Falconmaster
Part 1- Ghost
Author's Note: Here's the latest of my stories! What if the Doctor and Clara find themselves in Yorkist England 1485? What if they found that there was something more sinister and more Time Lord to the whole War of the Roses? How far will they be prepared to shape established history? Can they trust England's most mysterious King and can he trust them?
A special dedication for this story goes to Dolphin Melody (xxxdolphinmelodyxxx) for helping me with the concept and making it more "Time Lord"! Thanks!
Please remember that this isn't a history textbook, some things will be historically accurate, other things will be down to my interpretation and my artistic licence. I'll try and state in future Author's Notes that I'm deviating from history.
I thought Aneurin Barnard's portrayal of Richard in the White Queen was amazing, so he'll be MY Richard.
Also, you might want to read my story called White Rose and Red Heart, you can see it as a many years prelude to this story, if you want.
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, or any of its characters, all credit goes to the BBC for that.
Rated T for violence and death.
So without any further ado, here's the prologue and first chapter!
Prologue
"Open the gate!" Harrington ordered.
The gate of Leicester City was rolled open with an ancient groan, as a platoon of horses entered bearing bruised and battered men. All wore a solemn expression as they trooped into the city, which was full of women, children and older folk, who had anxiously stepped out of their homes to beg for answers.
"Where is the King?" asked an onlooker.
"He is here," a raven haired man responded, for he was King. But he wore no crown and his face was grazed, his breathing heavy, as was his heart. He descended from his horse and walked amidst the crowd. He sighed.
"Henry Tudor will be here by tomorrow morning!" the King declared. "By Royal Decree, I order all the citizens to evacuate."
The crowd began a gasp of panic. There were cries of desperate sadness, gushing like blood from a wound.
"Enough!" roared the King. The crowd fell silent, his air of calmness returned. "My men will help you to evacuate and make for safer cities. Tudor will want to finish with me, so I will prepare for siege!" With that he ordered the controlled and orderly dispersion of the citizens, as Pilkington helped them find a carriage out of the city to head somewhere safe. There were rows of hundreds of people being wheeled out, like an army of ants. The physician was hovering around the remaining soldiers, dusting their cuts and minor injuries; they would need all their depleting stamina had to offer.
The King sighed, pondering the fate of all these men. Bosworth had been a disaster, but when Tudor would arrive the city will be starved, burnt and utterly destroyed, because the real victor was someone far more ruthless and terrible than Tudor. Their situation was hopeless and the men saw it.
Meanwhile, another black haired man paced around the abandoned courtyard nervously; his hair messy, unlike its usual sleek form. He wore silver and white chainmail, but a collar of a grey shirt encompassed his neck, and something was clearly missing.
"Doctor!" the King called, limping over to him and placing a hand on his shaking arm. "Are you all right?" But that was a stupid question, for even without the Doctor's heartbroken eyes it was obvious that he was not. The King even knew why he was not all right and it pained him as well.
"It's all my fault!" the Doctor shuddered. "I-I should have..."
"Doctor, there's nothing you can do, I'm afraid," the King said hoarsely.
"What are they doing to her?" the Doctor demanded. "I should have got her another horse! If I wasn't too busy BEING A SHOW OFF!"
"Doctor, please, lower your voice!" the King growled, but his anger subsided for a sentimental look in his eyes- not pity, but empathy. "It will do you or no one any good to persist in blaming yourself."
"Richard, please..." begged the Doctor. "We need to save her, even if it's me who has to go! She doesn't deserve this... none of it..."
"I know," the King croaked. "I know." He exhaled and swallowed. "Doctor, I will ride out with you, but you are aware of what you are asking me to do, aren't you?"
The Doctor's words were caught in his dry throat. He knew what this meant, and so did the King, but there was no anger in the latter's voice, just a touch of resignation.
The Doctor nodded. "Yes, your Grace... I am sorry."
The King waved away the apology and a part of his mouth uplifted into a faint and grim smile. "Very well, but I need you to tell me the whole truth now! Hold nothing back, no matter what!"
The Doctor nodded.
Chapter 1- The Last of his Kind
They say that it's the people not the place that make the home. But the place is what reminds you of what home feels like, or felt like all those days or years ago.
Richard Plantagenet cleared the growing lump in his throat, as he stood on the green moors before a strong and mesmerising yet homely fortress that he knew too well- Middleham Castle.
He had called this place his home, he had felt at home here when he had played here as a little boy; he had felt at home here when he lived her as Duke of Gloucester, when his life had been much simpler, when he had been able to say what true happiness was and that he had felt it, when he wasn't King.
That felt like a lifetime ago. Richard realised, on this late April day of 1485, he had not set foot in Middleham Castle for a whole year, and even then it was an occasional visit. Being King had compelled him to move and reside in London, so Middleham had provided a comforting relief.
"Are you all right, your Grace?" a large burly red haired and bearded man said gruffly.
Richard gave a weak smile. "Yes, Brackenbury, thank you."
Sir Robert Brackenbury nodded and a twinkle of a smile grew. He had volunteered to accompany the King, who trusted him profoundly.
"I'll be all right to go on a little by myself," Richard requested. Brackenbury bowed and excused himself to take the horses to the stables.
The white clouds watched in anticipation as Richard slowly stepped onto the cobbled path that he had walked on so many times. The front gate led to a garden full of a cluster of bed and wall flowers that bowed and curtsied in the breeze, and Richard felt like bowing back. For a few moments, the sun shone a little brighter before the white clouds covered her, as Richard made his way past the courtyards and inside the mahogany door. His footsteps echoed with every beat of his heart, which both consoled yet numbed him.
Despite there being still servants and wardens to run this place, it felt deserted, ghostly even.
Richard turned into a large study room where the sunlight edged through the window and brought his attention to shortbow laying on the table below the hooks. He moved in to place bow in its rightful place.
However, Richard's fingers swept over the dust over some sort of carving.
"Amistad me liga," Richard read fondly. This bow had been a gift for him, when the giver had gone to Spain, but then Richard's heart caught in his chest.
A shabby and ragged man with a beard clutched the bars of his prison cell as a younger man was dragged into another. The first man desperately looked at Richard.
"Richard, please!" begged the man.
However, when Richard spoke it was not in his own voice. The new voice belonged to Ricardus- his voice and eyes were a deathly cold chill. The next few words burned on Richard's heart.
"I am not Richard!" he growled. "I am His Grace- too bad you will never see me crowned!"
Richard gasped with his blood burning with heat; he quickly put the bow back onto the table like a child caught trying to steal sweets. His conscience censured him with guilt; he did not deserve to lay hands on this bow.
Richard marched out of the room, refusing to relive the rest of that memory- he couldn't. It would be too much.
Like an invisible man, who ignored the occasional nods of the few servants in the castle, he made his way to a large hall at the back of Middleham Castle. It was not the main dining hall, but more of an auxiliary venue for indoor music and sports. There was a high pale roof, which was surrounded by the three carvings of the lions. The wall had several paintings of all those who had lived here including Richard Neville, former Earl of Warwick and Kingmaker, his cousin; Francis Lovell, his good friend from childhood; there was even a portrait of himself, dressed in a black and dark green robes, with some yellow stitching. But it was a bronze chest that beckoned him.
Richard, breathing heavily, slowly lifted the lid, which easily obliged. He dusted off the piece of cloth inside, but realised it was so much more than that, for it was a banner. The background was a sky blue, and as Richard spread it out on the floor, he saw the white falcon gliding- one of the emblems of the Plantagenets, his ancestors. He fondly stroked the design and smiled wistfully, realising that unlike most designs this one did not feature the falcon locked in the golden fetterlock- no, here the falcon was unburdened as he glided through the air with grace.
Richard remembered where he had first seen this design: many years ago when he was five or six. His father, the Duke of York, had a miniature chainmail armour made for him and this emblem was on it. York had told him, and each of his children that they would all have something to give in their own way. What had Richard given? He did not know. Edward, Edmund and George were all dead, Margaret was in Burgundy dealing with her late husband's lands, his other sisters were either married somewhere or no longer in this world. Richard did not feel free like the falcon, but he felt like the golden fetterlock was closing around him.
Like a reluctant man, Richard slowly put the banner away and shut the chest shut and pushed it into a corner, before covering it with a dirty white cloth. The House of York had a proud history, yet it was no longer what it was.
Richard's heart was heavy with dread and anticipation- so far he had managed to keep his composure, despite the great difficulty. He knew where he was heading next; he had to do this; he couldn't forget- he didn't want to. That's why he had come here in the first place.
Richard ascended up the stone stairs and found the room near the north side. He almost felt like he was intruding and a part of him forbade him from entering, but he resisted.
Slowly edging the door open, a ray of warm light swept through him, as he looked in. The four-poster bed was beckoning him with promise of rest. He half expected Edward, his late son, to come dashing around with his cousins Margaret and Edward, who everyone had called Ned, Megan and Ed to avoid confusion with their other kin.
But they were nowhere to be seen and the short burst of warm sunlight began to fade.
There was something else about this room that Richard sensed deeply in his soul. He picked up a long navy scarf, green dress and a set of smooth neck beads that were lying around. They smelt and felt like her. Exactly as Richard had remembered, like he had savoured for over ten years. Years that had slipped away too soon.
Richard sat down on a small stool and clutched the fabric and beads to his lips and kissed them and held them with a trembling hand. Sometimes, as Duke of Gloucester, he would rise early and sit on this stool and watch her peacefully sleep, which would fill his heart with fond content. But no more, it was all just a memory that was fading with time, a memory that he would never experience again.
It had been more than a whole month, and Richard missed her; he thought and dreamt about her everyday and every night, hoping that this was just a dream and he would awake to find her snuggling next to him.
But his bed in London was always too big- too vacant and too cold. The absence of a loving kiss, a comforting touch or a sympathetic ear was a luxury that he no longer had.
This was all he had left of her, all that he ever would. He knew that the show must still go on and that his country needed him, yet he longed for her just once more to give him that bit of strength and encouragement like she had always done. But she and Ned were both gone from here.
Richard's tears began flowing down his cheeks as he wept holding the last bit of her close to him. He was only thirty-two, yet he felt old and worn. He was one of the last of the Plantagenets and the last of his kind.
Suddenly, a most mysterious sound- almost like a wind in a cave- echoed from behind him. Richard jumped to his feet and drew his sword.
To his horror, a small blue cabin had appeared out of thin air. The door flew open and a man, in what could be described as an insanely small dark coat, dashed out. He was followed by a girl in a lilac tunic and black breeches that had to be men's.
"Wensleydale!" the black haired man began. "Home to..." He stopped, realising who was before him.
"Doctor, I don't think we got it quite right," the brunette girl said sheepishly.
"What is the meaning of this?" Richard demanded. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"Well..." the man called 'Doctor' began.
"You!" Richard snapped dangerously, pointing his sword at the red rose on the girl's tunic. "You are Lancaster! You are Tudor loyalists!"
Author's Notes: Well, that's awkward!
I hope you enjoyed that! Please leave a review