"For Lizzie...and for you." Charles wiped at his eyes roughly, trying in vain to clear them of tears, though they were replaced by new ones as a fresh wave of sobs prevented him from speaking.
"T-thank you..." he whispered, given he wasn't able to produce much louder sound without breaking down. Not only was his daughter gone, but his wife had left him and he knew the Lancaster's were brewing some sort of trouble up North. For once, despite his mother's presence, he felt utterly alone. "I...I am not sure I would make it too far without you here." He paced the room quickly, feeling his achieve solace only if he kept moving and didn't allow the grief to ensnare him. It was a futile attempt, but it was an attempt none the less and he certainly felt better moving around rather than sitting like his mother had.
"Life certainly has a way of rising you up before things come crashing down, but you must be strong, now more than ever. If there are pieces that have fallen, then they must be picked up and treasured, held together." Charles let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head quickly as if denying her words.
"Life has given me much hope, Mother. After Father died, I thought I would not make it through the night. Yet, I rose above it and I healed...but, this is much different. She was my daughter, Mother...my first born child and I lost her." He placed a fist against his mouth quickly, hoping to choke back more tears. "I could not even protect my own child...how am I to be entrusted with an entire kingdom, Mother? I am nothing but a failure." Mary Rayleigh stood, letting go of Lizzie's limp, ashen hand.
"Harriet is....facing...challenges..of her own right now. These are hard times, but you must endure." Charles tensed and looked as if he were ready to snap again. But, Mary reached and placed her hand on his arm, so he decided to hold himself back for her sake. "These are hard times, but you must endure. If anyone can hold strong in the face of adversity, it is a Rayleigh!" He sighed and looked at her sadly.
"Mother...Harriet and I both lost our daughter," he replied, fighting to stay calm. "Her challenges are my challenges...and, yet, she has gone ahead and ignored me." She didn't reply and, perhaps, he was glad she didn't, for Mary Rayleigh always made a good argument and Charles knew that either he would have to give into her or the two would simply be locked in a stubborn face-off, neither one budging. In a way, that's how it seemed between himself and Harriet, for they both had the same problems, yet they would not go to each other now for console.
"You warriors stand tall on the battlefield, but it is time to go to a different plane, to be..a prayer warrior, for on our knees, we are stronger than trees, which is the only chance I get at being taller than you." He let out a gentle laugh, forcing a smile to briefly cross his lips. "Will you join me?"
"It is certainly Father who I can thank for my height," he quipped. "For if I had inherited your stature, I would hardly come up to James Lancaster's shoulder." He grew solemn at her suggestion and slowly crossed the room with his mother. The two slowly knelt beside the bed where Lizzie lay and Charles clasped his hands together, head bowing in solemn prayer. The minutes seemed to drag long as he prayed for his daughter's soul. Finally, though, he raised his head of auburn hair and looked once more at his child before uttering the end of his prayer. "Amen, my darling."
"Amen to that, my friend!"
It had been two days seen Harriet Rayleigh had last been seen in Briar. In fact, despite this lengthy period, Charles hadn't seemed to notice at all that his wife was no longer roaming the halls. Then again, after their daughter's funeral, she hadn't even left her chambers. So, in fact, Charles hadn't seen his wife for weeks. Even Cecily seemed distant to him, but so did everyone these days as he'd blocked just about everyone and everything from his mind with a shroud of alcohol-induced ignorance.
After the funeral, his wife had simply gone ahead and locked herself away. At first, Charles approached with a calm, friendly tone. It only lasted a few days, though, for he soon found himself at her door shouting and cursing bloody murder and her. He knew that she wouldn't respond to such force, but he didn't really care either. The anger was his way of coping. No one in the castle, in fact, was safe from his wrath. By the time the second week had begun, Charles gave up trying to convince his wife. The last interaction he remembered involving his wife was the slamming of his fist against her door before storming away.
He wanted to pretend that his life was the same before the death, that it had resumed a sense of normality. For less than a day, he kept this lie going and continued to feed it to himself. Yet, everywhere he looked, there was some noble shooting him a gaze full of pity and sadness. They were trying to show pity to their king. No, he did not need their pity. He would show them he was fine, that he was strong and stable.
And so, he had begun to drink, trying to push himself into a happier state. Yet, his court still pitied him, threw him quick glances or a short "I'm so sorry, Your Highness" as he passed in the halls of his palace. At first it began to annoy him and he snapped. He yelled, he snarled, and he simply tried to take his anger out on someone for the grief he'd been dealt. By the time Harriet left, the court seemed to finally be learning that pity was met with violence and so they'd stopped all together, except for the tradition black clothing which even Charles still wore, though he wished only to discard the somber tones and return to his usual clothing which he viewed as more fit for a monarch.
Despite this facade, though, he was far from stable. There were nights in which his sobs echoed through the castle and he was forced the wander sleeplessly until morning light filtered through the widows. He tried to refuse food at first, but he finally decided to accept it when he realized the refusal made him simply look weaker. On top of the alcohol, he'd surrounded himself with pastimes and hobbies, trying to keep the stress of running a kingdom as far away as possible for as long as possible.
"Oh, Lord! That story gets me every time, I swear!" His throne room had almost emptied by that afternoon. The chatter came from only Charles and his most trusted group of men, including both Harold Pierrepont and Henry Stanford, though the latter was as reserved as ever and simply looked at Charles every once and a while with an expression that conveyed both disgust and pity, although most nobles had abandoned the pitying expressions. Charles's laughter rang out in the room, echoing off of the high rafters in an odd manner. It certainly seemed out of place for the king for be laughing so loudly despite the situation he was in. Even the man who had told the story was quiet and looked uneasily around.
"It reminds of that bitch of a wife I have..." he muttered, a smirk still on his lips despite the uneasy glances being cast around. A bit of movement caught Charles's eye and he looked to Henry who had shuffled awkwardly, trying to keep himself from speaking up against his king. "Lord Stanford, come here!" The older man's fists clenched behind his back, but he obediently moved forward and bowed quickly before the throne.
"My King?" Henry asked, his normal monotonous voice silencing the others as they turned to look at the two. Charles stood from his throne and started down toward Henry until the two stood only a foot or so apart. Looking down at his elder with a bemused expression, Charles let out a chuckle. He obviously had no common sense about him, else he would have held his tongue around the man who was much stronger than him both physically and perhaps mentally.
"You have been quiet this entire time, Lord Stanford..." he said, clasping his hands before himself. "What is your opinion? Is my mother-in-law the same way towards you? Does she treat you in the same way mine does? Is she unresponsive? Disrespectful?" Henry looked up at Charles with a blank gaze.
"No, of course not," he said simply. "For my wife still has respect for me."
"Is that so?" Charles said carefully, nodding his head slowly as he thought these words over. "I had assumed all Stanford women were raised to treat their husbands like scum." Henry could have suffered in silence under most circumstances, but there was one thing that tended to push him over the edge. This, of course, was when his family was threatened.
"That is where you are wrong, Your Highness," he stated defiantly. "My wife and daughters know how to treat men, I assure you. But, you're not much of a man these days, are you? Have you even read the letter she left you? She's done this for your own good." Charles had turned a bright shade of some red by then, looking as if he were ready to let loose and throw a punch at Henry.
"Done what, pray tell?" he managed to snarl out.
"She's left for Pendlebury with your daughter and my wife," Henry continued. His voice remained monotonous, but that only seemed to amplify the effect his words held. "You've gone ahead and chased her away." The words came as a slap to the face for Charles who managed a look of pure shock and then of despair as if finally coming to after all this time.
"No...she would not leave me..." he whispered. "Harriet would never leave me, you fool!" A voice sounded over his shoulder and Charles turned, coming face to face with Pierrepont as the man held out a piece of paper.
"Your Highness...I had almost forgotten to give you this. The Queen left it with me before she and her mother disembarked." Charles looked to the man with desperation and then disbelief. How had they forgotten to tell him this?! His own wife had left him and he had not the slightest clue! His eyes scanned over the words as Henry further insulted him and chided him. They came as figurative slaps to the face to Charles who had, of course, been trying to ignore things like this up unlike now.
"A real man would mount his horse and ride out to Pendlebury now." Henry glared daggers at Charles with his dark green eyes. "Tell me, Charles, are you a real man?" Slowly, Charles turned to face Pierrepont, his face void of expression while his mind raced like it hadn't since the death of his daughter.
"Tell the stable boys to ready my horse, Pierrepont...I will leave for Pendlebury in a quarter-hour."
Charles certainly could not remember the last time he had ridden so quickly. Pendlebury was usually a day's ride away but he found himself nearing the home in hours. Then again, he'd kept his horse in a quick canter or a gallop for most of the ride. His agitation seemed to spark the horse forward and so she raced along, her hooves smacking the dirt pathway with every step.
Charles seemed to have sobered completely, for his mind was no longer muddled with drink or ignorance. Instead, the sharp reality of Harriet leaving Briar, even for just a period, made him uneasy. It pierced through the foggy daze he created and threatened to tear him apart. The letter had said she was preparing to stay there to give birth to their child which, he knew, was still months away. Had he really pushed her so far away she was willing to have their child somewhere away from him? He'd been present at the birth of both of his children and he certainly wouldn't miss this one, given it was hopefully the birth of his heir.
The prospect of losing Harriet was killing him, though. He'd seen marriages where both spouses looked as if they wished to kill each other. Before, he and his wife had laughed at them but, now he worried that they would become them. Suddenly, he spurred his horse on and into the courtyard of Pendlebury with a few guards behind him, simply to make sure their monarch was not in harm's way.
In a fluid motion, he slid from his horse's back and hurried toward the doors of Pendlebury. Servants quickly opened them for him, though they were obviously shocked by his abrupt and disheveled appearance as Charles rushed forward into the estate. It was late. So late, in fact, that he assumed Harriet must have gone to bed along with Cecily and most of the servants. Yet, that still didn't stop him from crying out to his wife.
Harriet!" he called, his voice echoing loudly back at him. Harriet, come here, please!" Though he still refrained from using their usual terms of endearment, he couldn't help but sound as if he were pleading with her to come back to him. Chest rising and falling rapidly, he waited, praying she'd come. If she didn't...well, he had not a clue what he would do.
"T-thank you..." he whispered, given he wasn't able to produce much louder sound without breaking down. Not only was his daughter gone, but his wife had left him and he knew the Lancaster's were brewing some sort of trouble up North. For once, despite his mother's presence, he felt utterly alone. "I...I am not sure I would make it too far without you here." He paced the room quickly, feeling his achieve solace only if he kept moving and didn't allow the grief to ensnare him. It was a futile attempt, but it was an attempt none the less and he certainly felt better moving around rather than sitting like his mother had.
"Life certainly has a way of rising you up before things come crashing down, but you must be strong, now more than ever. If there are pieces that have fallen, then they must be picked up and treasured, held together." Charles let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head quickly as if denying her words.
"Life has given me much hope, Mother. After Father died, I thought I would not make it through the night. Yet, I rose above it and I healed...but, this is much different. She was my daughter, Mother...my first born child and I lost her." He placed a fist against his mouth quickly, hoping to choke back more tears. "I could not even protect my own child...how am I to be entrusted with an entire kingdom, Mother? I am nothing but a failure." Mary Rayleigh stood, letting go of Lizzie's limp, ashen hand.
"Harriet is....facing...challenges..of her own right now. These are hard times, but you must endure." Charles tensed and looked as if he were ready to snap again. But, Mary reached and placed her hand on his arm, so he decided to hold himself back for her sake. "These are hard times, but you must endure. If anyone can hold strong in the face of adversity, it is a Rayleigh!" He sighed and looked at her sadly.
"Mother...Harriet and I both lost our daughter," he replied, fighting to stay calm. "Her challenges are my challenges...and, yet, she has gone ahead and ignored me." She didn't reply and, perhaps, he was glad she didn't, for Mary Rayleigh always made a good argument and Charles knew that either he would have to give into her or the two would simply be locked in a stubborn face-off, neither one budging. In a way, that's how it seemed between himself and Harriet, for they both had the same problems, yet they would not go to each other now for console.
"You warriors stand tall on the battlefield, but it is time to go to a different plane, to be..a prayer warrior, for on our knees, we are stronger than trees, which is the only chance I get at being taller than you." He let out a gentle laugh, forcing a smile to briefly cross his lips. "Will you join me?"
"It is certainly Father who I can thank for my height," he quipped. "For if I had inherited your stature, I would hardly come up to James Lancaster's shoulder." He grew solemn at her suggestion and slowly crossed the room with his mother. The two slowly knelt beside the bed where Lizzie lay and Charles clasped his hands together, head bowing in solemn prayer. The minutes seemed to drag long as he prayed for his daughter's soul. Finally, though, he raised his head of auburn hair and looked once more at his child before uttering the end of his prayer. "Amen, my darling."
"Amen to that, my friend!"
It had been two days seen Harriet Rayleigh had last been seen in Briar. In fact, despite this lengthy period, Charles hadn't seemed to notice at all that his wife was no longer roaming the halls. Then again, after their daughter's funeral, she hadn't even left her chambers. So, in fact, Charles hadn't seen his wife for weeks. Even Cecily seemed distant to him, but so did everyone these days as he'd blocked just about everyone and everything from his mind with a shroud of alcohol-induced ignorance.
After the funeral, his wife had simply gone ahead and locked herself away. At first, Charles approached with a calm, friendly tone. It only lasted a few days, though, for he soon found himself at her door shouting and cursing bloody murder and her. He knew that she wouldn't respond to such force, but he didn't really care either. The anger was his way of coping. No one in the castle, in fact, was safe from his wrath. By the time the second week had begun, Charles gave up trying to convince his wife. The last interaction he remembered involving his wife was the slamming of his fist against her door before storming away.
He wanted to pretend that his life was the same before the death, that it had resumed a sense of normality. For less than a day, he kept this lie going and continued to feed it to himself. Yet, everywhere he looked, there was some noble shooting him a gaze full of pity and sadness. They were trying to show pity to their king. No, he did not need their pity. He would show them he was fine, that he was strong and stable.
And so, he had begun to drink, trying to push himself into a happier state. Yet, his court still pitied him, threw him quick glances or a short "I'm so sorry, Your Highness" as he passed in the halls of his palace. At first it began to annoy him and he snapped. He yelled, he snarled, and he simply tried to take his anger out on someone for the grief he'd been dealt. By the time Harriet left, the court seemed to finally be learning that pity was met with violence and so they'd stopped all together, except for the tradition black clothing which even Charles still wore, though he wished only to discard the somber tones and return to his usual clothing which he viewed as more fit for a monarch.
Despite this facade, though, he was far from stable. There were nights in which his sobs echoed through the castle and he was forced the wander sleeplessly until morning light filtered through the widows. He tried to refuse food at first, but he finally decided to accept it when he realized the refusal made him simply look weaker. On top of the alcohol, he'd surrounded himself with pastimes and hobbies, trying to keep the stress of running a kingdom as far away as possible for as long as possible.
"Oh, Lord! That story gets me every time, I swear!" His throne room had almost emptied by that afternoon. The chatter came from only Charles and his most trusted group of men, including both Harold Pierrepont and Henry Stanford, though the latter was as reserved as ever and simply looked at Charles every once and a while with an expression that conveyed both disgust and pity, although most nobles had abandoned the pitying expressions. Charles's laughter rang out in the room, echoing off of the high rafters in an odd manner. It certainly seemed out of place for the king for be laughing so loudly despite the situation he was in. Even the man who had told the story was quiet and looked uneasily around.
"It reminds of that bitch of a wife I have..." he muttered, a smirk still on his lips despite the uneasy glances being cast around. A bit of movement caught Charles's eye and he looked to Henry who had shuffled awkwardly, trying to keep himself from speaking up against his king. "Lord Stanford, come here!" The older man's fists clenched behind his back, but he obediently moved forward and bowed quickly before the throne.
"My King?" Henry asked, his normal monotonous voice silencing the others as they turned to look at the two. Charles stood from his throne and started down toward Henry until the two stood only a foot or so apart. Looking down at his elder with a bemused expression, Charles let out a chuckle. He obviously had no common sense about him, else he would have held his tongue around the man who was much stronger than him both physically and perhaps mentally.
"You have been quiet this entire time, Lord Stanford..." he said, clasping his hands before himself. "What is your opinion? Is my mother-in-law the same way towards you? Does she treat you in the same way mine does? Is she unresponsive? Disrespectful?" Henry looked up at Charles with a blank gaze.
"No, of course not," he said simply. "For my wife still has respect for me."
"Is that so?" Charles said carefully, nodding his head slowly as he thought these words over. "I had assumed all Stanford women were raised to treat their husbands like scum." Henry could have suffered in silence under most circumstances, but there was one thing that tended to push him over the edge. This, of course, was when his family was threatened.
"That is where you are wrong, Your Highness," he stated defiantly. "My wife and daughters know how to treat men, I assure you. But, you're not much of a man these days, are you? Have you even read the letter she left you? She's done this for your own good." Charles had turned a bright shade of some red by then, looking as if he were ready to let loose and throw a punch at Henry.
"Done what, pray tell?" he managed to snarl out.
"She's left for Pendlebury with your daughter and my wife," Henry continued. His voice remained monotonous, but that only seemed to amplify the effect his words held. "You've gone ahead and chased her away." The words came as a slap to the face for Charles who managed a look of pure shock and then of despair as if finally coming to after all this time.
"No...she would not leave me..." he whispered. "Harriet would never leave me, you fool!" A voice sounded over his shoulder and Charles turned, coming face to face with Pierrepont as the man held out a piece of paper.
"Your Highness...I had almost forgotten to give you this. The Queen left it with me before she and her mother disembarked." Charles looked to the man with desperation and then disbelief. How had they forgotten to tell him this?! His own wife had left him and he had not the slightest clue! His eyes scanned over the words as Henry further insulted him and chided him. They came as figurative slaps to the face to Charles who had, of course, been trying to ignore things like this up unlike now.
"A real man would mount his horse and ride out to Pendlebury now." Henry glared daggers at Charles with his dark green eyes. "Tell me, Charles, are you a real man?" Slowly, Charles turned to face Pierrepont, his face void of expression while his mind raced like it hadn't since the death of his daughter.
"Tell the stable boys to ready my horse, Pierrepont...I will leave for Pendlebury in a quarter-hour."
Charles certainly could not remember the last time he had ridden so quickly. Pendlebury was usually a day's ride away but he found himself nearing the home in hours. Then again, he'd kept his horse in a quick canter or a gallop for most of the ride. His agitation seemed to spark the horse forward and so she raced along, her hooves smacking the dirt pathway with every step.
Charles seemed to have sobered completely, for his mind was no longer muddled with drink or ignorance. Instead, the sharp reality of Harriet leaving Briar, even for just a period, made him uneasy. It pierced through the foggy daze he created and threatened to tear him apart. The letter had said she was preparing to stay there to give birth to their child which, he knew, was still months away. Had he really pushed her so far away she was willing to have their child somewhere away from him? He'd been present at the birth of both of his children and he certainly wouldn't miss this one, given it was hopefully the birth of his heir.
The prospect of losing Harriet was killing him, though. He'd seen marriages where both spouses looked as if they wished to kill each other. Before, he and his wife had laughed at them but, now he worried that they would become them. Suddenly, he spurred his horse on and into the courtyard of Pendlebury with a few guards behind him, simply to make sure their monarch was not in harm's way.
In a fluid motion, he slid from his horse's back and hurried toward the doors of Pendlebury. Servants quickly opened them for him, though they were obviously shocked by his abrupt and disheveled appearance as Charles rushed forward into the estate. It was late. So late, in fact, that he assumed Harriet must have gone to bed along with Cecily and most of the servants. Yet, that still didn't stop him from crying out to his wife.
Harriet!" he called, his voice echoing loudly back at him. Harriet, come here, please!" Though he still refrained from using their usual terms of endearment, he couldn't help but sound as if he were pleading with her to come back to him. Chest rising and falling rapidly, he waited, praying she'd come. If she didn't...well, he had not a clue what he would do.