Who: Richard III and Much What: Arrival in Lawrence and Much finding King Richard...Juuust not his When: Early hours Friday Where: Main Street, cause seems likely :p Rating: TBD Status: In Progress
Traitors, they were traitors.
Richard watched his men die around him. Die for England and he knew the end would come soon. Tudor would have his throne and he would be the last of the York kings. He would likely marry the Princess Elizabeth. Unite York and Lancaster and that would be that. Elizabeth... She'd probably mourn him. Quietly of course, she'd find a way to surrvive. But she seemed to actually care for him. Part of him wished he could have said the same but he knew her affection for him was more than his ever had been for her.
History was written by the victors though and he knew on some level it would not judge him well, usurper king, probably they'd say he killed his nephews, probably say he'd had Anne killed so he could marry his niece. Maybe they'd say he hated Edward.
Tudor loyalists surrounded him, the red rose of Lancaster visible against the armour. One of his own men, bearing the white rose of York, calling for a horse for him, 'Get the King a Horse.' They wanted him to run because they knew there was no way now that he could win. They stood with him though, against Tudor Loyalists. Henry's convict army. And Stanley's men. Taking his son had not been enough to win him the war . He swung his sword steeling himself against the assault he knew would come. He knew then that he would die on Bosworth Field but he would not die easy. He would fight with everything he had and everything he was. He was the King and he would fight until the end. Tudor may have the throne but he would not take it easily. Stabbing one man as another sword pierced his side he turned to fight his second attacker, but there were so many. So many and then...
No sounds of battle. No calls of Tudor.
Other sounds though, confusing ones. And suddenly his armour felt heavier. Much heavier than it had done before.
He fell to his knees, sword clattering to the groud. Blood on his face and he knew pouring from a wound in his side.
This was not Bosworth. This was witchcraft then. Rivers witchcraft.