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i. Rising from the bed, Hal pulls up his breeches and gives the wench a smile. She looks tired but happy; he expands to a conspiratorial grin and a wink of wickedness. She laughs.
“My lord, you are too tempting for a king’s son. How are we poor women to keep to virtue, when the very sight of you claims our submission and calls us to our knees?”
He looks at her through his lashes. Her sheet falls a little lower.
“To kneel is not contrary to virtue. We kneel before the Lord, you kneel before the King. Your virtue is safe with your submission.”
He is dressed now, turning towards the door, but he lets his voice suggest that her virtue might still be slightly endangered. She seems pleased. With a final wink and a courtly bow (low enough for courtesy but not low enough to mock), he steps away.
He steps through the streets to the Boar’s Head, where he will seek Falstaff.
ii. A cloak is no great disguise, but it will do for Falstaff’s aging eyes and the grey light of a dark day. Poins laughs as he rides, and keeps laughing through their wait and through their fighting; there’s a gurgle of joy in his throat, always ready to come out. It enchants Hal, a promise of delight which he has the power to call out. Poins promises many things.
They stop at a tavern on the way back. To drink in honour of their glorious mission, Poins says, and winks, and gets them a private room, and some drinks. Poins always gets the drinks, the first ones, at least. Hal might get the next ones but he might not. Poins insists, and they never discuss it much, but it is interesting. One of the ways in which, Hal suspects, Poins hopes to interest him.
Poins is smooth and sweet and gloriously reckless, and his recklessness is perfectly displayed. An intensity, which allows little space for contemplation, and conveys honesty through immediacy. Whether he is also calculating (and how could he not be, Hal is a prince and Poins is no fool), remains unsettled. Poins makes a point of offering many opportunities for recklessness, and while Hal has not yet accepted, he takes note, and he wonders.
“Another glass, my lord? It is hard work to fight with cowards, and there is much of Falstaff to avoid hitting.”
The beer in Hal’s belly makes him warm, and Poins looks warm by the fire, warm and happy and close. They could have another glass, or order some sack, or a meal. There’s a bed in room, to lie on if they get tired. Or, if they’re not tired.
Poins does not look at the bed, but there is a wetness on his mouth that he does not wipe clean. Hal blinks, then presses his eyes shut. They still have a long road ahead, and this warmth will not last.
He smiles at Poins, at least, and puts nothing in it. He has little to give, and much of it is not what is wanted of him, but Poins smiles in return, equally honest, perhaps equally calculating. Hal laughs, and gets on his feet.
“But there is still much of Falstaff for us to aim at. It would not do to arrive when he’s had too much sack to explain himself, and so best be on our way.”
Hal notes Poins’ parting glance at the bed. Perhaps he was tired, after a long night of making arrangements, and then the ride, and the fight. It might not have been worth it; Hal isn’t sure what Poins gets out of this, providing entertainment for his prince.
Hal pulls on his cloak, passes a hand over Poins’ shoulder, and steps out into the cold
iii. He has a weakness for being liked. His father says that this is like Richard, that this is self-indulgence that ill befits a king and leads to his ruin, but his father is not the only one who remembers the old king, the old young king, and Hal has heard more. King Richard indulged himself but it was not in popularity. There is a bravery in it, Hal thinks, in choosing to be something which will not be liked, in choosing to show that what he is is not what they like. A creature of cloth and gold instead of steel and sweat, like his father.
He could be that, he thinks, if not for his weakness. Hal is good with the sword, good on a horse, but it is not because he loves to fight. It is because of what they might say if he were not.
Hal was a boy when his father was exiled, but the King was kind to him. He took Hal with him when he travelled, and let him sit by his side, and never spoke to him about his father. Hal remembers the King’s sharp profile and long hands, and the dark curling hair so unlike him and his father. It looked soft; once he had seen his father’s hands run through it, and the King had smiled.
Hal is brave with a sword and on a horse, but he is not brave enough for that.
iv. They ride to Shrewsbury, and Poins does not laugh; he stays by Hal’s side and lies quietly on the ground next to him. Westmoreland nods at them once, a good man, knows his place.
Their supper is barely warm and there is little ale; the soldiers won’t carry much, and there isn’t a tavern nearby to make them comfortable. It is likely this route was chosen to make it so, to show the men their leaders will share their discomfort. Hal doesn’t mind, would prefer the open sky to the privacy of his tent, but that wouldn’t do either.
Hal does not sleep, but neither does Poins, his eyes bright and open in the fading light of the fire. It would be cowardice to turn away, Hal decides. This is a bravery he can allow himself.
After the battle, his brother embraces him, a relief for more than their victory in his grin. Westmoreland claps his shoulder, and says nothing. His father is in his tent, hiding behind doctors, and Henry Percy is dead.
Hal drinks with a steady pace and a steady arm. He pays no heed to the noises of the tavern, to the men who come up behind him and falter, and stop, and turn away. When Poins finds him, there is nobody left in the room, the doors locked and the landlady retired to her bed with a sigh.
“You are greedy with the beer, my lord. Although no doubt you’ve deserved it after this day’s work.”
Hal does not hide his grimace, and Poins will know from that not to mention it again. He will also know that Hal is not taking the trouble to hide himself. He sits down, pours himself a pint.
“My lord.”
And Hal looks up, and thinks why should I not? He has proven himself, after all, and so they have told him, many times. There is no need to refrain, now, not when he has all the reputation he needs, for fighting and all the rest. There is even a convenient daybed in the corner. Or a wall. Poins would look good against a wall, make it soft for Hal.
Hal smiles, and leans close. He compels Poins’ gaze to his mouth, to the open collar of his shirt where the armour had left marks, left his skin bare. Poins wets his lips, and smiles, unafraid. That, Hal decides, is one more challenge he can allow himself tonight.
He stands up and takes Poins with him.
The next morning, he will be gone when Poins wakes, splayed on the day bed and not quite decent for the landlady’s gaze. There will be bruises from the wall on his back, and on his hips from the table, and marks on his thighs from Hal’s fingers keeping him in place.
There are marks on him from Poins, but Hal will hide them until they disappear, and guard them as memories of what he will not have again. Poins had been gentle, but only the first time.
He rides to London, but unseen and unaccounted for. Prince Henry is not needed at his father’s side, but there is no more space for Hal, and so there must be something else. Someone else for him to be.
v. He’s a clever boy, his tutors had said. To the king his father they said that the prince shows the quality of his blood, that he learned his letters with keen vigour and acted his Achilles and his Alexander like a true warrior. To Hal they said his mimicry does not suit his station, that Achilles never stomped so loudly nor Alexander cried so much. They said nothing of what Hal made of their own manners, behind the kitchen with the maids who gave him pie on Tuesdays. A clever boy, they said, and it is no praise.