The sound of my heart thrashing against my chest intersperses with the reverberation of gunfire, creating a lethal, deafening snarl.
But I can barely hear it.
Failure.
I see the bloodstains that embellish the cobblestones of the courtyard, and I see the anguish on the looks of the dead. The confusion as they fight to comprehend that which they cannot. Their lives cut off with such a pitiless act of brutality. And it is all for naught.
Betrayal.
The words of the wretched, twisted man who now stands before me echo mercilessly within my mind. The bastard sons of the queen. The schemes of the man who fought so desperately to be my father in order to use me. My mother and my lover. The queen… the queen who knows nothing of the man who gave her a son. Our son, who now fights for his life in the courtyard below.
I look upon the man, and I cannot hope to hide the pain that courses through my veins. There are some secrets that should never be told. Some secrets that should never be known by those whom they concern. Ignorance is bliss.
Failure.
"You could have been a king, Edward." His voice sounds as greasy and slick as a hunk of meat. "Except for the fact…" He breaks off, his coal black eyes boring into me with an expression of triumph. A smile slithers over his features. "that you were you."
A kingdom lost. A father failed. A plan betrayed.
Unimaginable pain. I hear the gunshots as they dispatch the rest of the men who dared march under the hand of the Earl of Essex. The queen has been taken in completely by the lies of her despicable advisor.
There is death all around. And it is my fault.
I see the ink that stains my hands, and I hate it. I scrub them against the rough fabric of my cloak, and I curse the words that are now etched into my skin. The words that began this conflict.
Richard III.
But the ink does not disappear. It remains there, a reminder of my failure.
I'm in the courtyard, surrounded by death and false treachery. Another gunshot and I fall upon my knees. I close my eyes, desperate to shut out this horror. I open them once more and I see the soldier. He meets my eye, and I look upon him with a question. He just shakes his head. He is gone, leaving me among the dead.
I trace my hand along the blood that flows freely over the stones. Guilt. Pain. Death.
My heart has slowed. The shock is gone. Replaced with the knowledge that I have been betrayed. Replaced with a new burden. I must live with the knowledge that my son is to be beheaded. By his mother.
And it is my fault.
I will do what I must.