Chapter forty-eight
The old man laughed nervously for a short while, trying to convince himself she was certainly joking. No normal person would want to batter a historical art that has been worshipped for over a thousand years. Oh yes…he said normal.
The younger men in the room found it a little bit amusing…and daring. Raymond and his brother would have had a problem if they weren't sure she was just scaring the King. Or were there?
She lifted her weapon and tapped its tip on the painting's nose…and the King's heart fell to his toes.
"Are you out of your mind," he blurted with a near squeak, once again wondering where his guards had gone to.  He had begun to shiver in pure fright. If his sons were half as threatening as she was, England might as well have won every war.
"Sign it," Monica rasped as she smiled at the King, teasing him with those eyes as green as gems.
The man's legs lost all strength to hold him up, surrending all muscles as he fell into his seat with hands over his face, "You do not comprehend the severity of what you ask so dearly for."
As Duke, there came certain knowledge in politics one acquired during rule. After the King, people like Peter and himself ranked second in the Monarchy, and ergo were expected to see the best side of His Majesty's every decision.
If this man before him was just a greedy old scum, why would he rather die than return Kilmarnock. Philip narrowed his eyes at the man to study him intently, "You give the Scottish refugees more reason to live by returning their territory. What could possibly go wrong?" This time, he asked humbly, exceedingly determined to get the questions his conscience had been throwing at him.
Monica tilted her head with a frown, strangely interested in knowing why as well. As they glared at the older man, beads of sweat caressed the sides of his face, displaying the nervousness and fear he clearly had.
"If you discover the amount of fortune harboured in Kilmarnock," the King started, realising just then he'd chosen the worst words to start with. He paused, lips shivering as his gaze returned to the Duke.
Philip now had a disgusted frown on as his eyes still fixed on the man,  "Monica I feel an imperial moustache will suit better than that nose piercing," he turned to her, "aren't I right darling?"
As the lady grinned, she heard the King bark again, "Don't you dare lay a finger on that portrait."
Now every one of them smirked at the frustrated man who seemed to have suddenly gone psycho.
He was surrounding, outnumbered, literally helpless, and in all, outsmarted by seven young humans. And he knew it. When he looked up again, there was Monica with her blade in the air, daring to carve it through the historical painting.
Just at the other side of his office, his sons stood, seemingly ashamed and ignoring the trauma he was going through.
Time flied and nothing reasonable happened, all sound and movement seemed to have drowned in the moment. To the King, it was just him and the seal before his eyes, and all the voices were shielded by the loud thumps of his beating heart. Eventually, several images filled his mind. Scots on the streets of England, homeless, vandalizing and dropping limp out of starvation, and how he could change all that with his signature. They were not to blame for the decisions made by those above them.
For the very first time, he believed England was safe and capable of handling a war without the fortune in that land. Then again, he wasn't thinking straight. When he looked at Monica again, he saw a determined lads wanting her home and happiness back so dearly, something he'd taken away for fifteen, long years.
And all she did was ask for it back…
Although her methods may have been crude and violent, she was angry enough. Bad or not, her father had been killed.
The least he could do was give her this.
His hands moved to the quill pen in the ink bottle before his mind registered he was doing it. And when his eyes went back to the piece of paper, his hand moved with it.
Monica's mouth opened in disbelief, her eyes tearing up while King Louis screeched his signature unto the paper.
Slowly, she staggered through her friends to the table, so gently so she wouldn't pop the cloud of a seemingly beautiful dream come true. But then, halfway there, she quickened her steps and snatched the piece of paper before it ran away.
There was silence for a moment. This was the point where emotions were better shown than spoken. The air held tons of unsaid hope and happiness; Kilmarnock was in her hands.
It was so difficult to believe she turned to Philip for some sort of confirmation. Fifteen years…
The Duke gave her a tiny smile just before he faced the King and muttered words that were supposed to be an appreciation, "You won't regret this."
He already did. The old man gawked at the quill between his fingers, realising just now what he'd done just because of a short storm of deceitful emotion.
Now his mind had begun working again and he widened his mouth when he found the signed seal in Monica's clutches. "I've just signed for the doom of England," he whispered the words to himself.
But then, "What do you mean you've just signed for the doom of England?" Philip seemed to have grasped his words and such a sudden interest to it.
"A war," was the man's simple reply while he was lost in his own trance of self hate and horror, "Now she'll pick up from where her father left off."
Why didn't those words come out before he sighed the darn paper. Monica was just as confused as the others were. Was he losing it?
"And what do you mean by that," an English accent bathed Monica's question to the King of England, angry and impatient. She searched the gazes of the lads on her side, realising they shared the same confusion.
The man gathered what seemed to be enough breath for speech. While he leaned forward, he tapped his fingers upon his desk, possibly thinking of a way out of this.
The King had gone mad!
"Father!" Raymond's call brought his gaze off his table to look at him, "What in the name of God are you blabbering about?"
The King still ignored him. However, he posed his attention to the Scottish, "Please! Spare us."
Now Philip was utterly interested. War? Spare us? Doom of England? Something was definitely wrong, consequently arousing the persistent feeling he was wrong.
Now he pulled a chair out and sat just before the King. While he watched the man shiver, he placed his hand over the older man's own, stilling it in a comfortable clutch, "Talk to us."
Now, all the lads listened intently, anxiously while Louis gained full concentration again, though Philip realised he still shivered.
After the Duke urged him to go on, the older man began stuttering his words, "We…we seized Kilmarnock to prevent a war," oh so now the words came out, "her father planned to channel all that fortune into acquiring ammunition for our destruction. Gaining support from the rest of Scotland, the war was finalized."
And the entire room fell quiet in shock.