You guys are amazing! Three thousand views in less than 8 weeks, that's incredible! Like I said before, I'll be expanding the scope of the war beyond just the glimpse of it we get from the perspective of Henry and Astrid. I hope you enjoy!-Hawkfrost
Whitehall 1778
"Babes in the nest, yearning to fly free. Hungry chicklings, cheep cheep cheep. Tell me, Henry, have you ever observed hatchlings in a scrape?"
King George sat in the throne room, in his high backed chair resplendent as a monarch should be. He was having a bust of himself done. He thought it important that history should remember his brave and stoic leadership during these turbulent times. His attendant suppressed the urge to shift on his feet, he was still uncomfortable being so close to the sovereign.
"No your majesty."
Without turning around, the king replied. "Ah, well that's your problem you see. You don't observe nature but all of God's secrets and mysteries are revealed in the natural world if one has the wisdom to observe."
"Yes, your majesty." He knew of nothing else to say to the king.
In the shadows, next to the clay that would eventually become a bust of His Majesty King George the Third, the sculptor suppressed a smile at the silliness of the conversation. She never expected such topics being discussed here, in the most powerful of houses.
"In the tern's nest, one must see chicks, tiny beaks open crying for mother bird to feed them. You see it is the same for England and ones own colonies and dominions."
George flicked his eyes to the woman constructing his likeness, she was partly hidden in the shadows, but even in the shifting light, she was a woman of great beauty…and bust. The thought caused him to chuckle somewhat. She noticed him gazing at her and blushed slightly. She resumed her focused attention on her work, but not before a smile began tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"You're from the Americas, miss Wright?"
She was surprised to see that he was addressing her directly. "Aye, your majesty. New Jersey. But my sister lives in your Pennsylvania."
She gave him another shy smile before returning her attention to the task at hand. This part was the difficult section; crafting the expression around the eye was always something that took immense concentration.
"Does she now?"
She paused for a moment from her work, "Aye. And chirping more happily I expect now that your army has driven the accursed rebels out of her home in Philadelphia."
The smile she gave him now was anything but shy. She also allowed her gaze to linger and to become something more than innocent, something, amorous. The king gave her his full attention now, his eyes sweeping over her face and more eye-catching parts of her.
"Quite." The word wasn't quite a moan, but it wasn't far from it either.
"Pennsylvania is, uh, northern yes? North of tobacco, that is."
She was about to respond when the large oak doors swung open and in walked three rather serious looking men. The kings faced showed how clearly he bothered the intrusion, though that was hardly necessary considering what happened next.
"Your Majesty, a word?"
"Not now Bill!" The sudden increase in his volume almost caused her to start. "Can't you see I'm preoccupied?"
The two men tilted their heads in deference but didn't leave.
"Apologies my lord, but what we have to discuss is most pressing." He tapped the book he was holding.
"Everyone, out," The second man spoke. "Now."
After briefly glancing at the King, they all field out of the room. They left the room and entered into a hallway decorated with regal portraits of former English Kings, silver coated candles, and glass chandeliers. It was an altogether impressive and no doubt expensive display of power and wealth.
"Shouldn't be long." She glanced at the gentleman to her left, she had forgotten his name since they hadn't spoken prior to his moment. "He grows tired of the Exchequer within the hour."
She gave him a humored smile. "Don't mind me. My mother named me patience so I would always have a little." They shared a little chuckle over her sarcasm.
"We should all have been blessed so, eh?" The voice punctured their conversation as a knife would flesh.
"Robert Rogers, Lieutenant Colonel Commandant of His Majesty's Queen's Rangers in America, and your loyal servant." He gave a bow to her.
She smiled politely back at him, not knowing what else to do. Her companion, on the other hand, showed no such indecision.
"Should we curtsy? Or have you a petition for the king?"
"An appointment yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that, too." Rogers moved closer to the attendant. "I grow tired of waiting."
He gave Mr. Rogers a pitying smirk.
"Oh yes, and I recall on one of those days I made it quite clear that you were on the list." He put some emphasis on the word list. "And you shall be seen when called."
Robert was about to respond when His Majesty's angered voice was heard through the oak door.
"Out! Get out! I'll finish sitting for my portrait and hear no more of this!"
The door swung open and one of the three men she had seen enter earlier came barreling out, fast walking quickly enough to be called a brisk jog. They moved out of his way so as to avoid a collision.
"And get that bloody charlatan back here at once."
The three of them stared at each other a moment before the attendant began walking back into the room, as he did so, he motioned for her to accompany him. Patience smiled at Robert and then followed Edward back into the room. They found the king sitting in a chair, a wicked look on his face, and muttering something under his breath.
"Miserable West Indies. I knew—I knew we should never have—How dare they tell me we owe? I am the one who collects." He punctuated his words by thumping his chest. "I collect!"
Patience kept her mouth shut and stared at the floor, being in the presence of the king was bad enough, being in the presence of an angry king was much worse. The king sat in his chair for a moment, seemingly calming down. Then he abruptly stood, slammed the report on his knee, and let out a frustrated scream.
"They treat me as though I'm some sort of child." His voice was quivering with poorly controlled rage. "I don't care what it costs in Maratha. I don't care what it costs in the Caribbean."
He began tearing out pages from the book as he named the country.
"Responsibility, he says. Yes, responsibility. No, no, no."
The first man she had seen when they had been ordered to leave was on his hands and knees quickly collecting the pages the king had torn out in his fit of anger. "Majesty, please. We must keep—"
The king shoved his chair off the pedestal and let it collapse onto the floor.
"Clean that up." He snapped angrily.
Edward quickly obeyed.
"Your Majesty—" the king whirled around.
"What are you doing? Why are you always following me around? Everywhere I go. What you-what are we-we're down on all fours, are we now?" The king was stuttering in his anger. "Like a little dog, are we? What, is it dog time? Dog time? Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof!"
He was on his knees shouting into his ministers face. The king was shouting and acting like a dog, the minister seemed as if he were trying not to cry, and Edward was frantically trying to clean up the mess. During all this commotion, no one was paying any attention to her. So no one saw that she slid one of the torn out pages to her with her foot and under her dress.
"Yes? You're a ridiculous little man." The king stood up with disgust.
00000
Her workshop was of spacious design. It had three large windows that allowed sunlight and fresh air to enter easily. The rippling shadows and holy light were invaluable to her work as an artist. However, these large open orifices let out sound as easily as they let it in. Laughter, hers and his, could be heard. Moaning, hers and his could be easily heard. They were currently engaged in the most, artistic of physical activities. Her fingers raked through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it as each wave crashed through her. She could feel his fingers drawing incendiary lines of fire across her stomach, her waist, and her legs. The candlelight, the smell of paint, the rough fabric of the sheet they were lying on, it all contributed to the decadence of the moment.
"Oi! Oh, you've kicked my eye."
She laughed, and tried to sit up, but found it hard with where his hands were placed. She rolled herself into a more amenable position.
"Don't need your eye" she brought his face to hers and kissed him deeply. "Just your t-"
The door of her studio was abruptly kicked in, and several men poured through the open space.
"No!" The scream came out on its own accord.
The men began destroying everything in sight. Kicking over tables, smashing statues, bust, ripping up portraits, and paintings. One of the men came over and savagely bashed her, acquaintance, with a baton. Blood splattered and she heard the sickening sound of his nose breaking.
"Stop! Stop it!" She grabbed ahold of him and gently pressed her hands to his bloodied face.
"Shut up!" One of the men snarled as he picked up another statue and hurled into at her feet.
The image shattered and scattered its ceramic and stone pieces all over the room. They continued breaking things, throwing chairs across the room, flipping more tables over, and causing general carnage. She noticed that their clothes were nondescript, they wore no colors, no discernible unit insignia. They had scarves covering the lower half of their faces. They wore thick gloves and had pistols on their waist, in addition to a saber.
"Stop! Stop!"
They paid her screams about as much attention as you would stray thought. They didn't even slow in their task. Patience stood up, as did her friend, albeit slower and cradling his face. She held the sheet closer to her, feeling a tendril of fear sneak into her as she pondered her current state of dress. Seeing him beginning to stand, they again hit him with the baton, returning him to the floor with a pained grunt. She screamed again, but to no avail. The soldiers paid her no mind and continued pillaging her place.
"Enough."
The voice that spoke was calm and controlled. It showed no signs of being affected by the violence happening. His order was obeyed at once, and the sudden silence caused more terror in her than the noise had. He entered the room slowly, giving it a cursory examination. He gave apprising looks to the remaining pieces of art. He was tall and of medium built. He wasn't wearing a mask and held himself with the regality of an officer.
"It's a bust of the king we're after."
He was currently bending over to give one of her drawings a closer look.
"Quite an artist aren't you, Miss Wright?"
She was so nervous she couldn't even formulate a response. It was all too much, her studio trashed, her lover bloodied, standing naked in a room filled with hostile men, and the sinking realization that she had been caught.
"No matter" He straightened and walked over to her. "Where has it gone? Where have you sent it?"
No-"
He cut her off. "To Versailles? To Benjamin Franklin in Paris? How would you sail it past the embargo line?"
She was trembling now. "Your Grace, please. I—I don't—I don't—"
He rolled his eyes and motioned to one of the men behind him. The soldier dragged her lover up onto his knees, drew the pistol he carried at his waist, and placed it against his temples. The lead man in charge turned his attention back to Patience.
"Shall we open his head and look there for what you stole?"
The sarcastic but venomous lilt to his voice made her shiver.
"No, please. The boy is innocent." She looked at him helplessly, tears starting to sting her eyes.
"You would prefer a different target" the pistol moved from her lovers head and towards her direction. "A military target, then give us the location of the rebel message." The pistol returned to the poor boy's head.
"If not France, then where?" He stepped close to her, forcing her back up against the wall.
She looked into his face, his eyes, and saw nothing. No rage, no hatred, just a cold dispassionate appraisal of who and what she was. She couldn't, giving her lover one last look, she gave a small shake of her head.
He let out a snort and shook his head in disgust. "America."
He spat the word out as if it made him ill just to say it. As she looked at him then, her fear began to fade, morphing into anger and resentment. She gave him a smirk.
"No, not America" she leaned into him, "It is bound for the United States."
She saw his mouth twitch and she knew she had scored a point. He nodded to her, took one step back, and then turned around to his soldier. The sound of the gunshot made her jump from surprise; she let out a gasp as his blood splattered onto her face and his corpse slumped onto the floor. She stared at his body, the body of the boy she had come to enjoy. He had a such a sweet smile, but now all she could see was the mangled mass of flesh and bones that was his head.
The lead man gazed at the body for a moment before turning his attention back to her.
"What's the name of the ship?"
She shook her head. "That won't help you now."
He moved forward and shoved her into the wall, pinning her there. "Then let us continue this discourse, in my workshop."
Now, she did see emotion in his eyes, the emotion she saw there caused fear and dread to bubble inside her.
"Sir. Shipping receipt from the Margaretta" he walked to stand behind and to the left of his superior. "Left Shell Haven three days ago. It's bound for Brooklyn."
She whimpered. All color and emotion drained from her. This was it, this is how she would die. Not helping the cause, but pathetically. They knew what she had hidden it in, and they knew what ship it was on, and they knew where it was headed. Her knees gave out and she slumped onto the floor. The officer smiled at her and nodded to another one of his soldiers. The soldier walked forward to stand in front of her.
"Ple-"
His finger depressed on the trigger, and the explosion came, deafening in its thunderous exultation, the musket ball ripping the air, leaving a ragged hole in reality. A red, fist-sized opening appeared in the side of her head, followed by the thump of her corpse hitting the floor.
And the plot thickens. What happens next, who knows? Rebel cells operating in London is something history has all but confirmed. So I thought it would be nice to incorporate that into my story, also, we get a snippet of King George's antics. If you'd like, you can follow me on Reddit, look for my username: FN-4051.