Sons Of York

by Ade Grant

  You cannot mean to.

  ‘I must,’ he said, tears blurring his vision. How long had he been crying? ‘For England, I must.’

  And with that he swung the sword, killed the man and silenced his friend forever.

  He stood alone on the green outside the church of St Peter Ad Vincula long after the decapitated body of William Hastings had been removed. A guard had asked if he wanted the head spiked above London Bridge, but Richard refused. They’d skewered his own father’s upon the gates of York dressed with a paper crown, and Richard couldn’t abide the same again.

  The grass was still a deep red where Hastings’ life blood had spewed. He supposed someone might soon bring a pail of water to dilute the gruesome scene, but whoever took that duty upon themselves was sticking clear for now. He stared at the remnants of his friend. How had he become so utterly alone?

  Of all the sons of York, Richard was the last. His father and brother Edmund had been executed upon Wakefield Green, then Edward, as king, had executed his middle brother George after an intolerable line of treasons. That execution had taken place here too, of all places.

  Off to the south, the Garden Tower remained a presence that he had yet to confront. After striking Hastings’ head from his body, Richard had refused to look in its direction, lest he see his nephew regarding him from a window with those sad young eyes. To meet them would feel too much like looking into a mirror and being judged by his younger self, a time when chivalry was real, right and wrong distinct.

  Promise me, Richard, when the time comes you will not turn back. You will not hide.

  ‘Damn you, mother,’ he muttered whilst gnawing his lip. ‘Couldn’t you set aside your pride to spare yourself? To spare me?’

  He finally cast his eyes up upon the prince’s tower, and found the windows empty. Smaller than the central keep, the princes’ accommodation overlooked the secluded garden; a perfect place to keep the boys: private, secure.

  With a deep breath, Richard began a lonely walk through the neatly tended flowers towards the tower beyond. In truth he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, but as a boy he’d made a promise to his mother, and moments later… What man could break a vow made in such times?

  When all is said and done, he is just a boy.

  There was nothing to fear from what he must do. Had he not just killed his only friend to protect this course?

  You cannot mean to, Hastings had said. You cannot mean to, but mean to he did, and now Hastings was dead.

  Richard entered the Tower unobstructed. By his command the Tower was guarded at the main door, but otherwise bare. The princes were alone.

  The boys would be on the highest level, in the comfortable apartments with views out across the river. Richard climbed the stone steps, breath ragged, heart racing, fingers forever at his side.

  ‘We do not flee,’ he whispered to himself, and entered the princes’ rooms –

  - Hail Richard, King of Nothing! -

  - And stepped onto Wakefield Green.

  The chilly field was strewn with the slaughtered remains of the Yorkist cause. Ambushed and cut down by a larger Lancaster force, this was where his father’s rebellion had died. Victorious soldiers strolled amongst the dead, slitting the throats of those too stubborn to embrace death, just to have the satisfaction of watching their light die out. The sky above the field was a dismal grey, almost black the clouds were so thick, and yet still not dark enough for Richard. Even with the shadows, there was much he wished not to see.

  A crowd had gathered, and as if in a dream they made no sound as they cheered and waved their mailed fists. They parted as he walked amongst them, following the direction of their jeers. They stood aside for him, even though he couldn’t possibly be there amongst them. In that moment of time he’d been far away and young.

  And as he reached the front, he saw the source of their joy.

  A small knoll swelled up from the battlefield, crowned by a solitary tree. That tree had been stripped, lower branches torn loose so the wood could be fashioned into a mock crown. This garland had been forced down upon his father’s head; a just man, a capable man, a man with the true claim to the throne, yet in defeat a traitor. Stripped of his armour, the noble kneeled, the victorious butcher above.

  Lord Clifford spoke, but unlike his troops, his voice drifted clear across the land. ‘Hail Richard, King of Nothing! King without rule! King without subjects!’ He laughed as he spoke, a haunting guttural sound rich with sadistic joy.

  Defeated, the duke looked out across the crowd.

  It’s me.

  The similarities father and son shared were abundant, and though Richard Duke of York was older then than Richard was now, he held the same delicate features, the same sad eyes. Those around him were braying for his blood, but it was upon his silent son that Richard’s father gazed whilst Clifford’s sword fell.

  Richard had smote the head from William Hastings in one swoop, and although Clifford was a large thug of a man, the strike upon his father’s neck went wide. He jolted forward, blood bubbling out between his grimaced teeth. The Butcher pulled his sword loose and struck again.

  ‘Behold! The head of a traitor!’ Clifford proclaimed after tearing through the last skin and sinew, and then tossed it into the crowd. There, amongst the jeering masses, Richard watched his father’s head get passed from one soldier to the next, each taking their turn to defile their fallen foe, a lord to whom they’d once had to bow and revere. Meanwhile, Clifford set upon the remaining corpse, stripping it naked and stabbing between the legs with his knife.

  From man to man the gruesome prize was passed and soon Richard began to worry that it would be passed to him, that for one terrible moment he’d be expected to mock the head that so closely resembled his own, and indeed the bloody bundle was thrown towards him. But Richard couldn’t move. He couldn’t reach out and touch such a thing, so instead the head hit his chest and fell to his feet, eyes upturned, and all Richard could do was scream and scream and scream, but still he heard:

  ‘Hail Richard, King of Nothing!’

  And all was quiet. There were no soldiers, no victorious army above, no defeated one below. He was in the Garden Tower, within the Tower of London, not upon the terrible battlefield of Wakefield Green. It had been a vision, a terrible vision brought on by stress and sorrow. Not for the first time that day he blinked back tears, giddy, thanking the lord that whatever spell had afflicted him, it had now passed.

  But then he heard it again.

  ‘Hail Richard, King of Nothing!’

  And as his tears faded, he saw he who spoke the words.

  Edward V stood within the centre of the room, tall for his age, handsome and strong, every aspect the king. Every aspect, that was, except his eyes. When Richard looked into those, he didn’t see a king. He didn’t see his brother’s son. What he saw was something else.

  He’s been tormenting the lion in the menagerie, Hastings had informed him the previous night.

  So what? He wouldn’t be the first child to enjoy enraging a beast. He is a boy, with a boy’s follies.

  You do not understand, Richard. He had that awful keeper chain the beast down and he stabs at it with a spear. When bored with that he burns its hide, takes a whip to its flesh, and just laughs and laughs and laughs.

  An… an ill sport. His Grace was too lenient with the child. I shall make sure he is kept from the menagerie until he has learnt better care.

  No, my friend, Hastings had pleaded. You do not understand. He is the same with his servants.

  That laugh cackled up from the boy’s throat, lips wet with spit. In his hand, the boy held a sword, still playacting at the death of his grandfather.

  ‘Hail Richard!’ Blood dripped from the blade onto the stone floor. Edward pointed the red tip towards Richard’s feet where absurdly his father’s head still lay. And how could that be? Was it a vision, a waking dream? ‘Hail Richard the Third!

  I cannot believe you are suggesting this, Richar
d had replied. It’s treason. Have you no loyalty to my brother? Have you no loyalty to the king?

  I loved your brother as if he were my own, but that thing in there is not his son. It’s a monster, a demon. Please Richard, for the good of the kingdom and for the lives of the people within it, you cannot allow Prince Edward to rule. You must kill him and let his brother be crowned in his place. Prince Richard is a sweet child. A good natured child. The evil hasn’t touched him yet.

  No. This…. evil is merely a passing sickness. I mean to house the brothers together, and in that way Richard will have a calming effect. You’ll see. Richard will be to his Edward what I was to mine. Restored, Edward can be crowned and I shall go home. We have nothing to fear, my friend. When all is said and done, he is just a boy.

  You lie to yourself, Richard. That thing is no longer a boy. Something rotten has seized his soul. You cannot mean to!

  I must. For England, I must.

  I will support you in all but this. No good can come of it, Richard. Only evil.

  And his eyes were drawn to the floor.

  It was not his father’s severed head that looked up at him with mute despair. It was not his own, though it looked much the same. The bloody heap belonged to his nephew, the prince of misplaced trust, the young Richard Duke of York.

  Prince Edward had murdered his brother.

  Hastings had been right. This was folly, Richard’s own sense of duty as mad as the creature destined to rule. Hastings had been right, but Hastings was dead, and all the while Edward was laughing, eyes full of malicious joy, chanting words he should never have known.

  King of Nothing! Traitor! Traitor! TRAITOR!

  Richard, Duke of Gloucester, fled the tower, and the monster housed within.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ade Grant was born in Croydon, England and has never fully recovered.

  Whilst many of his peers went on to become pop stars, award winning game developers, or to get rich in financial services, Ade decided to become a writer. Now he can’t afford shoes.

  He currently resides in London, writing fiction, poetry and politics, and can still be found rooting through bins in the hope that he might discover some discarded bitcoins.

  Follow @ade_grant on Twitter

  Visit Ade's website

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  INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

  People will have downloaded this story looking for historical-horror. Why include a short piece of sci-fi at the beginning?

  Think of these stories as a double-feature. Sons of York is the main attraction, that’s the one you bought your ticket-stub for. Frothbot is a little freebie thrown in. You can always skip by if political sci-fi is not your kind of thing.

  Why pair it with Sons of York?

  If there is any unifying theme across both tales, it is the inability to progress forward. They’re both about being trapped in an unpleasant scenario and not knowing how to find a way out. Both are about power too, of its accumulation and the frustrations of not knowing how to use it.

  What motivated you to write about this particular day in the life of Richard III?

  Having done some reading on the Wars of the Roses, I was surprised to learn just how sympathetic the York dynasty was. Sure there were plots and betrayals at their hands too, but two figures stood out as genuinely honourable men: Richard Duke of York (who died upon the fields of Wakefield) and his much maligned son, Richard Duke of Gloucester (Richard III). It seems that the main charges against Richard focus not upon what he did with power (in fact, when it comes to how he treated his subjects, Richard III was keen on justice and rights under the law), instead they focus upon the supposed murder of the princes and the killing of William Hastings.

  Wasn't your motivation actually to cash in on the discovery of Richard’s remains beneath a car park?

  If I knew the first thing about cashing in, I wouldn’t have become a writer. Nice shoes by the way.

  How closely do the events of the story follow reality?

  No one can say for sure, because we can only view history through the lens of propaganda, and there was a hell of a lot of propaganda thrown against Richard after his defeat at Bosworth. It was in the interest of Henry Tudor, and anyone who wanted a peaceful life within Henry’s kingdom, to smear Richard as much as possible. We’ll never know the exact events surrounding the princes’ deaths

  I’m not a historian, I’m a writer of fiction, but in my limited opinion I believe he probably did have them killed. Now, this isn’t necessarily the evil act it has often been depicted as. Child rulers are almost always awful. In terms of giving the realm stability, it may well have been an act of kindness on Richard’s part.

  In terms of the events of the story, Richard did have William Hastings put to death on the Tower green. We do not know if there were lions in the Tower at the time. There had been lions before, and there would be lions again, but at that exact date we just cannot say. In reality Prince Richard was not sent to the Tower to join his brother until after Hastings’ death. I combined the two events for the sake of the narrative.

  And the events within the Garden Tower?

  Fiction, I’m afraid. Richard Duke of York (father of Richard III) was beheaded after a battle in Wakefield, but I doubt there was some sinister influence within Edward V making him act it out again. As I said, we’ll never know what became of the princes exactly.

  So you’re saying you made all this up?

  All historical fiction is made up. Even the most well-researched and plausible novels are still just the author’s interpretation of what limited information is available.

  So you’re a liar?

  Not exactly.

  Why should we trust anything you say ever again?

  I believe I’ve been quite straight-forward about all this.

  My sister tried reading “The Mariner” and says she stopped at the dirty bit.

  Pretty much straight away then. Have you tried giving it a go?

  No. You can’t make me.

  Right.

  END OF INTERVIEW

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Tom Charles was born somewhere, then went on to spend a large proportion of his youth mostly elsewhere. Eventually he found himself in Manchester, England and has yet to muster the energy to leave.

  Tom has dabbled in sketching, inking, watercolouring, and a variety of other art-based pastimes, which occasionally lead to pieces which he has been repeatedly assured are "Kinda nice lookin'."

  When he's not dabbling in sketching he writes overly impassioned - and ever so slightly geeky - film reviews on his blog. He also throws a sketch in for good measure, since that's a thing that he does. Admirers agree that it seems like he knows what he's talking about.

  Visit Sketchy Reviews

  The Mariner

  He awoke with a buzzing in his head, lost at sea...

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  A post-apocalyptic jaunt through a psycho-sexual nightmare, The Mariner is approximately 120,000 words long and contains scenes of a violent and sexual nature. Recommended only for adults.

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