Free The Lost King by Alison Prince

A strange beginning

March 1473
    My father and I are driving out to see my granny in the next village. It’s early spring, and primroses are blooming in the woods – a lovely day.
    Papa is telling me about a woman who was digging turnips and put the fork clean through her foot when a horse comes galloping along the lane towards us.
    The rider pulls it to a halt. ‘Doctor Jones!’ he gasps, ‘There’s been an accident at the Castle. The young prince had a fall. His uncle said please come at once.’
    â€˜Very well,’ Papa says, calm as always. ‘Lead the way and we’ll follow.’
    The rider turns his horse and sets off, looking over his shoulder. Papa urges our horse into a trot.
    The gates of Ludlow Castle are standing open between its high, grey walls so we clatter straight into the courtyard. People are crowded round a fat woman who sits on the mounting block, holding a little boy in her lap. She’s wearing an apron, so if he is the young prince, she can’t be his mother. Queens do not wear aprons. Perhaps he
is
royal – there’s a kind of dignity about him, though he’s only small. His face is blotched with tears, but he’s trying to push the woman’s hand away as she dabs his swollen forehead with a cloth.
    A man in elegant clothes comes towards us.
    â€˜Doctor Jones?’
    â€˜Yes,’ says Papa.
    â€˜I am Earl Rivers, the boy’s uncle. He was unconscious for several moments after a fall from his pony. He seems recovered, but as his guardian, I can take no chances.’
    Papa hates time-wasters, but he says politely, ‘You are wise, sir.’
    He turns to the boy and says in his cheerful Welsh voice, ‘Let’s have a look, then.’
    Papa holds the little boy’s wrist for a moment, noting his pulse rate, then he puts a gentle finger under his chin to raise his head and inspects his eyes. He runs his hands through the fair, curling hair, feeling carefully for any damage to the skull, then turns to Earl Rivers.
    â€˜No cause for alarm as far as I can see,’ he says, ‘but it’s quite a nasty graze. I’ll put some salve on it. Make him more comfortable.’
    Papa smoothes herbal ointment over the boy’s forehead then covers the graze with a square of clean, soft linen from his leather bag. I often help him, so I know how to hold the cloth in place while he bandages the boy’s head and ties the split ends in a neat bow.
    â€˜There you are, my handsome,’ he says to his little patient. ‘All tidy now.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ the boy says. ‘But you should call me Edward. Not what you said.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon, Edward,’ Papa says gravely.
    He glances at the coin Earl Rivers puts in his hand and says, ‘This is too much, my lord. I have only been of simple service.’
    â€˜Maybe. But you have set my mind at rest, and that is of value. I am not experienced in the mishaps of children.’
    Little Edward has begun to fidget. He’s been sitting on the fat woman’s lap for a long time, I expect, so he is getting bored. He needs something to play with. I run across to our horse and trap. I’d found a magpie’s tail feather in the yard this morning and left it on the seat. I bring it back to him.
    He scrambles down from the woman’s lap and takes the feather. He runs its smooth length between his fingers and thumb then looks up, strangely excited about such a common thing.
    â€˜Is it for me?’
    â€˜Yes. A present.’
    His face breaks into a beaming smile. ‘Thank you!’ he says.
    He inspects the feather more carefully, as if it is something new to him. Perhaps he is more used to manufactured toys like rattles and puppets. Then he looks at me again and asks, ‘What is your name?’
    â€˜Elizabeth,’ I tell him, ‘like your royal mother. But my brothers and sisters call me Lisa.’
    â€˜Lisa,’ he