaff clearing his throat, accompanied by a decidedly female sniff. Standing beside the old man was a woman--he hesitated to call her a lady--of perhaps Humphrey's father's age, her cheeks bright with rouge above a dress meant for a woman half her years. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but your brother's drunk me out of house and home."
"I'm certain," John interjected darkly, gesturing at the empty bottles, "that Harry wasn't responsible for all of that."
Falstaff sighed. "You weren't here, sir."
"You matched me drink for drink," Harry slurred, his head slumping against Humphrey's shoulder. "Bloody liar."
"And you told me," Falstaff said, "that you'd pay the reckoning."
"I paid my half already!" From the corner of his eye, Humphrey could see several shadows detaching themselves to block the door. "Poins! Tell them!"
Poins held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Already tried, mate. Five against one, the odds aren't in my favour."
Humphrey dug into his pockets and pulled out what was left of this term's pocket money. "Here," he snarled, shoving it into the innkeeper's hand, "that should be more than enough."
"Afraid not, sir," she said with a shake of her head.
"Afraid not?" John all but shouted. "You'll take it and be--"
"That's enough, Johnny. Give me yours."
"Are you mad?"
"Give it to me."
John stared. "That's all my pocket money. Every last penny. I'm not giving it up because he," gesturing to the half-conscious Harry, "was stupid enough to get drunk in Southwark."
"John." Humphrey took a deep breath. "You can ask Father for more. Tell him you're upset about Cousin Richard."
"Bloody Cousin Richard. If it weren't for him and his nancy-boys, none of this would have happened."
"You shut up!" Before Humphrey knew what was happening, Harry had lunged at John, overturning a nearby table. Falstaff, despite his girth, was quick on his feet, snatching at Harry's arm as John backed away, his face suddenly white. "You don't know anything. You're a bloody fool, John Lancaster, and someday you'll realise it."
"That's enough from both of you!" Humphrey's voice carried rather more than he'd expected, and he held out his hand to John. "We're leaving. This has gone on long enough."
With a grimace, John handed him the wad of notes and coins. "I'm telling Father."
"I'm telling Father," mimicked Harry acidly. "Tell him all you like. He can rot in Hell for all I care."
"Harry!"
"Of course, he'll be there anyway," he murmured, eyes suddenly very far away. "Caïna or Judecca, I wonder. If your master was your kin..."
Humphrey groped for words, but found none. Instead, he slapped the money on the table, grabbed Harry's arm, and dragged him through the door. Unexpectedly at his elbow, he heard Poins' voice, "The hansom down the street. It's mine, so he won't ask for anything. Now, hurry."
With whispered thanks, Humphrey obeyed. He could hear John muttering something behind him, but keeping Harry upright required concentration enough that he didn't respond.
It was only when the hansom jolted into motion and they were several streets away from the Boar's Head that Humphrey finally managed to voice his question. "Do you really think he did it, Harry?"
The nod was barely perceptible, but Humphrey felt a pit open up in his stomach. "Even if it wasn't his hand, he was responsible. Whoever did it, it was on Father's behalf."
"He killed himself," John said without looking at them. "That's what Beaufort told me. Richard killed himself. He was mad, Harry. Everybody knew that."
"When did you speak to Beaufort?" Humphrey demanded.
"After you told me about Cousin Richard, what do you think I did?" John leant back against the cushioned seat. "Harry, I don't blame you for being upset, but you cannot honestly believe..."
Harry's eyes seemed slivers of ice in the wavering moonlight. "If you stopped lapping up every word Father said for half a second and allowed one original thought to penetrate that skull of yours, you'd understand that the last thing Cousin Richard would have wanted to do was die. All other things aside, I think he rather liked being an awkward inconvenience to Father." The brief smile, razor-edged, made Humphrey shudder. "What did Beaufort tell you, then? How did that grievous sinner meet his well-deserved end?"
For the first time, John looked visibly uncomfortable, a greenish tinge to his face. "Arsenic."
"And how, pray tell, does an inmate in a sanatorium, an asylum for the insane, come by arsenic? They don't call it the inheritance powder for nothing."
"He paid someone. I don't know how these things work in Switzerland. And it wasn't an asylum, it was a hospital..."
"An asylum, John. He never went to Switzerland. You know that as well as I do. You just don't want to believe it." Harry's voice was low, hypnotic, and John was watching him uneasily. "That was what happened the last time, too, except it was Grandfather sent him away. They said it was the Continent, but Richard told me--"
"And you believed him? He burnt Shene House to the ground trying to kill himself before, and you believed him?"
"John, stop," Humphrey tugged on his brother's arm. "This isn't helping."
"Of course it isn't. He's gone mad. As mad as Richard."
"And if they send me off for my health as they did him, you'd be the heir," Harry said, that same, chilling smile glittering in the darkness. "Don't tell me you haven't considered it."
"I've done nothing of the sort, and if you had half the sense you claim to have, you'd see that." John's voice shook, and he turned to stare into the darkness outside the window. "He doesn't deserve your loyalty, Harry."
"And Father does?"
"Father loves you." Humphrey was shocked to see what might have been tears at the corners of John's eyes. "He does, Harry. And he knows you always loved Richard best."
Harry's face could have been carved from stone. "The arsenic was only the beginning. Did Beaufort tell you that? He told me the pain was too much, that they found Richard in the bath with his wrists slit because he couldn't stand it anymore. Or maybe he was just taking too long."
"Harry, for God's sake--"
"What sort of person would inflict that much pain on themselves, John? If Richard had wanted to die, there are countless other ways he could have done it." Without warning, he let out a bark of laughter, balanced on a knife-edge of hysteria. "Arsenic leaves a dreadful corpse. He'd never have done that by choice."
"Harry, please stop," Humphrey hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Please."
"He was mad," John murmured. "Mad people are desperate."
"John, that's enough!" Humphrey's voice cracked, embarrassingly, and both his brothers turned to look at him. "Will you both just...be quiet?"
Harry nodded briefly and settled back against the seat. John eyed him dubiously, but did the same, and Humphrey let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. After a few moments, he said, "He's dead. We can't change that now. Whoever is responsible...there's nothing we can do."
"Not yet." Harry looked at him, his face unreadable. "It's only a matter of time."
"Do you really think that's going to help?" Humphrey hated how uncertain he sounded, how childish. "Harry?"
"I don't know," said Harry softly. "But I need to try, Humphrey. Do you understand?"
Humphrey nodded, and the smile Harry gave him in response almost quelled his fear. But then he remembered where he'd seen that smile before, and the image of bloodstained tiles flashed against his eyelids. "You won't..." he swallowed, "you won't do anything rash, will you?" Not like Richard, he wanted to say, but forced the words back.
"Nothing rash, I promise." Harry closed his eyes. "But unexpected, certainly. Ghosts always are."
Humphrey caught John's eye and shook his head briefly, willing his brother not to say anything. Thankfully, John obliged, turning to watch as dark streets gave way to the blackness of the countryside.
Ghosts always are. He shuddered, remembering his own reaction to Mr Poins earlier that night. There were ghosts everywhere now, it seemed, and not of Christmases, but of blood.
'Tis now the very witching time of night when churchyards yawn and hell itself breaks out contagion to this world.
Cousin Richard, it seemed, would not sleep in quiet.