Searching for a King
1
The Tower of London
1483
"Ned-" Richard Plantagenet, the little Duke of York laid in the huge bed. Or that's who he was supposed to be. Little Patrick Swindly was born a common boy with princely looks and now he was a prince, in character if no more. Really this boy was an actor and knew it. Yet they played the role quite perfectly.
The real prince slept quietly as though this palace sized bed was of daily occurrence. The younger boy sighed pushing the older whispering a panicked "your grace must wake immediately."
Even for a peasant, it was rare young Patrick grew fearful. Yet the tower scared the strongest of men. That was without the noise of a picking lock. Fits of terror soon took over. Forcing himself to protect his king he pushed the older boy from the bed making him hit the ground with a thud most violent just as the iron door opened. Darkness engulfed more darkness.
"Richard what-" the young king was silenced by a hand, soft skin, smelling clean. His eyes widened as he was lifted, gentle but firm and half dragged from the room, cast into a woman's arms and quickly swept down the stairs, feet followed and at the bottom step darkness turned to silence as he fell into an unconscious state there in the woman's arms.
Young Patrick watched in horror as the king flopped into the whores grasp. With speed the man grabbed the sleeping child, discarding young Patrick into the woamns arms. The King was carried over the mans shoulder as she took his own little hand.
The mans voice was rough, course and faked. His accent had been rehearsed and was lacking in natural comfort. The mans clothes had been wool, with silk beneath, the wool of a working class merchant or London labourer yet his hands were soft, his skin clean. Why did it confuse him so? And this woman, a whore though she was clearly, she held herself with regal poise, with importance. Young Patrick said not a word as, ordered to follow, he scurried down the cobbles and into a litter, ducking beneath straw as the man charged the horses at a devils pace out of the tower gates.
He cared not where they were going, so long as they were away from this keep.. He would meet his maker with a happy heart, so long as that be not in the tower walls.
**
"They are gone, and you are sure?"
"Quite sure your grace."
Richard of Gloucester sat upon the throne of England by pretence, such he knew. He was no king as of yet, with the princes gone would he be king by right? Yet they were gone and not at his word. They had been taken in darkness by men with force enough to storm the tower, and cunning enough to do it quietly.
"No one is in knowledge of the man?"
"With regret we are not your grace."
"How could you let this happen?" Anne Neville spoke for the first time. The woman was small, frail by all accounts but her voice.
"My lady. We regret it most sorrowfully."
"Of the boys, do they live?"
"The king was carried my lady."
"They were seen upon leaving?"
"Aye"
"And none thought to stop it?!" Richard bellowed the words, rare anger forcing him to strike out at the silver pitcher.
"We tried your grace, the man rode like the devil."
"The devil?" He turned, drip white and feverish. "I have heard only one man said to have that speed and it cannot be so."
"I know not what to say your grace." Both men shared a look which confirmed, both men knew just of the man they both spoke of.
"You say nothing until you find them. And my lord Stanley, you should pray you find them, alive."
Richard of Gloucester sat upon the chair of estate with shaking hands. It could not be. So the crypt at Westminster had been opened but surely, poison, lead and marble would be enough to keep even the devil himself at bay. He crossed himself feeling nothing but the chilling cold paranoia as he fell forward onto the tiles clutching to all the reality he could maintain.
**
The fire burned too hot in the small room. The king noticed it instantly as he awoke with a smoke induced splutter. Wiping streaming eyes he lifted himself held gently by a woman he gasped to recognise. But how could it be? She had been paraded with lord Hastings as a whore, sentenced by his uncle of Gloucester. So many feelings filled his little heart, fury led his emotional march seconded by an emotion he seldom knew, fear. Richard Duke of Gloucester would see him dead, his Woodville kindred too. The man who could have stopped it lay lifeless at Westminster. How right William had been, all great men will fall from their seats. The dead fortune no one in their deeds. With death dies hope. How long it had taken to believe the tales, yet his father was dead and he would never truly be king.
The woman brought his attention back to the room, nursing his sweat coated head, holding his shivering body. Silently he rested his head on her velvet dress, taking in her sweet scent. It only helped him realise how he missed his mother. Tears filled the young princes eyes, escaping as poor young Patrick raced to his side. How he missed Richard, oh where was Richard?
He stopped his tears as the door once more opened. The man who had first grabbed him - or so he assumed. Blue eyes scaled over the man. He wore a hooded cloak, his manners absent for never was it removed. His face in darkness, the young king could only tell the mans height. A tall peasant, a kings mistress with a peasant. And they had kidnapped a prince, nay a king. Please god bring hell upon them. The boy sat quickly, his eyes bearing into the man, he cared little for his bare torso only for the mans almost caring smile. "You sir, this is treason! You willingly commit treason!"
A shrug, the foul beast just shrugged. Young Edward sat astounded, embarrassed only as on his knees the man handed him a silk shirt. The young king thanked him, wishing only to bow to the man. A sudden impulse he pushed aside with determination. What was coming over him, truly he must be devoid of senses to want to bow to a strong eyed peasant.
"Fetch me water. And wine, I wish ginger wine." If he were to tolerate conditions not to be offered to farm animals, he would make the most of it.
1483
"Ned-" Richard Plantagenet, the little Duke of York laid in the huge bed. Or that's who he was supposed to be. Little Patrick Swindly was born a common boy with princely looks and now he was a prince, in character if no more. Really this boy was an actor and knew it. Yet they played the role quite perfectly.
The real prince slept quietly as though this palace sized bed was of daily occurrence. The younger boy sighed pushing the older whispering a panicked "your grace must wake immediately."
Even for a peasant, it was rare young Patrick grew fearful. Yet the tower scared the strongest of men. That was without the noise of a picking lock. Fits of terror soon took over. Forcing himself to protect his king he pushed the older boy from the bed making him hit the ground with a thud most violent just as the iron door opened. Darkness engulfed more darkness.
"Richard what-" the young king was silenced by a hand, soft skin, smelling clean. His eyes widened as he was lifted, gentle but firm and half dragged from the room, cast into a woman's arms and quickly swept down the stairs, feet followed and at the bottom step darkness turned to silence as he fell into an unconscious state there in the woman's arms.
Young Patrick watched in horror as the king flopped into the whores grasp. With speed the man grabbed the sleeping child, discarding young Patrick into the woamns arms. The King was carried over the mans shoulder as she took his own little hand.
The mans voice was rough, course and faked. His accent had been rehearsed and was lacking in natural comfort. The mans clothes had been wool, with silk beneath, the wool of a working class merchant or London labourer yet his hands were soft, his skin clean. Why did it confuse him so? And this woman, a whore though she was clearly, she held herself with regal poise, with importance. Young Patrick said not a word as, ordered to follow, he scurried down the cobbles and into a litter, ducking beneath straw as the man charged the horses at a devils pace out of the tower gates.
He cared not where they were going, so long as they were away from this keep.. He would meet his maker with a happy heart, so long as that be not in the tower walls.
**
"They are gone, and you are sure?"
"Quite sure your grace."
Richard of Gloucester sat upon the throne of England by pretence, such he knew. He was no king as of yet, with the princes gone would he be king by right? Yet they were gone and not at his word. They had been taken in darkness by men with force enough to storm the tower, and cunning enough to do it quietly.
"No one is in knowledge of the man?"
"With regret we are not your grace."
"How could you let this happen?" Anne Neville spoke for the first time. The woman was small, frail by all accounts but her voice.
"My lady. We regret it most sorrowfully."
"Of the boys, do they live?"
"The king was carried my lady."
"They were seen upon leaving?"
"Aye"
"And none thought to stop it?!" Richard bellowed the words, rare anger forcing him to strike out at the silver pitcher.
"We tried your grace, the man rode like the devil."
"The devil?" He turned, drip white and feverish. "I have heard only one man said to have that speed and it cannot be so."
"I know not what to say your grace." Both men shared a look which confirmed, both men knew just of the man they both spoke of.
"You say nothing until you find them. And my lord Stanley, you should pray you find them, alive."
Richard of Gloucester sat upon the chair of estate with shaking hands. It could not be. So the crypt at Westminster had been opened but surely, poison, lead and marble would be enough to keep even the devil himself at bay. He crossed himself feeling nothing but the chilling cold paranoia as he fell forward onto the tiles clutching to all the reality he could maintain.
**
The fire burned too hot in the small room. The king noticed it instantly as he awoke with a smoke induced splutter. Wiping streaming eyes he lifted himself held gently by a woman he gasped to recognise. But how could it be? She had been paraded with lord Hastings as a whore, sentenced by his uncle of Gloucester. So many feelings filled his little heart, fury led his emotional march seconded by an emotion he seldom knew, fear. Richard Duke of Gloucester would see him dead, his Woodville kindred too. The man who could have stopped it lay lifeless at Westminster. How right William had been, all great men will fall from their seats. The dead fortune no one in their deeds. With death dies hope. How long it had taken to believe the tales, yet his father was dead and he would never truly be king.
The woman brought his attention back to the room, nursing his sweat coated head, holding his shivering body. Silently he rested his head on her velvet dress, taking in her sweet scent. It only helped him realise how he missed his mother. Tears filled the young princes eyes, escaping as poor young Patrick raced to his side. How he missed Richard, oh where was Richard?
He stopped his tears as the door once more opened. The man who had first grabbed him - or so he assumed. Blue eyes scaled over the man. He wore a hooded cloak, his manners absent for never was it removed. His face in darkness, the young king could only tell the mans height. A tall peasant, a kings mistress with a peasant. And they had kidnapped a prince, nay a king. Please god bring hell upon them. The boy sat quickly, his eyes bearing into the man, he cared little for his bare torso only for the mans almost caring smile. "You sir, this is treason! You willingly commit treason!"
A shrug, the foul beast just shrugged. Young Edward sat astounded, embarrassed only as on his knees the man handed him a silk shirt. The young king thanked him, wishing only to bow to the man. A sudden impulse he pushed aside with determination. What was coming over him, truly he must be devoid of senses to want to bow to a strong eyed peasant.
"Fetch me water. And wine, I wish ginger wine." If he were to tolerate conditions not to be offered to farm animals, he would make the most of it.