age of stubbiness, comely in a time of ugliness, lavish in this era of mud. All the world’s prettiest princesses vied for his attention. Eventually he chose a wife, but she was not one of those regal ladies. She was, in fact, a commoner. The princesses were appalled, as were the people. Our little Duke did not like the new queen, and it’s true that, in all sorts of ways, the King could have done better. The girl was vain, greedy, ambitious. But she was beautiful and the King believed he loved her, and while in that hard world love did not count for much, in this case it had the power to turn a commoner into a queen.
“
Power:
I want you to remember this word. I want you to say it to yourself, feel its weight in your hand. Look into its dark depths every time this story takes a turn.”
“Power,” whispered May.
“Power,” affirmed Cecily. Jeremy glanced testily at the girls; Peregrine poured more claret.
“Time passed, and three princesses were born — the youngest of whom, I’m happy to say, was named Cecily — and the King was delighted with each. He was especially pleased, however, when the Queen produced a son. They christened the child
Edward,
and the King and his country rejoiced. Finally here was an heir. The King, however, had no time to celebrate. His brother — not our Duke, but the middle brother, Clarence — had taken into his head the idea that he, not his brother, should be king. He made a fuss, embarrassed the King, dug out the outcast king and tried to sit him back on the throne. The King forgave his lunatic sibling and slung the old king back in prison; but his rivals had been stirred now, and he was forced to fight again for his realm. Many pretenders to the throne were slain on the field. Eventually triumphant, the King returned home to cheers. The merchants loved him, the women loved him, it seemed the Heavens above loved him too.
“At the King’s side marched his brother, our Duke — a faithful brother, although no longer little. He was now a young man of eighteen. Unlike his brawny brother the King, the Duke was small and lightly built, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Years later, when the Duke was long dead, rumours spread that he’d been physically warped, a goblin; but portraits painted while he lived showed a man shaped as any other, and certainly he was as fit and feisty as are most young men. He liked to hawk and hunt, to drink and eat, to brawl and sleep. He liked having money, and spending it. He liked to make people laugh, and to show off his wit and education. He wanted to be popular and have friends. He wanted, in summary, to find a good place for himself in the world.
“But while he was, in many ways, a man like all others, our Duke was not the same as they were. His entire life had been shaped by bloodshed. He had fought on battlefields, and he had killed. He’d learned lessons from his clever brother, the King, and from his blockhead brother, Clarence. He’d learned to be valorous, cunning, and quiet; reliable, daring, and thoughtful. He’d learned, in short, what it takes to succeed. The King trusted him, and rewarded him with titles that decorated our cat-like Duke like so much overwrought jewellery.
“So now, at last, the battles had been fought, a strong king had been crowned, an heir had been born, and peace could reign. There was one final task to attend to, however, and for its fulfilment the King turned to his trustworthy brother. In the depths of night, the Duke visited the old king in his cell. The next morning the old man was found with blood flowing from him, the brains wrung out of his skull.”
“Hawg!” crowed Cecily.
“Peregrine!” scolded Heloise.
The storyteller was unrepentant. “It’s vital you understand who he was, this Duke. A creature of his upbringing and his era. A man obedient to the demands of his time. Aren’t we the same?”
“I think not. One can choose what one will and will not do.”
“That’s true, although possibly
“
Power:
I want you to remember this word. I want you to say it to yourself, feel its weight in your hand. Look into its dark depths every time this story takes a turn.”
“Power,” whispered May.
“Power,” affirmed Cecily. Jeremy glanced testily at the girls; Peregrine poured more claret.
“Time passed, and three princesses were born — the youngest of whom, I’m happy to say, was named Cecily — and the King was delighted with each. He was especially pleased, however, when the Queen produced a son. They christened the child
Edward,
and the King and his country rejoiced. Finally here was an heir. The King, however, had no time to celebrate. His brother — not our Duke, but the middle brother, Clarence — had taken into his head the idea that he, not his brother, should be king. He made a fuss, embarrassed the King, dug out the outcast king and tried to sit him back on the throne. The King forgave his lunatic sibling and slung the old king back in prison; but his rivals had been stirred now, and he was forced to fight again for his realm. Many pretenders to the throne were slain on the field. Eventually triumphant, the King returned home to cheers. The merchants loved him, the women loved him, it seemed the Heavens above loved him too.
“At the King’s side marched his brother, our Duke — a faithful brother, although no longer little. He was now a young man of eighteen. Unlike his brawny brother the King, the Duke was small and lightly built, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Years later, when the Duke was long dead, rumours spread that he’d been physically warped, a goblin; but portraits painted while he lived showed a man shaped as any other, and certainly he was as fit and feisty as are most young men. He liked to hawk and hunt, to drink and eat, to brawl and sleep. He liked having money, and spending it. He liked to make people laugh, and to show off his wit and education. He wanted to be popular and have friends. He wanted, in summary, to find a good place for himself in the world.
“But while he was, in many ways, a man like all others, our Duke was not the same as they were. His entire life had been shaped by bloodshed. He had fought on battlefields, and he had killed. He’d learned lessons from his clever brother, the King, and from his blockhead brother, Clarence. He’d learned to be valorous, cunning, and quiet; reliable, daring, and thoughtful. He’d learned, in short, what it takes to succeed. The King trusted him, and rewarded him with titles that decorated our cat-like Duke like so much overwrought jewellery.
“So now, at last, the battles had been fought, a strong king had been crowned, an heir had been born, and peace could reign. There was one final task to attend to, however, and for its fulfilment the King turned to his trustworthy brother. In the depths of night, the Duke visited the old king in his cell. The next morning the old man was found with blood flowing from him, the brains wrung out of his skull.”
“Hawg!” crowed Cecily.
“Peregrine!” scolded Heloise.
The storyteller was unrepentant. “It’s vital you understand who he was, this Duke. A creature of his upbringing and his era. A man obedient to the demands of his time. Aren’t we the same?”
“I think not. One can choose what one will and will not do.”
“That’s true, although possibly
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