Holland estates-Lyndhurst

[Dirty Chai]

" you," Roger blasphemed, filling the room with the sudden, dirtying interjection you'd expect from a knight's son.

"I'll not do a thing you say, you'll have to drag me there in chains,"

In that moment, the Earl of March seemed an animal that had lost, even for just the slightest moment, all of its restraint and care for consequences. Even as the words left his mouth, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, realizing what he has done.

[Oznerol]

"Holy Mary"

Said Alice.

"Oh my..."

Muttered Eleanor. The other Hollands muttered words of disbelief, Thomas Holland, the son, looked like going to punch Mortimer, but Kent kept him in place with a sharp look.

"Go back to your chambers! Immediately! Willing or not you will leave tomorrow, there's a long way to Lincolnshire"

[Dirty Chai]

Roger wheeled, turning around with a final fit of anger, and grabbed his chair and tossed it across the floor where it crashed into a wooden chest up against the far wall. He then stormed from the room, pushing a servant out his way.

[Oznerol]

He would pay for that chair anyway.

Kent fell on his seat and asked for more way, while the supper was resumed in akward silence. The countess had another problem to add to the increasingly large pile of domestic issues.

"He will spend two months there, I will write the abbot about it"

[The Mad Skylord]

Thomas FitzAlan watched the whole thing with mild surprise. Roger had always seemed quiet and dutiful. The small child, like the rest of the table, looked about in horror. He looked to his Uncle in law, then to the retreating back of Mortimer. "Loyalty to the person!" he declared in his mind - running off to follow Roger. He was going with him.

[Oznerol]

"Where's that boy going?"

Said Kent, tired of everyone's errands of late.

"I don't know"

[Dirty Chai]

It took the better part of two weeks to travel to southern Lincolnshire, and the whole journey was a dreary affair of late autumn. The first snow was falling on the road the day before they finished their trek north, and the whole kingdom before Mortimer, in his dour mood, deprived of any life or energy. London was a muddled grey mass beneat a rainstorm. Huntingtonsire and Cambridgeshire had already lost every green leaf and harvested every grain of barley. Then the fens and the wash approached, vast expanses of muddy farms and salt marshes.

The young Earl was entrusted to a knight - one sir Nicholas, none other than he who liked to get too close to Eleanor - and a handful of footmen. A small cart carried a box as they left Surrey, carrying clothes and everyday accessories; it was left behind after the first week, lost into the river at a crossing - deliberately dumped, Mortimer suspected. So he was left with very little, when all he had been sent with in the first place were bare minimums. Now he had only the clothes he currently wore and little else. He wasn't allowed much else. Certainly not a sword or any other weapon. Sir Nicholas certainly watched him warily for the first couple of days, but soon realized the Earl of March was long past his fit of rage.

They'd set out in hours before dawn, not twelve hours later than the fight that had consigned him to this... exile? This punishment. Humiliation. Two months with Franciscans. What would he do for two months? Pray? He did not see Eleanor or anyone that morning - his escorts pulled him from bed in the little hours and put him on a horse by force. It was only two months, but he felt as if he might lose much in that time. It seemed a long time, at least, to be put to the figurative corner.

His memory of that night was similar to recalling actions done after lots of wine. Remembering his words, his choices, the reactions of the Holland household.. He put them from his mind, or tried as he might. He almost did not want to return there whenever he glanced behind him - how could he show his face back there after that? The humiliation required to undo what was done.. He dreaded that more than he dreaded the coming penitence.

It wasn't below Roger's mentality to consider bolting, fleeing, disappearing. It would not be hard. There were only two other horsemen. He'd said what he said to the Earl of Kent; he might as well flee, no? He couldn't lower his standing any further, so what did it matter?

There re was no such attempt to run. They arrived in Stamford just before December, and the area seemed blanketed in a brittle chill from dawn to dusk. They never entered the walled town, but deposited Mortimer at one of the many abbeys and friaries circling the walls - the grey friary, filled with Franciscans.

(To be continued)

[Dirty Chai]

The friars woke up him every day before dawn, almost carrying him to the chapel to pray with them. They'd long ago taken the clothes he arrived in - perhaps for better, unwashed and worn as they were - and clothed him in a simple robe that was quite similar (but not the same) as what they wore. He feared they might tonsure his head too, for he was unsure of what power Holland had to make a peer into a monk, but it never happened.

They were quite forceful and stubborn for monks. They'd drag you to meditation if necessary. Mortimer tried to violently push his way out of their routines quite a few times, being no willing penitent, but eventually he gave up. Everyday he could seen sitting on a bench with a beaded rosary in his lap, glaring sullenly at seemingly nothing while across the courtyard could be seen and heard the aches and pains of the hospital the greyfriars ran.

They were condescending. They treated him as if he had commited some grave sin against god. Holland's money ran this place. Eventually he began to believe them, but his prayers became no more sincere then the idle chanting you'd see before the cross on the wall in the chapel nine times a day. The other hours they made him meditate as they did what greyfriars do - run their hospital.

Roger found respect for them in that, but he also found them to be regularly trying to persuade him to start funding their friary as well. They were clever salesmen. They'd bring up the eldest of them, swaddled in dirty robes, and they'd spin the tales of humility and sainthood; Their efforts for the poor that stopped just short of martyrdom.

They made him live poorly too. His room was to himself, but it had little in it. His bed was low and he could've sworn it was made of hay or some rotten feathers. A crooked, dilapidated table sat beside it. A small window. Grey stone walls. No fire, no warmth. At least they let him meditate beside a fire. There was some motivation to obey their rules, since if he got up and prayed with them, he could be where it was kept warm instead of in his cold room.

After two weeks had gone by, they showed him where Joan of Kent was buried. They made a big show of it, blessing the Holland family and then chiding him for disrespecting them. Roger had to kneel before her effigy and beg her forgiveness before he was allowed to leave the crypt - believe it, he tried, but they had the exit quite covered.

By the fourth week, Roger was not sure whether to hate the monks or to hate himself. Probably both, he decided. Day after day of their ceaseless lecturing began to sow the seeds of doubt. Perhaps this was a just punishment. By the second month, he accepted it, somewhat. His sullen look turned more hopeless, with bags under his eyes.

He began to improve at chanting their prayers, for they started to treat him more kindly as the second month progressed. The days still dragged on and he was still made to sit and meditate for countless hours, but they even started to suggest he had "made great strides in his penitence."

"With time they will soon forgive you just as God will." Mortimer ground his teeth at that. He just wanted to be out of here, reckoning this was the most miserable period of his life he might ever live through. They fed him with only broths made of lettuce and carrots. No meats. They are unclean here. They drank lots of water, little wine. Roger imagined his muscles being undone - two months of no meat, no training, no hunts, nothing. He had no doubts as to why these men were so lithe and gaunt.

In the sixth week, they let him write a letter, at their own suggestion. He wanted to address it to Eleanor, but they were not having any of that. They kept throwing out his drafts too. The final letter was written with three Friars standig over his shoulder, feeding him words that were not his own.

To my most gracious warden, the Earl of Kent, Thomas de Holland,

After much prayer and meditation over the past month of December, I, Roger Mortimer, write to you in hopes that you may begin to forgive my heathen behavior and wanton disrespect to you and your family. I have seen the errors of my actions and have knelt before the remains of your late lady mother, the saintly lady Joan, and have begged her forgiveness. It is my hope and the hope of the Fratres Minores that you will begin to consider to do the same.

In light of this, I would very much like to make a request if you so choose to let me back into the light of your wardenry. I would like to join you in London, that I may begin to see the wheels that turn there and receive your direct supervision, if it so pleases my father of law.

[Oznerol]

One morning, Roger was told to pack up whatever he had and to visit Lady Joan's tomb. There, before his parent's tomb awaited Thomas Holland. The first earl of Kent and the countess had been interred in a shared tomb, their effigies on top, despite the Black Prince's final wish of his wife being interred with him in the purposedly built chantry in Canterbury Cathedral. The wily Joan, however, prefered to be buried next to her first husband, Thomas. The second earl, the younger Thomas, was on his knees before the sepulchre, praying:

"Ora pro nobis peccatoribus..."

He finished the prayer before turning to greet his ward. He wears dark robes, tall boots and little to no jewelry, Holland had rode all the way from London to fetch his ward Mortimer.

"I forgive you, as my son and ward. Forgiveness is a virtue, Lord Mortimer, you will understand in due time. Hope you found God in your heart and solace between these hallowed walls"

Kent had removed his hat before the tomb of his parents, but now covered his head again. He embraced Roger and kissed him on both cheeks, the kiss of peace.

"We leave, now, for London. The king is going to settle succession and we have to avoid your inheritance being robbed by some ambitious barons"

[Dirty Chai]

Roger was still just rousing from sleep and looked quite surprised to see Kent standing before the tomb, almost as if he initially questioned if his eyes could be trusted. Then, as his warden spoke and it became clear he was not a dream, March had a sullen look, as usual, for not only did he yet still hate this religious talk of forgiveness - how humiliating - but he was also too asleep still to hide it.

But then Kent mentioned London, inheritance, and "ambitious barons." Roger looked quite fearful at those words, shocked, and everything else washed away.

"Who is trying to take Ulster? Clare? Shropshire? How.." He trailed off, confused.

[Oznerol]

Kent snorted.

"Not that boy, your estates are fine. It's the crown we should be worried about"

He pats Mortimer's shoulder.

"The king is going to settle succession, trying to pass a succession act. You're needed at London, we cannot let any vagrants steal your birthright, shouldn't we?"

Kent looked surprisingly forgiving. Boys were boys, blood boiling on their veins they always committed the foolest bravados in all Christendom.

"The Parliament is summoned in a fortnight, we'll be in London before that"

[Dirty Chai]

Roger blinked a few times, incredulous. Was Kent really here? Talking to him about his mother's blood again?

"But I thought Old King Edward changed that.." He said, still confused, still waking up. "Is he appointing the Duke of Lancaster?" That made the most sense, that had to be it.

[Oznerol]

"I don't know, His Majesty might still surprise us"

Said Kent.

"And, to be fair, old king Edward, God bless his soul, was senile when that act was passed... and guess who held the reins of government back then"

He shared a meaningful look with Roger.

"Exactly. Now, let's go"

[Dirty Chai]

Roger was silent as he wiped a hand across his left eye one last time. It all started to sink in and he frowned cynically.
"If it is Lancaster," he told his guardian, "what is there to be done? He is the oldest living son of the old king."

[Oznerol]

"By the laws of primogeniture, you're the king's heir. We will do whatever is possible to reaffirm your rights to the throne"

He smiled, sardonically.

"Also, he is the oldest of the old king's sons, get it? Time will do the rest, no-one lives forever, and while Gaunt won't get any younger you will remain like this for a while"

Kent touched his parent's lidstone for a last time. Thomas Holland I was depicted in his suit of armor, with Joan wearing rich clothes. Both forever portrayed in a pretense of eternal youth, their empty eyes gazing at nothingness, or God depending what might you think. Their marble hands clasped, both effigies were together until the end of times or until the pickaxe that would destroy their grave arrived. Marble, gold, paint, all concealing the rotten bodies buried inside. While God was eternal, his flock were mere candles, burning bright for a moment and dying the next.

"So, any more questions? Let's go"

[Dirty Chai]

Yet Roger had some difficulty imagining that anyone would let a Mortimer inherit the crown before a son or grandson of Edward III. The irony alone was too palpable. However, Roger nodded compliantly, signifying that he had no further questions to voice to Kent, who had apparently much more interest in making Roger King than Roger himself.

He frowned, thinking of Eleanor, as then looked at the effigy of Joan, which, he realized, was quite the likeness of Eleanor. This was all because of her, this Joan. Richard's mother, the Earl of Kent's mother. He'd only met her once, as a small boy. It would never have occurred to him she'd have decided much of his life with a small decision. Mortimer was just conceiving this now. He wasn't sure how to feel. He wondered if Eleanor was such a woman, clever, cunning. He wondered if his mother had been one.

"Do we leave now, lord?" the young man said, looking to his guardian once more. He was eager to be gone from this place.

[Oznerol]

"Yes, yes"

The earl of Kent walked as fast as his shorter legs allowed him. He was rather short and stocky, unlike his ward, who came from a line of giants. Hollands had never been that tall.

"Now, mount. I brought that horse by indication of my daughter Eleanor, she keeps saying this is a horse worth a Cuman or something along these lines"

He pointed to a black stallion, one that Mortimer used to ride more often than the other mounts in the earl's plentiful stables.

[Dirty Chai]

"A cuman?" Roger smiled, almost chuckling, "I don't know about that.."

Eleanor even knew which horse he preferred. He surely could not know what horse she preferred. Perhaps he should begin to pay as much attention to her as she did to him.. Roger fought the urge to smile as he mounted the horse, having a crude thought that involved her bosom.

As they traveled back south, leaving only moments later, Roger began to see his humors change almost as if before his own eyes. The land was not different; it was still cloaked in the dead of winter, with not a leaf of any tree. It was that he began to truly consider his guardian's words and intentions once again. Several years ago, as a boy, he had entertained fantasies as any would, once it was spouted from every village and hearth that the Earl of March was the king's heir. He quickly realized, precociously, however that it wasn't what he thought it might be, and that it was unlikely the many sons of Edward III, still living even now, would let the great-great-grandson of the She-Wolf's seducer and lover sit the throne. Even a child could understand the irony of that.

Now, sitting his horse, he of course knew, at almost sixteen, that it was more political reality and less irony that made him so unlikely to sit the throne. And did he really want to? That was a question. He felt a sudden kinship with his grandfather, as if he had forgotten all this time that his mother was a Plantagenet and that her father, his grandfather, was the giant among them: Lionel of Antwerp, second son of the old king. It occurred to him that his bright green eyes were not so much his mother's as his grandfather's. He was his heir. Roger blinked, looking down briefly at the saddle's pommel.

"Sir," he said, looking at his warden who he rode alongside, "If you truly intend for me to be the next king someday, then why do I feel so unprepared for it?"

[Oznerol]

"No-one is prepared, boy. The king had to heard the advice of his uncles for a long time, and his grandfather before him had friends and advisors, like William Montacute, the late Earl of Salisbury"

Kent held the reins lightly atop his horse.

"Power is a responsability, godsent or not, there is no way to avoid feeling the weight of the crown. Enemies are terrible, sycophants are worse. And it's hard to be there, son"

The horses strolled through the countryside, avoiding the muddied, terrible roads. They travelled with sufficient retainers, even a few knights in Kent's employ.

"Don't you think many would like to see me stabbed, beheaded or worse? Moreso after my sudden enrichement. Many still look down at me like an upstart! And I have the Hammer of the Scots' blood! And that of France! The blood of Saint Louis runs through my veins, as do in yours"

Sign of the cross.

"You'll be ready. Prepared. In due time"

[Dirty Chai]

Either Holland meant none of that, or he didn't at all care for Mortimer's well-being. Roger imagined it was a bit of both. The only reason Holland wanted Roger to succeed was because he had taken Roger as a ward with that belief and had tied his daughter him to make himself grandfather to kings. It was all for himself, Roger knew, sitting sullenly on his horse.

But if he wanted to keep that power secure, he had to make sure the basket he put his eggs in was solid. That was something he could understand, at least. Otherwise Eleanor would not be queen for long and Holland not a father to a queen for long.

"I'd not be king for long if I must rely on others," he said, looking forward, "My rights, as you put it, are as if I was my mother, a woman. The dukes won't have any of it."