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“Naturally, with the sickness. I wondered if you had any news of it.”
Ashcombe was about to give off a few statistics that his men had given him before he left.
But before he could Christopher started speaking.
Christopher spoke of the comet and how every believed it would bring portents of doom, how the plague came and the terrible devastation. As he spoke people gathered, drawn in by the desperation in Christopher’s voice. He kept Ashcombe’s grandson out of the story but even without putting his own experiences he still managed to speak of London’s sorrow and pain, of children hanging dead in their mother’s hands, the friends and family he’d lost. The image he drew was detailed and vivid and so heart wrenching.
Ashcombe would have expected Christopher to just talk about the horrors he’d experienced but Christopher also spoke of the generosity he’d seen, the sacrifices in the wake of so much death. He talked and talked and talked. And with every word, Ashcombe’s heart clenched.
Ashcombe had known, of course. He was sent reports of London. But he’d forgotten how much Christopher would have suffered. For Ashcombe London was a tragedy even away from the horrors, but for Christopher this was his life, he was embroiled in the horrors. He’d witnessed these things firsthand. He was one of the Londoners who’d lost his friends and family, he was speaking of.
Tears were collecting in Christopher’s eyes though Ashcombe doubted that the boy noticed. All the while Christopher pushed through subtly begging the French nobility to care. No, not just the French nobility, for anyone to care.
Ashcombe had heard of the carts that came out every night “Bring out your dead.” How had that hurt Christopher? To hear the people he grown up with, forced to carry their dead loved ones on to a cart, where they would be buried in the plague pits?
Ashcombe remembered hearing how Christopher begging one of magistrates to give the doctor who had saved their lives a proper funeral, and to be buried alongside the doctor’s loved ones. How many more had been denied the chance to lie beside their loved ones because of this horrific plague.
Christopher spoke, and spoke, and spoke, and there was part of Ashcombe that wished he’d stop, but another perhaps a bigger part that whispered in Ashcombe’s ear “You deserve to here how London faired, while you nobility ran like cowards.”
It felt like hours later, when Christopher finally ran out of things to stay, but knowing was willing to break the silence, and cut through the pain that was still on Christopher’s face. He wiped the tears from his face. Ashcombe squeezed Christopher’s shoulder. Christopher straightened at the touch, no doubt surprised at the sudden show of affection, but Ashcombe refused to let go, of his fake grandson’s shoulder.
Then someone broke the silence.
“Such a terrible thing.”
Everyone looked over to the man who had spoken. King Louis had joined the crowed and Ashcombe hadn’t noticed, to engrossed like the rest of the crowd in hearing about Plague Infested London. “Welcome Baron,” he said then gave a half turn toward Ashcombe “and Marquess.” Then he turned back toward Christopher “The prayers of all of France are with you and your people.”
Everyone turned toward to Christopher, who suddenly felt stiff in his hands. Ashcombe was about rescue him when Christopher spoke again his words shocking him more than the descriptions of the plague had.
“Your Majesty. Your words touch my soul, and bring peace to a troubled city. Please know that the light of your radiance warms the hearts and hearths of all, even to the darkest corner of England.”
Ashcombe was just barely able to stop his jaw from dropping to the ground “Where did that come from?” He shared a look with Thomas, only to notice that the eldest Bailey child’s eyes had a hint of read to them.
He remembered what Christopher had said, about Thomas having been poisoned, and everyone thinking he’d had the plague. How his family had run to the boats that were anchored all around the Thames. The redness of his eyes made sense, in the wake of that knowledge.
Ashcombe turned back to the king, to see what King Louis would say to Christopher’s unexpected flattering.
Whatever Christopher had been planning however, worked. A tiny smile graced Louis face, the King of France nodded slightly, before he walked away.
With in moments everyone was swarming the boy, practically nudging The King’s Warden away from Christopher. Every single one of them wanted a piece of the boy, every man came up to him insisting that Christopher dine with them and there family. Christopher looked flustered, but again handled the nobility wonderfully. “You are all so kind, and I would be delighted to join you, but unfortunately, I am already engaged this evening. I shall return your invitations with haste.”
Ashcombe hadn’t noticed Colbert watching from the side, to distracted by Christopher’s speech, but when everyone had finally left Colbert came up to them and said, “If you need anything, Baron, my door is open.”
Only after this and they were finally alone (or as alone as nobility could be) did Christopher finally relax he wiped the sweat from his brow.
Christopher looked up at Ashcombe, worriedly.
Ashcombe said nothing for a moment, unsure of how to express what he thought, “I think your worry was for nothing, grandson. You will make an excellent Baron.”
Christopher’s eyes widened, and he looked down the flush on his cheeks giving away his embarrassment.