CHAPTER TWO

Joseph and the Viscompte had ridden in silence until they reached the remnants of the battle. Both armies ceased fighting as the two men crossed the battlefield, and the French soldiers threw down their weapons when they realized the outcome of Joseph's confrontation with Jean-Pierre. They fled, and all of the British knights cheered a triumphant "Huzzah!" in choir-like unison. Joseph saw the Viscompte's brow darken and Charles' brow brighten along with their respective moods of dismay and happiness.

Joseph removed his armor and heaved a great sigh of well-earned relief. Running a hand through his thick, shoulder-length black hair, he exited his tent and joined his cousin, the king, by the campfire.

"What do you plan to do about the Viscompte?" asked Joseph.

"I do not yet know," replied Charles. "At the moment, I am considering a ransom."

Joseph poured some soup from the kettle over the fire into a small clay bowl.

"A ransom?" he asked. "Why not try him in London as a criminal?"

Charles took a sip from his own bowl of soup.

"I am trying to think beyond our present situation with the French. I do not want to decimate them. I merely wish to lower their collective morale to such a point that they will end this war peacefully and refrain from attacking us in the future."

"But if they continue to fight?"

"Then so shall we."

Joseph nodded.

"But enough of the future," continued Charles happily. "Tomorrow we return home." He raised his tankard of ale.

"Aye," replied Joseph, pounding his own tankard against Charles'. They drank each other's health and the fortune of England, and retired for the night.

The ale had been delightfully strong, and as Joseph lay down in his tent, he could still taste it in his throat.

The road back to London was rough, and the sun was hot, but not one of the British soldiers complained. Thoughts of home and family filled their minds, and all of them rode or walked in cheerful spirits.

Joseph and Jean-Pierre rode beside the king at the head of the army. To Joseph's surprise, Jean-Pierre seemed rather cheerful in light of his defeat the day before, and had quite a flair for conversation.

"You cannot possibly govern an entire country with a Parliament," the Viscompte had said. "It creates too much tension and stress among the people."

"It is strange that you should mention tension and stress," Joseph had countered respectfully, "considering the fact that so many of your people struggle every day to survive while your king lounges in his wealth and feasts on delicacies his subjects have very rarely, if ever, tasted or even laid eyes upon."

Five days had passed in this manner when the army finally reached London. Ecstatic villagers of all ages cheered and threw flowers as the soldiers rode through the streets. All was joyous and carefree.

And then Charles fell from his horse and hit the ground with a resounding THUD. There was a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

So ended the life and reign of Charles the Fifth, the greatest and most honest English king in four generations.

Only a few minutes later, although it seemed like much longer, the dead king's younger brother, Edward, arrived with four servants. He knelt beside his brother's lifeless body.

"Who has done this?" he demanded. "Who has killed my brother?"

No one in the crowd answered, nor did they even respond, and Edward stalked away. His servants picked Charles' body up from the road and followed him.

Charles' funeral took place three days later, and Edward's coronation was celebrated the following week. No sooner had the crown been placed on his head that Edward had called Joseph to his chamber.

"I know the past two weeks have been very trying ones for you," said the new king sympathetically.

"Yes, sir," replied Joseph. "And yet, I have only myself to blame."

King Edward sat in a large chair.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"And why, pray tell, is that?"

"It was my job to defend him, to protect him from all physical harm."

"But you did so."

"Aye, I did so. That is, up until we returned to London, and I foolishly let my guard down. I failed him, your Highness. I failed him miserably. And it cost him his life."

Edward sighed.

"Joseph, it was a bolt from a crossbow. They are small, fast, and lethal when aimed accurately. There was nothing you could have done."

"Of course there was something I could have done!" exclaimed Joseph. "There is always something that can be done! And I did not do it! He died on my watch!"

Edward did not respond. Joseph took the silence as a cue to compose himself.

"Sir," he continued. "I have thought long and hard and as logically as my mind would allow on what I am about to ask of you. I request permission to go into exile."

"Exile…" repeated Edward anxiously.

"Yes. If I stay, I shall thus be responsible for your life. I would not wish the preventable death of another cousin to haunt my conscience even more than it is being haunted already."

After a few moments of silence, Edward responded.

"Where will you go?"

"I do not know. I know only that I must."

"Very well," Edward sighed. "But beware of the French. They delivered their ransom not two days ago, during which time I handed their commander over to them. They may be a bit bitter over that."

Joseph bowed and departed. He rode throughout the night to his manor in Sussex. After packing his belongings, he informed his people of his intentions, and retired to his chamber for the rest of the night.

At dawn, Sir Joseph cast his cloak about his shoulders, and fed Mercury the usual meal: oats and water, plus a few carrots. They would head south, he had decided. When Mercury had finished eating, Joseph slung his pack over the saddle, mounted, and rode off with the rising sun at his back. The wind was in his face, and for a few moments, he was content.

And then he remembered why he was leaving, and sorrow and despair once again filled his heart.

When the messenger brought news that Sir Joseph had left his home the previous morning, King Edward hung his head and exhaled deeply. He had covered his face with his hands to prevent the messenger from seeing his tears.

Yes, that was the story being told around the palace. But the man in the shadows was not so foolish as to believe it. He knew King Edward all too well. He had not sighed out of despair, but out of relief. He had not shed a single tear either.

No. The arrogant king had covered his face to hide his grin.