Free Uneasy Lies the Crown by N. Gemini Sasson

and laid his head on the table.
    “Go away,” he mumbled into his forearm, “and take him with you. Whatever you’ve brought him along for.”
    Beneath his straight brown mop of hair trimmed in the old Norman fashion, Adam nodded at Beauchamp, who with a shrug and a sigh shuffled out. The guards drew the door shut. The keys clinked with solemnity. Quietly, Adam lifted an unlit candle from its sconce and held its wick out over the dwindling hearth fire until it took flame. Then he circled the room, augmenting what light there was on that chilly September evening.
    Richard raised his head. He groped for the jug of wine just beyond his reach. His fingers closed around it, pulled it to him. Empty, but not without use. He tested its weight, brought it over his shoulder and just as Adam turned to look at him, Richard grinned dully.
    “All gone,” he said.
    “I shall have them fetch more, my lord.” Adam folded his hands before him, but made no move to call for the servants.
    “So why did he send you? Unless you have a dagger hidden in the folds of your sleeve, in which case you need not answer. Just do your duty. Collect your coin. And enjoy your journey to purgatory. I fancy we shall meet there.”
    “Harry inquires of your health.”
    “Don’t lie to me!” Richard shoved back his chair, toppling it onto the floor. He whirled away, so that Bolingbroke’s spy could not see his face. “But if, if you speak to Harry, tell him whatever lies his father would have him believe. Tell him... tell him I am well and think of him daily.” The last part was true.
    “My lord,”—Adam’s steps came closer, his voice steady and sure—“you are correct in that I come at the Duke of Lancaster’s bidding. But I assure you, I have not been sent to extract any confession. Young Harry is in distress. He would have come himself, but...”
    Slowly, Richard turned. “Then if you have come in his place to return with a picture of me more brightly painted than the blanched ghost you see, tell him the whole tale: that this England his father would fain have as his, this wonderful, fickle land, it is severe and merciless. So many kings and men of greatness it has exiled, destroyed and slain. Its soil is tainted with the blood of upheaval and greed. My God, if anyone ever truly realized that, no one would ever want it.” His eyes trailed along the dimming shaft of light from the floor to the world beyond. “I don’t. Not any longer.”
    Adam righted the chair, went and rapped lightly on the door.
    “Are you on your way now to tell Henry that I have been broken?”
    “No, my lord.” When the guard opened the door, Adam asked for more wine and another goblet. Moments later, a servant delivered upon the request. Adam filled the king’s cup and poured himself a drink, then claimed the chair opposite Richard’s.
    “I have all the time you will grant me,” Adam said. “If we talk until the candles have all burnt down, they will bring us more... and wine as well.”
    Richard slid onto his seat, slumping with the strain of defeat. “Then hear my story, Adam of Usk, if you indeed have all night. And witness the woeful issue of this spiteful throne. Speak of it to Henry... and my dear Harry. They will not want to believe it, but England is a rose whose thorns bear a poison that kills slowly. I have been pricked and so will they.”
     

12
     
    Glyndyfrdwy, Wales — September, 1399
     
    “Another day,” Owain promised.
    His back to his father, Gruffydd scowled. Since before dawn, they had been pursuing a stag, but when the beast finally came into clear view, Gruffydd had fumbled too long to nock his arrow and it had taken off. It was long gone by now and Gruffydd had cursed his slow reflexes, then swung the arrow against the nearest tree trunk, cracking the shaft.
    His horse tethered to a pliant sapling, Gruffydd slid down the incline until the toe of his boot found water. Crouching over the stream, he scooped a handful of ice-cold