the king's composer
The king was standing as a true king should, tall, stately and grim. The chapel royal filed in, each boy chorister in red and gold robes. The king's eye's raised as they came in, as they bowed in turn. He barely acknowledged them at first, preferring to watch. And listen. That was what he was there for.
The composer. The new boy. His dark hair was short, exposing each nervous feature to the king's scrutiny. His name was John Dunstable, and he was nervous. The way the king was looking at him, expecting him, making him fidget. He knew he could write what the king wanted, but could he perform it? This was the test, and he didn't want to fail it.
The moment the choir started to sing, the king knew it was perfect. The song flew around the church, coiling among the pillars, searching his soul. The light streamed through the windows, playing among the golden colours, this was what the king wanted what he needed, music for his soul, to win God's favour. The beauty of each note was insufferable, and a tear traced down his pale cheek. The song finished, but the notes remained forever in his heart.
King henry was ready for the war.