Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising (3 page)

‘The seed of Tudor will sit upon the throne,’ she said.

‘Not whilst I draw breath,’ Richard snarled instantly, his hand instinctively closing around the hilt of his dagger. ‘Is defeat certain, then, witch? Will he take my crown?’

Mother Sewell looked across at Richard, her rheumy eyes not meeting his, but looking somewhere across his left shoulder. ‘His forces will slaughter yours. Their magic will prevent your victory. Before the sun has set tomorrow, the House of Plantagenet will be no more. The Tudors’ light will rise in the east and the day of your family will be done.’

Her words chilled the blood in his marrow and he shook his head. ‘This cannot be,’ he responded. ‘There must be something that can be done.’

Mother Sewell looked at him then. Her cataracts caught the flickering candlelight and she gave a toothless grin. Her crooked finger jabbed into her bloody palm.

‘Indeed there is,’ she said. ‘I see it plainly enough.’

‘Tell me. What must be done? How can I rid myself of this wouldbe usurper?’

‘The answer, Richard, son of Richard, is the one you already know.’

The King’s heart began to pound painfully in his chest and he reached for his wine. He took a long drink and the silence stretched out for an eternity.

‘Speak the name of my mistress, King Richard. Taste the possibilities.’ Mother Sewell’s voice was like a fly buzzing around his head. He yearned to reach across to her, to grab her by the neck and slam her skull into the table. It was a primal urge that filled him simultaneously with bloodlust and a terrible, terrible shame.

‘I... cannot.’ He put the goblet down, attempting to hide the dreadful shaking that had started in his hands.

‘Speak the name, Richard. You know it is your salvation. Speak the name.’ For such a frail creature to hold such command in her tone made Richard sensibly wary.

What she asked of him, thought Richard, was something that could not be undone. Once the word was spoken, it could not be unsaid or taken back. Once that dreadful name was uttered, then he was going to a place from which there could be no return. For good or ill, he would be sacrificing everything in the name of victory.

Three syllables. That was all it would take to condemn him.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath as though it would be his last. The word, when it left his lips, came tinged with anticipation, fear and more than a little regret. All the years of keeping the knowledge secret, of guarding it more closely than even the crown that Henry the Second had taken so many years before, crumbled into dust.

‘Melusine.’

The word left his lips as a whisper, but it seemed to him that he might just as well have shouted it from the top of Ambion Hill.

‘Again, Richard.’ The old woman’s coaxing permeated the shroud of horror that he felt drawing in around him. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, deep breath. The word came again, stronger this time but with just as much hesitance as the first.

‘Melusine.’

Richard had not thought it possible to grow colder than he was right now. On this August night, when the night outside the pavilion should have been balmy and pleasant, the unnatural rain conjured by his foes drummed down. It crept beneath the edges of the canvas, turning earth and straw into a sucking slurry. It was the kind of rain that seeped into everything, that drove your spirit from you. Since they had set up camp, none of them had been truly warm.

But now, Richard’s veins were like ice.

‘Speak the name again, call to her.’ Mother Sewell’s voice was completely clear now. Gone was the broken rasp. Gone was the stuttering madness. The King watched the old woman with growing horror as the cataracts melted from her sea-green eyes. The wrinkles smoothed from her ancient skin, the liver-spotted complexion replaced by something both less and more hideous.

‘Melusine.’

Coarse, steel-grey hair lengthened and coloured before his eyes as the old woman’s body straightened from its arthritic stoop. The hair was a blaze of copper, tresses that curled around a face of ethereal beauty. The full lips curved into a sensuous smile as the demon Melusine spoke through a human form once more. The air around Mother Sewell squirmed with energy and Richard found it difficult to breathe. His skin itched as though he were crawling with insects and he saw the sodden earth of the pavilion come alive with writhing worms and bugs as they blindly strove to flee.

‘What have I done?’ Richard let out a terrible moan of despair and his head dropped forward into his hands. Dark blood began to drip from his nose; the gore spilled from the dead messenger began to blacken and crackle as something pushed its way into the world of men.

‘What you have done, Richard Plantagenet, is claim your rightful victory.’ Melusine—he could no longer see this beautiful, awful creature as the old woman—rose from the seat with feline grace and moved towards him. ‘You need the means to defeat Tudor. I can grant you that.’ Her fingers tickled across the back of his neck and he shuddered in response. Her touch invoked too many emotions. Too many things that confused him. Soft, warm flesh; sweet breath; hot iron; the rough hide of a reptile. He pulled away and she laughed, honey-sweet and alluring. She remained behind him, where he could not see her, and that unnerved him even more.

‘I cannot let him win. He cannot take the throne.’ Steely resolve crept back into Richard’s spine and he sat up straighter. ‘He has magic on his side, and we cannot hope to match that on the open battlefield. If the bastard only fought with men and steel, we could take him and his army and bury them in the mud before noon.’

‘It is a shame your family chose to turn their backs on the gift of the magi,’ she said, trailing her fingers across his neck once again. ‘You could have been more than this. You could have taken the known world by now.’ She clicked her tongue against her teeth in a loud tutting noise. ‘But you will do. I can see the thirst for victory burns bright in your breast.’ She placed a hand on his breastbone. ‘I feel the beating of your heart as it strives for victory.’

‘Then give me what I want. Give me what I need to make England mine again.’

‘What is your request, my little king?’ She was mocking him, and Richard had never taken well to such things. His hands curled into tight fists. ‘What is your request?’ She leaned forward until her lips brushed his ear. ‘And more importantly, what will you give me in return?’

The ice in his veins burst into flame, and a near-insatiable lust drove through his twisted body. His initial revulsion at the demon’s presence melted away under the searing need for victory and the desperate desire to serve her. And only her.

He knew in that instant the answers to both of her questions. Turning in his seat, he stared into the raging depths of her oceanic eyes, tumultuous and perilous. He stared into them and was lost in their depths. He gave her the answer.

‘I will give you anything.’

‘Of course you will,’ she said. ‘You are hungry for power, Richard. You dare where Henry Tudor would not.’

‘You... petition my enemy?’

‘His ambition was a small thing, just power for his magi. But such power is easily taken, it will be his downfall. You have the sense to see what our union can bring.’

Yes,
screamed that inner voice.
Death. Destruction. Carnage on an unprecedented scale
. Richard quelled the voice. He had passed the point of caring a long time ago now. The only way he could go was forward. His eyes met hers.

‘Name your price.’

‘I will give you the knowledge to conquer all before you, and your family line will become... gifted,’ she replied. ‘With the blessings of my blood. Your line will grow beyond the understanding of men, your might unchallenged. Down the generations, each first-born son will be greater, stronger, and mightier. And in time will come a pure vessel. He will be unmatched in all ways, a perfect soul to usher in a new age, a conqueror of nations and master of all. Many generations from now, one of your line will be the greatest, strongest king this country will ever know.’

After she had spoken, she leaned into him and her lips met his. His brief second or two of anguished ecstasy gave way to pain as she bit through the tender skin of his bottom lip, drawing blood.

‘You offered this to Tudor?’ Richard reached a dazed hand to his lips and stared at the blood that came away.

‘He refused. He wants nothing for himself. His sense of honour will be the one thing that damns him. Do we have an understanding, Richard Plantagenet?’

He had no choice. Deep, very deep in his soul, the last light of Richard the Lionheart’s ancestral fire sputtered and faded forever. He nodded, once.

‘Done,’ she said in her dulcet tones. ‘Shall we seal the deal, my king?’ She leaned in and kissed him again, revelling in the taste of his blood.

Richard had no power to resist her. And the entire time she was taking her fill of his lips, the whole time she lapped up the blood she’d drawn from his flesh, he could not lose the image of the bent old hag that she actually was. The thought turned his stomach, but the deal was sealed. The battle, come tomorrow, would be won. Without his magic, Henry Tudor would become a stain on the history books. He’d be remembered only for his defeat.

Finally sated, the demoness stood back. ‘Bring the corpse,’ she said. ‘It contains blood enough still for the ritual.’ She did not wait for a reply, simply strode out of the tent into the deluge. Richard, weakened and dizzy from drink, blood-loss and her sudden absence, leaned down and scooped the corpse of the messenger boy into his arms and, ducking through the canvas, stepped out after her.

D
AWN
.

There was little birdsong in the damp morning air. The rains had stopped two hours past midnight, bringing some relief to the beleaguered army, but the ground remained sodden. The grey reaches of the night would soon give way to pale morning sunlight.

Under other circumstances, the setting would have been idyllic. There was humidity in the air; the late summer heat that had been held at bay since Tudor’s magi had brought the storm had finally returned. Water vapour steamed gently from the leaves of the trees and the air was thick with the scent of turned earth and the lazy buzz of insects.

‘Why stop the rain now?’ Norfolk had barely slept. His tent was cramped and uncomfortable, and his anxieties had kept him awake into the small hours. He had taken the time to pray and to hope, but he was not optimistic. His mood was sour as he emerged into the damp August morning. ‘What new devilry has Tudor planned?’

There was a buzz of activity in the King’s camp. Battle smiths worked furiously, effecting last minute weapon and armour repairs. War horses stamped impatiently in anticipation, their harnesses and barding clattering. The infantry and archers were already lining up, mustering for the battle under the guidance of the King’s most loyal men.

‘Where is the King?’ Northumberland had had just as appalling a night’s sleep, and stretched aching limbs with a sour expression on his face as he joined Norfolk. ‘He is not in the command pavilion.’

There was a ripple of activity on the far side of the camp, and Norfolk caught sight of a running figure pushing its way through the massed armies of King Richard. Another of the young message bearers; Norfolk recognised his nephew.

‘Uncle!’ The youth’s face was pink with exertion. He had clearly been running for some time.

‘What’s the matter, William?’ Norfolk grabbed hold of the boy as soon as he came into range and dragged him forward. ‘Speak!’

‘Tudor’s army is in chaos, uncle. Three of his supporters have withdrawn from the field, taking their soldiers with them.’

Norfolk narrowed his eyes at his nephew. ‘Are you certain of this, boy?’ he said. ‘Tudor is no fool, could they not simply be attempting to flank us?’

‘I am sure, Uncle.’ William nodded vigorously. ‘The Earl of Oxford has been seen this very morning retreating south, his troops with him. He is most certainly abandoning Tudor. Two more are said to be leaving, but they have not yet broken camp.’

‘Take scouts. Go and confirm these rumours, but do not spread word to the men just yet. False hope can break a man’s back.’ The boy nodded and bowed his head. Seeing the light of dawn beginning to creep above the eastern horizon, Norfolk found himself daring to hope. ‘And William,’ he added as the youth made to leave, ‘find the King. We
must
find Richard.’

‘Can this be true?’ Northumberland moved a few steps towards Norfolk, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘If Oxford has truly gone ...’

‘We can but hope, my friend.’ Norfolk felt a strange tingling in the pit of his stomach. He did not recognise the sensation, but had he been pushed to put a name to it, he would have called it relief mingled with hope, as if fate had stepped aside and offered another choice. ‘Perhaps Tudor may now be open to negotiations, although I do not believe the King will settle for words. Not after Tudor’s betrayal. But before we can consider any course of action... we must find Richard.’

T
HEY FOUND HIM
wandering to the south of Ambion Hill, in a state of what seemed to be drunken confusion. But there was no taint of alcohol on his breath. His skin was grey and clammy, and the flesh of his forearms and chest was laced with shallow lacerations. A physic was sent for, but Richard waved him away.

‘To arms,’ he said, vaguely. ‘I must ready myself to meet Tudor.’ ‘Sire, listen to me. There is word from the camp of the enemy.’ As succinctly as he could, Norfolk relayed the news William had brought, and watched for the King’s reaction.

There was none save a brief flare of triumph in the King’s dull eyes. He nodded his head.

‘The day will be ours,’ he said, his energy slowly returning to him. ‘We must be ready to attack within the hour.’

‘Sire, I thought... perhaps you might wish to negotiate with Tudor? Perhaps there may still be room for an allia...’

‘When I want your advice, Norfolk, I will ask for it.’ Richard’s interruption came in a harsh tone that belied his sickly appearance. ‘The time for negotiation has passed. Henry Tudor made his claim on my throne, and I...’ There was a pause—less than a heartbeat— and the King corrected his own words. ‘Henry Tudor made his claim on my throne and we will refute it with everything that we have. But try not to cut him down in the field. He doesn’t deserve anything so honourable.’