The Children of the King

by Sonya Hartnett

  “You are brave. Brave enough to kill a man!”

  Jeremy’s fine face, already drained, paled further on being reminded of these words. “I wouldn’t want to do that,” he said scratchily, “but I would, if I had to. That’s what life is, I think: doing what you have to do. Isn’t it?”

  Cecily looked at him, her fierce tormented brother who urged ruthlessness but couldn’t harm a butterfly. She, Cecily Lockwood, believed herself capable of almost anything — if she had to, she would throw a grenade, man a machine gun, strangle an enemy with her bare hands. But Jeremy was different. He was burdened by his decency. Nonetheless she said, “I think so.”

  He looked away, his eyes wet but the tears stopped, as fragile as one recovering from a depleting illness. The silent Hall stood around them, the staircase with its wide polished treads, the ivory-white passage with its doors and paintings, the intricately patterned powder-pink tiles at their feet. Nothing moved but for a rose in a vase, past its best, which dropped a lank petal. The closeness they’d shared in the last minutes passed like a smile, and awkwardness filled its place. It is a dreadful thing for a boy to be seen weeping by his baby sister. Jeremy tried to pretend it had never happened. He asked, “What are you and May doing today?”

  “Nothing. Drawing and colouring. You can do some too, if you like.”

  It was a wrong, embarrassing thing to say to a young man with a tear-stained face; it made him bad-tempered with her. “Don’t be late for lunch,” he said nonsensically, for Cecily had never been guilty of that crime; and pushed off from the wall and strode away.

  Cecily collected her pencils from her room and on her way back through the house made a detour to the library, where Peregrine was working at his desk. He looked up briefly, said, “May I help you?”

  She gripped the pencil-tin for security — the library was an intimidating place when its owner was in residence. The books and bones seemed aloof, the woman in the silver frame unfriendly. “Uncle Peregrine,” Cecily said shyly, “if you are staying home today, would you tell us some of the Duke’s story after lunch?”

  “After dinner. That is the law.”

  “I would prefer after lunch.”

  Peregrine’s swift writing did not slow, but an eyebrow rose like a hackle. “You’d prefer it. Why is that?”

  “Because otherwise Mama and Jeremy will talk about the war.”

  Whatever Peregrine was writing with a beautiful fountain pen was evidently important, and not to be delayed; he kept writing. But he smiled cheerlessly at the paper, a smile meant for her. “All right. After lunch. Now out you go.”

  His niece took a step backwards to the door. She glanced at the books on the shelves, and at the bones. Then she asked, “Did you ever want to kill a man when you were young, Uncle Peregrine?”

  He stopped writing, lifted his gaze. “No.”

  “But you would, if you had to?”

  Peregrine looked at his letter, as if he’d written answers there. After a pause he said, “You know this is not the first world war our country has fought, don’t you? You know there was another — the Great War — that was fought before this one? Long before you were born, but not so long ago.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I was just old enough to fight in that war. I could never be a soldier, though, because of my legs.”

  The subject of Peregrine’s lameness was one she’d been taught never to venture near, and Cecily was aghast to have accidentally strayed into it. She blinked and nodded dumbly.

  “A lot of my friends signed up as soldiers at the start of the Great War,” her uncle continued. “We’d never lived through a war, so we didn’t know what war was like. We thought it would be an adventure. I was envious of my friends who were able to go on this adventure. Later, of course, we realised the truth: that war is almost the opposite to an adventure, that it is a kind of torturous test man craves to put himself through. Part of that test is facing the decision to kill a man, or to let him kill you.”

  Cecily’s voice was a whisper. “If you’d been there, what would you have done?”

  “I would kill a man who would otherwise kill me. Of course I would. He would be my utter enemy, that man. This is life, Cecily.”

  “And you’d be proud, if you killed him?”

  “Proud is not what I’d call it.”

  Cecily nodded. Words were sticking in her mouth like toffee, but she chewed them out. “Do you think it’s brave to want to kill an enemy? Do you think it’s . . . good?”

  “I think it’s natural,” said Peregrine.

  “Huh,” said Cecily.

  Her uncle waited. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He didn’t look down at his papers. “Then off you go.”

  Peregrine declared that if the story was to be told in the middle of the day then the curtains must be closed, the summer light turned away. “We cannot have sunshine on the story,” he said. “It’s a story for the dark.”

  “Is the story going to become frightening now?”

  “You don’t think it’s been frightening so far?”

  “No,” said his niece. “Just wicked.”

  “I think it’s been frightening.” Peregrine propped his feet on a sway-backed stool. “It is always frightening to see what power can do. But now, perhaps, the story will become scary even for a dauntless child such as yourself.”

  “Pfff ! I’m not scared of something that happened hundreds of years ago.”

  “Ah, but this tale reaches across the centuries, into today. If this story hadn’t happened, it wouldn’t be our King and Queen cleaning up after the bomb, but two completely different people. If this story hadn’t happened, our King and Queen might be running a pet store. Don’t think history doesn’t touch you, Cecily. The past lives everywhere.”

  May said, “I don’t think the story can hurt us, though. I think it’s a sad story, mostly.”

  “As usual, May, you are correct. In its way it’s a sad story, mostly.”

  Peregrine stirred his tea, set the spoon aside. The afternoon stretched ahead of them, the mantel clock ticking, birdsong tilting in the air. Somewhere men loaded bombs into aeroplanes, somewhere women deciphered a code; somewhere a man stood by a table on which was speared a vast map of the world. But at Heron Hall they settled into their places on rugs and chairs, tea and biscuits at their elbows, a curtain swelling on the incoming breeze; and the dog, sprawled over the floor, sighed with satisfaction.

  “The young prince, Edward, is living in the Tower, along with his younger brother, Richard. They’ve been put there by their uncle, the Duke, supposedly for their safekeeping until the day Edward is crowned. The Duke’s seizure of the princes has broken the might of the Queen, and left the Duke with a choice. He can let the future unfold as it should — crown Edward, who hates him, and live, doubtlessly briefly, with whatever happens next — or do what is necessary to bend the future to his will. To a man like the Duke, steeped in ambition from the cradle, it is no decision at all.

  “He moves the boys deep into the Tower, into one of its oldest arms, the Keep. The rooms here were handsome, as befits a pair of royal brothers; but the Keep had been built to house high-ranking prisoners, so the rooms were also difficult to reach, and hidden from view. The walls were impossible to chisel away, break down, or climb from. On the windows, there were bars. The boys were still princes, but mostly they were prisoners.

  “Some reports claim the boys played in the gardens in the days after Richard joined his brother. Let us hope those reports are true, because it’s good to think the children had spirit enough to play. Though only twelve years old, Edward was no fool. He knew his situation was bad. But Richard was a merry lad, and his company surely brightened the sorry existence of his brother. If they did play outside, they must have laughed sometimes, and felt the sun, and seen the birds, and smelt the breeze.”

  “What would they have played?” Cecily asked, as if considering joining in.
/>   “You’re a child: you tell me,” said Peregrine.

  “Hide-and-seek? Chasey? Climbing trees?”

  “Climbing trees? Is that a pastime for kings? Do you think a little prince knows how to climb a tree?”

  Cecily pouted. “Maybe he didn’t, when he lived in palaces with servants and carriages. But maybe he does now, now they’re alone like two mice.”

  “Well, whether they climbed trees or wandered demurely, their time in the sun would not last. As the days went by, the boys were seen outside less often; and soon they weren’t seen at all.”

  “Dead?”

  “Shush!” Jeremy snapped it so crossly that Byron woke alarmed. “Just listen, can’t you?”

  Peregrine reached for the teapot. “Now, back to our Duke. He’d taken to parading through the streets in the fine clothes of a regent, and his attitude had likewise become haughty. People grew suspicious, and rumours flew as to what this Duke was scheming. Preparations for the Prince’s coronation were continuing, but the Duke’s army was everywhere in the city, threatening and glaring, and the atmosphere was tense.

  “The day of the coronation dawned. Crowds filled the streets. They were waiting to see the Prince, dressed in gold and crimson, crowned as their new sovereign. But the Prince did not appear. Instead, the Duke made a startling announcement. He said that none of the King’s children were royal — no, not even Princess Cecily — because the King wasn’t supposed to have married the Queen. He’d promised to marry a different lady, someone much nicer than the Queen. But because he had broken this promise and married the Queen instead, none of his children had a right to the throne.”

  “Good gracious,” said Heloise, “that all sounds strange.”

  “They were strange times, with strange rules. In those days, a promise to marry somebody was as serious as actually being married to them.”

  Cecily twisted to see her mother. “Imagine if Daddy had promised to marry someone who wasn’t you, Mama. Ha! Maybe he did!”

  “But was it true?” asked Jeremy. “Had the King really promised to marry a different lady?”

  “We don’t know every single detail of what the King said and did; but we do know that, in the quest for power, truth is always the first thing left behind. Most people doubted the King had promised to marry another, but the Duke chopped the heads off a few people who said so aloud, and after that nobody argued. The King was dead, crazy Clarence was dead, the princes supposedly weren’t royal, and the Duke was the only person left standing to claim the crown. He made a show of refusing it; his friends begged him to reconsider; he reconsidered and agreed. On a tide of lies and disloyalty, the Duke had become King.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Cecily spoke with certainty. “Nothing good is going to happen to him. Bad people aren’t happy.”

  Her uncle pondered this. “Perhaps you’re right. Wickedness often wears fancy clothes, dines on rich food, has money, controls armies, rules nations . . . but it never seems to know joy. Peace, laughter, trust, ease: these things flee from wickedness like sparrows from the shadow of a hawk. The Duke — I think we shall continue to call him Duke, although he is now the King — was a very learned man. He was interested in art, architecture, music. He read a lot, prayed every day, thought about things deeply. He was, in short, no wooden dolt, no thick-skinned ignoramus. Such a man knows when he is lying. He can be ashamed of himself. I wonder if he lay awake at night, listening to the silence around him. He had kept himself alive. He had sated his ambition for the crown. Once king, he set about improving the country. He passed laws which helped the poorest and most forgotten people. He gave money where it was needed, brought order to where there’d been none. He supported the arts and places of learning. He was, in many ways, a good ruler, and certainly no worse than most others. But the people no longer liked him, and I wonder if such a man, in the depths of night, could like himself.

  “Somewhere in the Tower were two boys, prickles buried in the Duke’s palm. He could touch nothing without feeling some pain. By the time the Duke was crowned king, the Prince had been in the Tower for almost two months, his small brother for about three weeks. People were starting to wonder about them — to fear for them. Rightful kings had been done away with before: years ago, the Duke himself had something to do with the death of the old sick king, remember?

  “But we know things that most people, back then, didn’t know: enough scraps survive to prove the princes lived on in their luxurious prison. They had each other for company, and they had four attendants, men specially chosen by the Duke, to act as both servants and gaolers.”

  The pot was passed around, cups topped up with tea. Cecily smoothed Byron’s black coat, Heloise picked dog hair off her skirt. There was one biscuit remaining; Jeremy snapped it and gave the Newfoundland half.

  “The Duke now set about being a king,” the storyteller continued. “He travelled the country showing off, spending money and being pleasant to everyone; but grouching followed wherever he went. Nobody believed the tale he’d told in order to claim the crown. People wanted the Prince as their sovereign, not this usurping cat-faced Duke. Conspirators began gathering secretly, plotting to rescue the princes and overthrow this false king. Some of their conspiracies were serious and clever, worrying to the Duke. It made him realise — although perhaps he’d always known — that the crown would never sit securely on his head while the princes lived in that Tower.

  “All this travelling and uncovering of conspiracies and fretting about the security of his crown took the Duke some time, almost a couple of months. The boys, during these months, stayed in the Tower with their guards, cooped up between the unbreakable walls of the Keep. Their rooms were lushly decorated, but no doubt they were also dark and cold and draughty, being ancient and built from stone. Some say that the Prince, never the most healthy of lads, became sicker, and sunk in misery to the point where he could not, or would not, rise from bed. Perhaps this is true. We know the Prince was smart — smart enough to be afraid. But we also know he was a kind and courageous boy, very aware he was the son of a king, and I wonder if he wouldn’t have stayed brave for the benefit of his young brother. I wonder if, even as sorrow wore at him and fear made his heart hammer, he put a smile on his face and found things to laugh about, and joked and played to keep his brother’s spirits lively: noble work, fit for a king.”

  Cecily said, “They couldn’t climb trees in the Keep.”

  “Certainly not,” Peregrine agreed. “What do you do when it’s raining or you’re ill, and you can’t go outdoors?”

  “I change the clothes on my dolls. The princes wouldn’t have done that.”

  “No, although maybe they had toys, wooden soldiers and skittles and whatnot. Maybe the Prince read to his brother, or invented stories for him. Maybe, if the Prince felt well enough, they raced each other along the passages, or up and down the stairs. Maybe they played the games that boys play today, pretending to be soldiers and sailors.”

  For the first time since the storytelling began, May made a sound. “Oh!” she said, very quietly, but loud enough to be heard. The family had almost forgotten her, and looked up with surprise. “Army and warships?” the girl asked.

  “Why not? The princes, like their uncle, had grown up in a combative world: soldiering and sailing were things they knew. They might have made swords from fire-pokers and horses from straw brooms. They might have draped tables with blankets, and these could have become their boats. Can’t you imagine it, the sour old Tower echoing with the shouts of two rough-and-tumble boys? The beds would be in disarray because they’d fought on them like pirates. Feathers would be strewn about because the pillows had been swung as weapons. Can’t you picture the princes charging down a corridor, brooms as horses, silk pillowcases as flags? Probably they cornered each other, captured each other, skewered each other and fell down dead and laughing. Can’t you see it, May?”

  May said softly, “I can.”

  Peregrine smiled; he reached for the pot b
ut the tea was almost gone. Heloise made to ring for more, but Peregrine said, “Don’t bother on my account. We’re almost done.”

  “Almost done?” Cecily was scandalised. “This story isn’t scary, Uncle Peregrine!”

  He turned his black gaze onto her. “You’re not scared?”

  “Not by boys playing with broom-horses!”

  “Not by the thought of an uncle who kidnaps children and locks them in a dungeon?”

  “No!”

  “Not by the thought of rooms that had never known sunlight, not since the last stone had been put in place a hundred years before? No sounds of life had passed through those walls for a century — no bird’s chirp, no baby’s cry, no rattle of passing carts. The prison would have been as silent as a grave. And that’s surely what captivity felt like, for two young boys: a suffocating, lonely, living death, trapped in a beautiful tomb. They must have known they were prickles in the palm of their uncle, and that such a man wouldn’t tolerate the irritation for long. Maybe they laughed, and told each other stories, and dreamed of being free: but underneath their laughter must have simmered a tortured dread. Every footstep, every turn of a key, would have made their blood run cold. Each time the door opened they’d have hoped to see their mother, the Queen; but she was never there. Instead it would be one of the thickset, silent men who were their gaolers. And every night they must have gone to sleep wondering if they’d live to see morning; if they’d live to grow old.”

  Cecily stuck out her lip. The storyteller waited for her comment; she had none.

  “The Duke was still off parading, far from the city — far enough away to look innocent, should he need to look that way. The prickles in his palm burned at his mind. As long as the princes existed in the Tower, the people would never quieten down and accept him as king. Something had to be done.

  “He sent for a man he trusted, a man who slept on the floor like a dog, an unnoticed man in whose brain turned that desperate worm, the desire for power. The desire to sleep somewhere better than the floor; the desire to have a king’s gratitude. To earn these, the dog-man would do anything. When the Duke whispered into the man’s ear — whispered to the worm, which listened closely — and told him what he required, the dog-man heard, and did not blink.