Daughter of England

[Laudres]

—

Laudres draws breath to stall her thoughts. The night cold punctuates this with a misty plume ahead of her face that evacuates fast during her dismount from a Friesian; the horse is better dressed against the weather than her. The woman's draped in blacks and leathers, a tabard, concealed armaments and crowned by a white porcelain mask that hangs off her face. She's accompanied by a small party of king's men—blackcoats and nameless sellswords—gathered together under her limited leadership. It's a simple instruction of 'do, don't ask' understood by each. Laudres and her band have been companioned for almost a week now under new orders; she is an instrument to the crown, and to God. Puddles gather ahead, the cobblestone of the village slicked by bad weather and mud tracks from wagon-and-foot traffic of peasantry and royals both. After finding purchase with a firm beam to post her horse, Laudres advances with crew in deliberate movements, faces and hands covered but blades drawn and eyes keen.

They set upon the first in a row: a ramshack hovel with a haystacked roof and very particular graffiti across the door. It outlines the occupants and their condition in white paint; the symbols are the only invitation the gathered need, so they boot the door two-three times before it breaks and the muscle spills through into a macbre scene of waste and decay. Rot has begun to latch onto the floors and walls, spread by stacked corpses of countrymen and a family unit dogpile; it is obvious there's wife underneath, then childs and father aside, uprighted in a chair. He's wheezing. His face is disfigured from plague. Laudres commands at her men, which beckons the wagon outside to be drawn closer and a ramp is booted out the mouth of it at an angle, then a few more planks are tossed to act as gurneys. Before the family can be removed, the husband starts to petition; he pleads with the specters haunting him to spare he and his, though cold steel is pressed at arm's length into his heart which draws out a wheeze, then silence. Laudres wipes her blade with a rag then discards it. All the bodies are ferried up into the jaws of the wagon then a curtain obscures it again.

Another breather, and one of the men vomit. It's cast onto the now vacated home as if part of the furniture left to stew. Laudres, and every other, pause and stare silently at the singular man. He begins to panic, both arms raised in surrender as he rushes to explain. "I've not, I've not," he falls over words as a shield before almost every blade is driven into him at once and he curls over; he's then dug out of the rotted fixtures of the home and tossed in with the family too with no ceremony. As the squad finally exits, Laudres draws a large X over the door and seals it. They carry on this way throughout the night with exterminations of men and women; the children never survive the illness long enough to be dispatched, which Laudres prays for. It would turn her stomach to extinguish a child for her country, as honored and advantaged as she is to serve it. The plague makes her sob at night, in private.

It is awful routine.

[Laudres]

—

The king's entourage spills into the bustling streets of Kent on horseback, after hooves beat against the lowered drawbridge. A small girl snakes through the crowd gathered to receive his majesty: this visit is partly a show of force, as King Edward III had recently executed his uncle Edmund, the Earl of Kent for conspiracy—which left the small town in disarray—but the people are yet inspired by a noble's presence. The girl, some unimportant runt, breaks through the audience and toes the barrier to see the convoy best; she tries to flag down the king and is ignored—she calls for the knights and squires, and is shoved back. A man in the crowd mutters lowly then drags her down into the consuming row of people by her nape, to which she screams and wrestles out. She runs alongside the traffic on the cobbles—dodging left, right and underneath—until they reach a stop and she bumps into a royal far too fast.

"What are you thinking?" The knight chides down at her. "Get back from the guard!" He barks. This escort then hesitates—patting down at his hips, and pockets—only to discover he's missing a coinpurse. The girl is frozen at this point, and the crowd has disappeared from her; she is exposed to the royals and her eyes dart around. She begins to run—but again is handled—and this time swept off her feet and wrestled up into this man's chest with one arm. "Where's my coin, rat?" He demands, but she can't answer. It's pathetic babbling from a street urchin only trying to worm out of his grasp.

"Please, ser. I don't know! I'm sorry. It wasn't me, honest!" The girl pleads, but is arbitrated; the knight shakes his head and stows her onto a horse as they continue passing through Kent. It becomes necessary to tie her due to her struggling; she can only watch her home town and the roaring crowds become more distant, grow smaller and eventually disappear over the horizon. This journey takes days and she never knows her purpose. "Can I go home?" She dares ask, but is met with laughter. Soldiers shove her around and treat her terribly, as a criminal. It's never proven she did anything—she has no coin on her—but it doesn't matter. She's robbed from Kent, dragged to Windsor Castle and locked away with no ceremony. The girl is almost forgotten.

King Edward III enters a small chamber and softly speaks toward a curtained bed obscuring its occupant. "Laudres, my dear. It's morning. Are you hungry?" A cough erupts from the sheets and he's prompted to begin drawing back everything to release light into the room and expose his daughter. Laudres is a weak young girl draped in fine linens, propped up by more pillows than most could dream of. She's blonde, but her hair is thin and her scalp is visible. The king takes some time to speak next, busied by how he sees his poor little daughter—his throat dries, his lips part and he croaks—but he can't muster anything worthy. He is a king, so he tries harder for her. "Laudres. Why don't you play with your brother?" He asks, knowing the answer; she falls into a fit of coughing up lungs, then tries to speak.

"I want to ... I can't." It escapes her mouth like a cavernous wind rushing outside. Her door, which the king left ajar, is then shut and footsteps are heard dashing out. "Brother?" Laudres croaks, struggling out of her cushioning to peek at the exit; she finds nobody. The king frowns and understands. He tends to her for hours, remaining at her side, regaling her with his stories—how the crusade against Scotland is going. What France is like. He entertains his daughter in ways only a father could. Her condition only worsens. Laudres struggles with breathing all evening, until she eventually concedes. The family's physician can't revive her and she's pronounced dead. The king is beside himself, sat at her bedside. Again, the bedroom door creaks open tonight and his son, Edward, peers in; the bed is still occupied with his sister and the king is hanging his head low under candlelight.

"Leave me, boy." He commands at his son, throwing a nearby plate at the door in an outburst. The boy listens, and runs to his room; he doesn't understand why, but all he can do is hide underneath his blanket. Torches remain lit in Windsor all night. The king ruminates—he paces, he sleeps and he conspires out of his daughter's room. He has the physician hanged. Guards arrive at a cell in the dungeon and drag a small thief—now malnourished, broken—up to her feet and present her to the king. "Yes." He answers to nobody. Confused more, the girl tries to fight out from her wardens and is smacked across the face, dizzying her. She falls on battered knees into soft carpet and faces the floor, surrendered and prostrating. Her eyes close and she prays.

In darkness, besides her heartbeat, she hears the king mumble commands, then something is removed from the room. The girl is uprighted. "Look at me." The king demands. Her commoner eyes open to his highness sat on an emptied bed, with a hand flat beside him. She nods, following the cue; the girl sits on the edge and stares forward into a dark recess of the room, internalizing any fear. Her breathing is maintained. This silence continues as all the guards exit. "Laudres," he starts. The girl blinks, then turns to meet eyes. "Dear. How are you feeling? Better?" King Edward curls a smile but it appears forced, concerned. This Laudres plays her part and slowly nods as nothing more is said. Edward, the son, stares into the room one last time before slamming the door.