Last Plantagenet

Toni Richards

Description

REGICIDE! - The Ultimate TREASON! CIVIL WAR! - the most vicious of conflicts. Matthew, an innocent, young scribe and general helper at the Priory of St John, on the outskirts of York, is taken to a tavern to act as recorder for a dying old man, incarcerated in the top room for more than twenty five years. He is also required to be a nurse and servant for this old man. In return, he is told a story, relating to the life of the last Plantagenet king, Richard the Third, in which those events occurred, including one of the greatest mysteries of that age. The true fate of THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER!

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 04 juillet 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783338504
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE LAST PLANTAGENET
A Story Connected with the Princes in the Tower
Toni Richards



Publisher Information
The Last Plantagenet
Published in 2014 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Toni Richards 2014
The right of Toni Richards to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Prologue
The storm that had been threatening, and had had turned day into night, struck just after midnight; its full force by one.
Lightning flashed, showing the rain pouring down, as if someone in the sky above was emptying a bucket. Within minutes, the streets of London were awash. Any person, unfortunate to be out in that weather, would be completely soaked in seconds.
Such was the situation on the river. A boat, with five men on board, was moving rapidly downstream. There was little work needed by the four oarsmen, for the tide was ebbing, water from the rain adding to the speed of the flow. The man at the tiller sat immobile, his right hand gripping the handle tightly, as if his life depended on it.
This was not the case. His life, and the life of the others on board, depended on his ability to see where he was headed. A lifetime on the river had given him the knowledge of every landmark, but he needed light to spot those landmarks. He was aware that one of the many bridges across the Thames was ahead. A misjudgement could have the boat striking one of the supporting piers.
He was fortunate. Lightning flashed again, showing that the boat was heading to the side of a pier, but only a few yards ahead. With a shout to the oarsmen to pull the oars into the boat, he swung the tiller and prayed that the boat would miss the pier and pass under the arch. His luck almost held out. The boat scraped along the rough stonework. He had no means of knowing whether the boat had sprung a leak.
Another lightning flash. The boat was now downstream of the bridge, still moving at a rate faster than he would have wanted. Straight ahead, he saw the familiar silhouette of the Tower of London. He swung the tiller again to head towards the centre of the river. The darkness, after the lightning, was more intense than ever. He could not see the oarsmen, although they were only a few feet in front of him, but he was no longer concerned.
The worst part of the journey was over. He now had to ease the boat over towards the other bank, where they would be out of the main surge of the outgoing tide and they could land safely by their home wharf.
He started to relax, easing his stiff muscles, and almost forgetting that, in spite of all the wet weather gear he was wearing, he was soaked to the skin. And cold. He assumed that each of his companions were in a similar condition.
His thoughts turned to the large leather bag at his feet, containing ten pounds worth of silver coins. No payment in gold for this night's work. A simple task of collecting four passengers on the way upstream, with the tide flowing in to help ease the work of rowing. Take them to a small wharf, where they disembarked. He and the other men were allowed ashore, where they were given cold meat and ale, leftovers from an evening meal, while the money had been counted. His only concern would be the sharing out of the amount.
He had been approached two days earlier to find a crew to embark on this venture. An initial deposit of two pounds had been given him to help with the hiring. Ten shillings had been enough to find his crew, settle them in one of the more disreputable inns near the river and allow them to spend that money on women and drink, promising them a payment of one pound each for the night's work. That amount was more than any of them would earn in a month. He had not expected that they would see the amount of the total payment. As it was being counted he had heard one of the men suggesting to the other three that it should be shared equally.
He did not know, either at that time, or as he was sat at the tiller, that the division of the money would be immaterial. Another lightning flash showed a large boat bearing down on his boat. He had no time to take evasive action. It struck his boat close to the rear oarsman, killing him instantly, before continuing through, depositing him, and the other oarsmen, in the river. He had no time to consider their plight. Weighed down by his clothing, he had difficulty in keeping his head above water.
Ten minutes later, the remains of the shattered boat, plus five corpses could be seen floating down the river.



Chapter One
The room was twice as long as it was wide; the northern and southern sides the longest. The northern wall had windows high up; either side of a wide fireplace. The hearth, on which a small fire was burning, was larger than the chimney opening but, to avoid smoke invading the room, a canopy, comprising overlaid, battered breastplates, had been constructed. Heat from the fire was transmitted to the breastplates, while the smoke was channelled up the chimney. The heat of the breastplates enhanced the heat transmitted to the room by the fire. Only the extreme corners on the southern side failed to receive the full benefit of this heat. Provided that the fire was maintained at a large temperature.
The southern wall was almost completely covered by shelves, the eastern end having a door (being the only means of entry to the room), and the western end having a raised platform, which extended about six feet along the western wall. A palliasse and bedding was laid out on this platform.
The shorter walls were similar; each having a large window which, if kept clean, which they were not, would let in enough light to allow any person to work there.
The ceiling was low and supported by beams at regular intervals. Any person above average height would have to stoop to make his, or her, way across the floor.
There was little furniture. A large table under each of the end windows and four chairs, one of them with arms and a solid base extending from the seat to the floor. Two small chests of drawers, which also acted as tables, were on either side of the fireplace. Between one of these and the fireplace was a large box containing firewood.
Two people occupied the room. Both were wearing hooded garments. One was hunched down in the armchair, in front of the fire, while the other was sat on a chair by the table at the western end of the room. The sound of the point of a quill pen scratching over rough parchment indicated that he was writing. Apart from an occasional grunt from the figure in the armchair, or an occasional sigh from the figure at the window, there was no other sound in the room.
“Brother Luke,” was said by the person in the armchair, after a few minutes. The words were not spoken clearly and there was no response. The name was repeated again, but louder. The quill scratching stopped and the person addressed placed it carefully on the table, with the point, still covered in ink, over the edge of the table.
Slowly, he turned on his seat, so that he was looking over his right shoulder at the figure in the armchair.
“Are you referring to me, sir?” he asked. The voice startled the man in the armchair.
“I was, but you are not Brother Luke, are you?” was the reply. “Who are you? And where is Brother Luke?”
“My name is Matthew, but I am known as Matt. Brother Luke had an accident yesterday and is unable to write. He brought me here to take his place. You were asleep. He told me what had to be done and I have followed his instructions since then.”
“Well, Brother Matt... .”
“I am not a brother, sir, I am just plain Matt.”
“In that case, plain Matt, how are you progressing.”
“I have just to add the details of the final scroll of the section that I have been working on, then replace the scrolls where they belong. I have to admit that I am having some difficulty writing at the moment as my hands are beginning to feel the cold. I have had to stop a few times to try and get enough warmth into them to continue working.”
“Time I took pity on you. Come over by the fire and get your hands properly warm.”
“That is kind of you, sir. I would have done that earlier, but Brother Luke said I needed your permission to warm myself at your fire.” While he was saying that, he had risen and moved to the fire, holding his hands towards the small flames.
“You do not need my permission. You will notice that, while I have been sleeping, and you have been obeying unnecessary orders, the fire is almost out. Put some more wood on the fire and tell me how you come to be here. I cannot see you very well but, by the sound of your voice, you are young. How old are you?”
“I do not know, sir.” As he made this answer he took two pieces of wood from the box and placed them, carefully, on the fire.
“I can't believe that. For the first twenty years of my life I knew my age. You sound much younger than that. Also, you would have had some recognition of the anniversary of your birth.”
“That has never happened.”
“That is sad. One way is to count the summers. You can count, can't you?”
“Yes, sir. Before I came to the priory I was taught my letters and numbers. Also, I could read a little. Since then, I have added writing to my skill