Chapter Text
In the year of our Lord 1422, in the Château de Vincennes near Paris, France, the King was dying.
He knew it, though his lords and physicians were loathe to say as much. He knew it from the ache of his withering muscles; the roiling, burning, stabbing in his gut; the slow, dry burn of his fever; the stench of death that filled the room.
Furthermore, Bardolph had told him so.
Bardolph, who hung from his neck in the corner of the chamber, his blushing, bloated face twisted as he beckoned for the King to follow him.
"Not yet," the King whispered through lips so dry they bled with every motion, speaking too softly for his attendants to take notice. "No, faith, my old friend, not yet."
Bardolph frowned and snarled, but argued no more. That position was taken up by the King's father, who marched up and down the length of the chamber, twitching and frothing in between speeches berating the King for his ill-spent youth and all its incumbent failures. In response, the King could do little more than murmur desperate apologies, which his father duly ignored.
Then came all the dead of Harfleur and Agincourt and countless battles before and since. They filled the room standing, those that could stand, and those that could not stand crawled over each other on their bloodied stumps. All looked on the King, some with eyesockets hollowed by arrows or decay, and cried out in voices both French and English. They cursed his name and his cause, lamented the loss of their own lives and what such a loss would mean for the mothers, wives, and children left behind. They screamed from the pain of the wounds that had killed them and groaned with the agony of their forsaken hopes. The King, too weak to bring his hands up to block his ears, forgot the sound of silence as the hours passed and the horde shuffled and moaned and wept around him. His attendants stepped over them and seemingly cared not for their King's discomfort.
The King fell into sleep at a point he could not quite recall––not that this stopped the cacophony of the horde from reaching his ears. But when he awoke, they were gone. There was but one figure now, an enormously fat man with a snow-white beard and eyes brimming with anguish. He gazed upon the King with a look of longing and despair, and his lower lip trembled.
"Hal?" said Falstaff.
The King's fevered veins ran cold with dread. Dry tongue licked cracked lips, but he could find no words that would dismiss the apparition.
"No abuse, Hal," Falstaff went on, his voice taking on a wavering quality that threatened to break at any moment. He shuffled towards the King's bed.
The King glanced desperately around the room, his eyes rolling in his head as he sought out any form of aid or escape. It seemed his attendants had left him to face this wretched shade alone. He tried to scream, but it died in his parched throat.
"My sweet boy," whimpered Falstaff. "My royal Hal!"
He reached for the King, who struggled with his exhausted limbs to propel himself away from the pathetic creature. His heart was the only muscle with any strength remaining, and it hammered against his ribs with such panicked speed that, as Falstaff's clammy hand grabbed his wrist, the King fainted dead away.
When the King opened his eyes again, the only light in the room came from the embers glowing in the fireplace and the pale-faced moon gleaming softly through the window. No noise but the shuffling of a single, unknown figure moving about the chamber. Not Falstaff, too tall and too slender for Falstaff. Silver moonlight failed to reach their face, and it remained in the shadow cast by the hood of their cloak. The King twitched away in fear as they approached. The figure paused.
"Who art thou," the King demanded.
The figure stepped forward more slowly, and retrieved a goblet from the table at the King's bedside, filling it with unknown liquid from a waterskin. Goblet in one hand, they reached out with the other towards the King's head, and the King jerked away. Again, the figure backed off.
"Peace," they whispered––he whispered, for it was a man's voice. Slowly he lifted his hand to the edge of his hood and drew it back. There was not enough light to fully illuminate his features, but...
"Ned?" muttered the King, brow knit in confusion. 'Til now, all his tormenters had been dead. He'd heard no such news of Edward Poins, heard nothing of him since his own coronation. Perhaps he'd died in anonymity, a sickness or tavern brawl so violent that it left his corpse unrecognizable. Though if that were the case, the King thought it might have left a mark on the figure who stood before him now.
The figure nodded and smiled a familiar, pursed-lipped smirk. Ned Poins it was, then. The King's heart clenched in anticipation of what terrible accusations might run from that once-loved mouth, and he shut his eyes against the phantom.
"Can you drink?"
The King blinked his eyes open again and fixed Ned with a puzzled look.
"Can you drink?" Ned repeated, holding forth the goblet.
The King frowned first at Ned, then at the goblet, then at Ned again.
"Is it poison?" he asked.
"No," said Ned.
The King wondered what purpose this unearthly visit could possibly serve. If the specter of Poins meant to lure the King into his grave, then poison would be a good method. But would a supernatural fiend require poison in the first place? Of course, if it weren't poison, then why would Ned be offering it? Nothing about this visitation made any sense at all, and the King was in enough pain without throwing a headache on top of it.
It was that last line of reasoning that led the King to give up and accept the goblet. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his arms would barely move in response to his wishes. Ned reached for his head again, and the King let him tip it forward to reach the goblet. Some unknown liquid, sweet and cool, touched his lips, and the King succumbed to instinct, drinking it down greedily. All too soon, Ned pulled the goblet away.
"Slowly, Your Majesty," he said, and the honorific sounded so strange in his voice. "It wouldn't do to have you bringing it all back up again."
The King would have argued, but Ned tipped the goblet back to him again, and sipping at the elixir seemed a better use of his mouth.
Once the goblet had been drained, the King let his eyes fall shut, exhausted even by the simple act of drinking. Then there was the soothing sensation of something cold and wet pressed against his forehead; the King squinted one eye open just enough to confirm his suspicion that Ned was mopping his brow. Ned's hand slipped behind the King's head again, and lifted it up to clean the stale sweat from the back of his neck as well. The King marveled at the spirit's boldness; the King hadn't been touched so intimately by any other than his wife since... well, since Ned, and here was Ned again. The King supposed it fitting. He relaxed into Ned's ministrations, satisfied for now that he was not about to be murdered by the oddly benevolent ghost of his old friend, and let himself fall back into sleep.
The King awoke to daylight and the murmurings and mutterings of his lords and servants, who had regathered around his bed while he slept. Ned was gone, replaced by Doll Tearsheet, who sat on the floor and sobbed so hard it was a wonder Exeter and Westmoreland couldn't hear her. Eventually the King had enough of her wailing, and, fueled by his frustration, sat up in bed and shouted at her to leave. She stayed, but his lords departed with haste. The King grit his teeth against the sound of her cries and watched her fade away with the last of the sun's rays as it set.
That night, Ned appeared again, creeping around like the thief he was in life, though rather than removing items he was installing them. A loaf of bread joined the goblet by the bedside. Once again the King drank, more than he had the night before.
Then Ned drew a knife from his belt, and for an instant the King was sure Ned meant to carve his royal heart from his chest. Instead, Ned used the knife to cut a chunk from the bread loaf and held it out to the King. The King smothered his feelings of foolishness with renewed suspicion. The draught had not been poisoned, but perhaps the bread...?
"Thou first," he said, lifting his chin at Ned's offering.
Ned raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and popped the bit of bread into his own mouth, chewing and swallowing with ease.
As he chewed, the King looked at the knife in Ned's hand, then to the loaf of bread, and found his own pained stomach quaking with mirth.
"And what, pray tell, is so amusing?" said Ned.
"Bread-chipper," the King choked out between stifled laughs.
Ned blinked confusedly, then rolled his eyes. "Fear not, Your Majesty. 'Tis certain your wit will return with your health."
The King would have served him a scathing retort, but found he had not the spirit for it. He settled for continuing to chuckle quietly to himself as Ned cut another piece of bread. The King, his arms aching after the exertion of shouting at Doll earlier that day, allowed himself to be hand-fed, morsel by infinitesimal morsel, until the pain of his sickness overcame the pain of his hunger and he turned his face away. Ned put down the bread and picked up the cloth and bowl once more, soothing the King back into sleep and vanishing before he awoke.
That morning, the King realized his error in having Ned taste his food for him. If Ned were already deceased, then no amount of poison could possibly harm him. Then again, could most spirits partake of food and drink? The King wasn't sure. His suspicion grew as he reflected on the past two nights.
This time as the sun set, the King tried to stay awake so he might bear witness to Ned's appearance. John of Bedford, who'd stayed by his Majesty's side, urged him to sleep. The King refused, though he accepted the water Bedford offered. Bedford touched only the goblet, leaving the King to lift his own head from the pillow. The moon crested the horizon and rose higher still into the crisp black of the night sky, and the King's dry eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open, but still Ned did not appear.
The sun rose again, and the King's illness, retreated somewhat in these past two days, returned full force. It was not enough that the King should be so humiliated by his body's failings, to wallow in his own refuse; there was another visitation, as well. Hotspur appeared at the foot of the King's bed. Dried blood crusted his lips, while fresher stuff oozed from the wound the King had put in his side. He said nothing, simply stood and stared as the King's retainers rushed around him, helpless to prevent the resurgence of sickness.
The King faded in and out of consciousness, but still Hotspur remained. The King ordered him away, and when that failed to work (even as his retainers were sent scurrying), set his jaw and stared back at the silent phantom. But he had not the strength for a battle of wills. The King gave up and let his eyes fall shut, then opened them some indeterminate period of time later to find Hotspur replaced by Ned.
Upon catching the King's eye, Ned shook his head and began to move about the room. He tossed old water from pitcher and bowl and replaced it with his own waterskins' stores, having brought along at least two that the King could see. He offered the King a fresh goblet of sweet water, which the King would have gulped down if Ned did not ration it out sip by sip, mindful of the King's weak stomach. Once more, sweat and worse was cleaned from the King's skin, and this time soiled bedclothes were taken away to be stashed in a cupboard in one of the walls and replaced with fresh ones, tucked around the King's tired body with unusual tenderness. The King asked for bread, but Ned gave him only more water. All throughout, Ned was as silent as Hotspur had been, barely-suppressed rage visible in the clenching of his jaw.
"Your pardon," said the King, by now accustomed to placating his phantoms with apologies.
Ned's anger abated with a snort. "As though we never had to clean up worse in Eastcheap. Besides, this is good filth, this is. Haven't you heard? It belongs to the King."
The King managed a weak laugh at that.
"We have noticed thy visitations occur only when our retainers are not present," said the King the next night. "Would we be correct in assuming that, should we desire to see thee more often, our retainers should be so often sent away?"
"'Twould make matters easier," said Ned. "Else I should have to pay the guards to create a distraction, and then of course Your Majesty must execute them for succumbing to bribery. Seems a pity and a waste, both of my coin and of their lives."
The King's eyes narrowed. "And how art thou gaining entrance to our chambers, if not by lightening your own purse and adding to the clanking of our guard?"
Ned laughed. "Why, by making myself immaterial and passing through the very stone of the walls. 'Tis an easy enough trick for a phantom so accomplished as myself."
By now, the King was certain Ned was no phantom at all, but felt it might be more amusing to catch him in the lie rather than force a confession from the culprit's lips.
And so the pattern continued, the King sleeping as much as he could manage by day and sending all lords and servants from his side by nightfall. Yet Ned would never appear while the King was awake. Twice the King had attempted to feign sleep, so that he might see precisely how Ned approached, only for the feigned sleep to become all too real. Regardless, he looked forward to waking to see Ned by his side, phantom or no.
A fortnight later, the King was well enough for regular meals, daring beef broth as well as bread and water. He could sit up easily, though standing required some aid, and his legs would not yet carry him further than the confines of the castle. Still, what need had he of legs that could walk when he rode a horse across the battlefield?
The King relished his newfound health, and when Ned once again appeared by his bedside, the King informed him of his plans to ride on to Cosne-sur-Loire within the next few days. Ned's reply took the form of a slight frown, a clenching of his jaw, and the silent continuation of his business about the room.
"Thou thinkst I do wrong," said the King.
Ned focused his attentions on refilling the water jug by the King's bedside as he replied, "I think the thoughts of a mere soldier of fortune, and I doubt those do much to inform the opinion of Your Majesty."
"And what wouldst thou do in my place?" said the King.
Ned looked the King in the eye then, for a moment, before shrugging and busying himself straightening the edge of the King's blankets.
"Feign sickness," said Ned, "until I were more fully and surely recovered."
The King frowned. "And have our lords think us cowardly and infirm not only in body but in mind."
"They've stood by Your Grace these long months," said Ned. "Another week should not sever their loyalties."
"What treachery art thou planning," said the King, "that thou must have thy King remain abed for it to succeed?"
For the most infinitesimal moment, Ned's face betrayed a wounding to his heart. Then it hardened, and Ned looked upon the King with a set jaw and unblinking eyes.
"I am planning for my King to live, to conquer France, to return home a victor and meet his new son and heir," he said, "rather than die in a pool of his own filth."
This last was not so much said as bitterly spat.
The King stared in silence at his old friend, whose hands had formed fists that trembled with rage during the course of his small speech. But before the King could reprimand him, Ned's hands relaxed and he blanched of his own accord, his pallor turning pale as the ghost he was supposed to be. His mouth opened, some small syllable left his lips, perhaps the beginnings of an apology. His gaze faltered and fell the ground, and he kept it there as he finally found words.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. 'Twas not my place to speak so freely."
The King forgave him almost immediately in his heart, but kept his face like stone and his tongue still as the seconds passed. Ned dared a glance up with his eyes while his head remained bowed, awaiting judgement.
"You have our pardon," the King said at last.
Ned's sigh of relief was not so much heard as seen in the slight relaxing of his shoulders. For the rest of the night, the King watched him tread about the room with utmost care, saying nothing, more shade-like than any of the other spirits that had haunted the King these past weeks.
The next night, Ned did not appear. Nor the night after that, though the King sent his lords away with the excuse that he required privacy for prayer.
The King waited a third night, and on the dawn of the fourth day, he rose from his bed, donned his armor, saddled his horse, and rode from the castle, eliciting great cheers of joy from his men. He responded to their celebratory shouts with a smile and wave, even as his eyes searched the multitude for a familiar smirk. But such a face was not present among his soldiers.
Cosne-sur-Loire fell before the King's forces within the month, and the King had barely begun to plan the next stage of his conquest when news came from Paris: Charles VI was dead.
The King turned his army around and rushed towards Paris, lest the disinherited Dauphin attempt to retake the city in the King's absence and steal the crown for himself. But the King's horses and men were swift, and the Paris they reached was under Anglo-Burgundian control. The King underwent his second coronation without delay, and so Henry V became King of both France and England.
(The Dauphin crowned himself a few days later, in Bourges, but only the Armagnacs paid him any mind.)
The coronation carousing was cut short as more news came from England. Some of the English lords left behind had grown discontent, thinking their King had spent too long abroad in foreign wars and neglected domestic policy. The fools had gone North to ally themselves with what Scotsmen hadn't already thrown their lot in with the Armagnacs in France. The King boarded the Grace Dieu and headed home to reclaim his England.