Chapter 2

I

La Trappe, 1452

In a monastery of the order of the Cistercian monks, somewhere in north of France, a man who had forgotten all about his past, suddenly found himself having an epiphany.

It came to him during the late mass. It was a time when the brethren came together in the chapel to worship in sacred silence. As he kneeled down on the stone floor of the chapel, the slow trickle of knowledge entered his mind like a wary animal, slowly approaching an oasis. It filled in the wide gaps in his memories, which until now, did not go back any further than 9 months before.

The peasants who worked the lands surrounding the monastery had found him. He was drifting face down in the river on the day of bad omens, when the sun was swallowed up and the falling star had appeared in the night's sky. Realizing that he was not dead, they brought him to the Cistercian monks. There it was quickly established that the stranger could not recall what had happened to him, where he came from, or even who he was. Grateful to the monks nevertheless, and fully convinced that his miraculous rescue was the work of our maker, the man then decided to dedicate the rest of his life in service of the lord. Three weeks after he was first brought to the monastery, he took the sacred vow of silence to become a novice. He was very proud that he had not spoken one single word ever since.

It was only now that he realized that his true self absolutely loathed that he had taken this rash decision, for he was anything but the silent patient type. By the time the extremely dull sermon had passed for more than two third, he was finally fully aware of his true identity, and he wanted to get out of the chapel fast. His knees were cold from kneeling on the damp stones. His neck was stiff of all that senseless worshipping. So he rose up, brushed the dust from his robe, and strolled away most casually. The other brethren, although shocked by this blatant display of insubordinance, could not and -really could not- say a word about it.

Not that he cared any longer about what the others thought of him. He had served the lord long enough to know that prostrating oneself on the floor, reciting hollow words and holding in your pee for hours without end was not going to bring you any closer to his good grace than say shagging a cartload of pineapples would.

The very thought of fruit made him ravenous, and he went into the kitchen in search for something to eat. The standard meals in the monastery were rather appalling, and he wrinkled his nose at the horrors that today's supper had install, which was basically cabbage stew, reheated for the umptiest time in the bubbling pots till it was like liquid fart with bits in it. The starvation portions that he had endured for so long were also no longer going to satisfy his rediscovered appetite. He rummaged through the larder, and found in the back, stacked high in round wicker baskets, the autumn harvest of apples from the monastery's orchards. They were red and shiny, and looked deliciously seductive. Taking one and wolfing it down eagerly, he mused over his re-established identity, and tried to link what he now could remember to his current state.

"Lucifer." He muttered to himself, stripping the flesh in two mouthfuls so he was almost left with nothing but the core. "You old devil, how did you end up here on earth?"

There was of course the rebellion thing, that one tiny misstep that happened a few eons ago, that he must not forget to incorporate into this cause-and-effect evaluation.

Heaven forbid (literally) that he would.

His creator had been terribly angry with him for being responsible for the fall of more than half of the angelic brigade, not to mention for almost bringing on the end of all of creation. But…like a painter who detested how some of his work had turned out, but did not have the heart to just chuck it all out on the dung heap, so was God not able to destroy his first, and most beautiful of angels. Instead, he was banished, imprisoned in the chaoplasm, the realm between realities, a shapeless void where there was absolutely nothing. Boredom quickly settled, and proved so upsetting to his otherwise inquisitive and ambitious self that it soon drove him to the lowest point of his existence. He had even seriously contemplated self-destruction. So utter hopeless his condition had appeared. He would have gone through with it, if it wasn't for the flaw he finally discovered in his father's plan. The recollection of the two angels that his father had assigned as guardians to watch over his prison brought a sly smile across his face.

"Brother Clementia." He whispered, recalling the dark winged angel of mercy most vividly. He did wonder what had become of Clemens. "Oh brother, where are you now?" He added, not without scorn.

The smile faded and was replaced by a grimace. He reached for his right shoulder and traced with his nimble fingers the phantom pain that had erupted over the lines of a jagged scar. It ran from his shoulder blade all the way down over the side of his arm to the back of his hand. This strange soreness stirred in Lucifer not so much a memory, but made him cautious and alert. He was suddenly becoming aware of something very important. Something that he needed to take care of immediately, which otherwise would put his existence in great danger. Getting anxious, he tried to dig deeper into his muddled recollections, but much to his frustration, he could not recall why exactly he was getting so concerned. Neither could he remember the origin of the strange scars that now marked his new human form.

The bells in the tower rang loud to announce the end of the mass. The strange disturbance slipped through the sieves of the fallen angel's mind, as easily as water would through fingers. Lucifer closed his eyes and pinched his nose bridge. As he shook his head to clear his thoughts, he opened them again, and stared at the baskets filled with apples. Then the rumbling of his stomach reminded him of how hungry he was. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the apple core away, and picked up a fresh one from the stash.

He took a juicy bite.

Whatever he had forgotten, surely it would come back to him again.

II

Time passed unnoticed in my tiny stone prison that was devoid of any natural light. In the complete darkness that dominated this place, my mood cycled between despair and horror, being at the constant mercy of the old crone, and utterly defenseless against her sudden outbursts of rage.

For whenever Margaret was in one of her many, many, foul moods, she would indulge herself, like any respectful villainess undoubtedly would, in a bit of torture.

She did it in such a peculiar way that it remained a complete mystery to me if these were indeed the conscious acts of a woman thirsting for revenge, or just the random acts of a crazy old loon.

Margaret would playfully pick at my scabs till they were weeping beads of blood, while she hummed a pleasant nursery rhyme to me, as if she was trying to put an infant to sleep.

She would also patiently feed me when I was still too weak to even lift up a spoon, but then neglect me for weeks when I was finally getting better. In the end, I was literally begging her for a drop of water and was trying to lick the damp from the walls to quench my thirst.

Or, she would press a burning candle on my upper thigh and hold it there, completely oblivious to my cries for mercy, till the stench of black-scarred flesh snapped her out of whatever far-away fancy her musing had taken her.

And while Margaret's unpredictability kept me terrified during all of my waking hours, there was also no peace during my hours of slumber, for my dear little princely nephews kept visiting in an endless string of nightmares.

Getting no pity from the dead nor the living, it didn't take long for Margaret's madness to poison my wits.

Often, I started awake, unable to distinguish night from day. In this total darkness, I lay perfectly still, paralyzed with dread as I tried to listen for the footsteps that would bring my tormentor to my side. I waited with my heart pounding in my throat till the light of her candle spread over the floor, all the while expecting to see the shine of a blade, half-hidden behind the back of her liver spotted hand.

Lying down, breathing, dreading, and waiting for that withered old hag to inflict more suffering on me was all I could do. Soon, I started to believe that I was in hell.

"Are you awake dog?" This time she held in her hand not her dagger and favorite torture instrument, but a crusty loaf of bread, which I received most eagerly into my own begging, trembling hands. "I brought you something to eat. So eat!"

I broke off a piece and stuffed it in my mouth, keen to keep her happy and as far away from her sporadic lunacy as possible. My stomach rumbled, complaining about my diet, but mostly the very lack of it. It didn't take long before I was shamelessly wolfing down the entire loaf.

Margaret grabbed my left arm, which had been shaped like a dry and twisted branch from my birth, and started to unwrap the brown crusted cloths. "Your wounds have healed up fast." She muttered as she examined it.

She wasn't lying. Despite her torments, she had also taken care of me. The head wound at the back of my skull had healed into a soft patch of scarred skin and was quickly becoming covered with hair. The large gaping hole in my throat, which she had stitched shut with a bone needle and thread made of deer sinew, had also closed up. All there was left was a long scabrous line.

"Do you wish to speak?" She croaked, when she accidentally caught me looking at her.

I shook my head and quickly turned away. The last thing I wanted was to provoke her, but her grip was already tightening into a fist. She pulled me up and closer.

"You wish to speak dog? Speak then!" She snarled and snapped like a mad hound. "Or have you forgotten how?" She pulled out her dagger, always that blasted dagger, and pressed the tip into a vein in my wrist, drawing a drop of blood.

"No!" I muttered. My own voice sounded strange to my own ears. Very weak and unfamiliar after many months of disuse. "No please!"

Margaret pulled her lips into a wide grin. "Ha! Not mute then, and not entirely witless!"

Dropping the dagger, she climbed on top of my chest with all the disturbing grace of a tender lover, before straddling me like a farmer would a horse. She bent forward and clutched my head between her dirty hands.

"Not too damaged." She mused, staring right into my eyes. No doubt she was imagining that by doing so she could see the inner workings of my mind. Her verdict on my condition was not too disheartening.

"The dog still barks. The wheels still turn, and the serpent still ponders. Makes me wonder what is in the hog's mind?"

Gathering all the courage that I had left to face this wretched woman, I asked: "W-why-" and swallowed hard before I could continue in a steadier voice. The trick was to never let them know that you were weak, or nearly frightened enough to soil yourself. "Why did you bring me back?"

"Never!" She hissed, spittle flying from her lips. "Never was it my intention to watch you breathe air again! If it was up to me you would still be in the dirt, at dinner with the worms, feeding them fat and happy! But I was fooled." She admitted. "I was tricked to make this cursed bargain. You see, when you were still on the throne, when all of my prophecies still seemed like mad far-fetched fancies, I was so very miserable, and I had prayed and begged day and night on my knees to heaven for a solution. It was then that I was promised my revenge on the last tyrant of the house of York, if only I would just do one thing, just one small thing. Little did I know that what was asked of me was the life of the very man I wanted dead!"

"W-with whom did you make this bargain?" I could imagine that Margaret had no shortage in potential benefactors. Half the English nobility wanted me dead.

"Why, with the devil of course." A mad hysterical giggle escaped her throat. "Who else would be interested in such a rotten, evil, and traitorous wretch?" She shut her eyes as if trying hard to bring back the memories from her muddled mind.

"I found him in the woodland, one dark night, a moon or two after your usurper brother Edward died. Oh, the whole kingdom was in such deep mourning." She opened her eyes again and stared down at me. "But you wouldn't have shed a single tear. No, not you, you crook-back spider. You were too busy waiting in the wings, plotting and scheming your way closer to the throne."

"I did not kill my brother Edward." I said, swallowing hard. It was the truth, and it needed to be said.

Margaret threw back her head and laughed like I had just delivered the punch line of a very good joke.

"Oh are your virtues truly so few that you have to desperately count on the evils you have not committed to tip the moral scale in your favor? I did not say you killed Edward, but you wished him dead. Do not deny it!" She said as she pointed an accusing finger at me.

"And yes, I confess, I wanted him dead too, but for reasons far more just than yours! So I should have been joyful when the bells rang to proclaim the demise of a man who had plotted the murder of my poor lord. Instead, I was in grief, utterly heartbroken, because I knew, I had seen, what was to come after. The two York wolves might have been slain, but the most vicious one who had always been at his siblings' throats is still roaming the lands, and will soon bleed England dry."

If I wasn't familiar with the real dangers of Margaret's madness, if I hadn't been tortured so mercilessly, and if my well being was not so utterly dependent on the outcome of her narrative, I would have rather enjoyed listening to this weird little tale of hers. The last time that I was properly entertained, I still had the English crown resting on my brows. To my somewhat muddled memory of that particular evening, the court jester had only really been half as good as she was.

She continued. "I ventured into the woodlands to be alone with my grief. There, I came across a forest stream. When I looked down in the dark water below, I saw war. I saw kinsman murdering kinsman. Children of noble birth smothered in their sleep. I saw the stream turn red with the blood of the innocent, all to feed the rise of ruthless Richard, the false tyrant king!"

She pulled in a long breath, her hands tightening into fists in front of her bosom.

"It was then that he appeared to me, this devil, a great ancient sorcerer, a demon with the power of changing fate itself. He showed me how the future could be. He showed me a vision of peace, our realm spared from the blood-soaked reign of false king Richard! All he asked for in return was that I would yield to him. That I would swear to do the devil's biddings." Her face lit up, the passing of dark clouds for the first rays of sunlight. No doubt, she was relishing in the thought of me dead and Richmond victorious. Oh how I resented this wench for plucking my crown and handing it over to the usurper, even if was only in thought.

"There is no such thing." I stubbornly replied. I could deal with mortals holding a grudge against me. At least that would only be a temporary problem, until I had thought of a way to make good use of their mortality. Even if I failed, death by the hands of my enemies, as I had recently experienced, proved to be rather mercifully quick. But how impossible it seemed to save myself from the eternal damnation by the devil. So utter denial appeared to be the best option for the moment.

"There is no such thing as the devil! You're making this up to torment me."

"Is there not?" Her mood darkened. Her posture stiffened. She brought out a small circular mirror.

"Look!" She ordered. "Look at yourself!"

I certainly did not want to look into her mirror, but my own will seemed to dissolve under her stern gaze till there was no other but hers to follow. Unable to ignore her command, I glanced at my own wretched reflection. As if by witchcraft, the flesh started to peel away from my skull, revealing the white bones and strings of sinews underneath. I let out a startled cry when my eyes, having suddenly turned dead and cold, burst open with wriggling maggots. They spilled down my fleshless cheekbones like fat round drops of tears.

Margaret drank in my fear like it was a fine exquisite wine. "That was how I found you. A decaying wreck. When I dug you up in the cemetery there was barely enough flesh left to keep your bones together. If it wasn't for the devil's spells, you would have turned into a pile of dust by now."

"Please make it stop." I begged, unable to take my eyes from my horrible decaying self. "Make it stop! Please! Please!"

I sucked in a ragged breath when she broke the unnatural hold that she had over me. I shrieked, and shrunk away from the cursed mirror, shivering and rambling like a traumatized little child. Oh barbed sarcasm, where is your brilliant wit now to protect me from these horrors? "No, there is no such thing. There is no such thing as the devil. No such thing. No such thing…"

Margaret gave me a most pitying look. "Oh my poor villain." She croaked, and petted my sweaty strands of hair like a loving mistress would her frightened dog. "You think me mad, but I have spoken the truth. The devil is real, and now that all he has promised has come to pass, he will soon come. He will come for you."

Placing a Judas kiss on my forehead, she gently wiped the tears from my eyes, before granting me a most deranged smile.

"And on the day he claims his price, I, his most loyal servant, shall receive my final reward."

III

No more of this.

This would not do.

This stone tomb in which she had tried to bury me alive. This darkness she had cast me in, these terrors she exposed me to, threatening me with countless tortures of my flesh and mind.

It would not do.

I must teach my legs to be strong again, to carry my shivering frame from my bed and back. Small steps, not to be made in haste but with great patience, until I can walk again all by myself, without any support. I must train my arms and hands to reach out and tighten into fists, to learn once more to hold a weapon, so I can fight my way out of here.

I will not allow Margaret to be my sadistic jailor forever. I will not die by her hands. Despite being a witch, she's still only an old woman, wretched and frail, and more than twice my age, her knees knocking together when she walks in here like an injured crab. As soon as I have regained my strength, I will strike. I will kill her, wrench the life out of the dried up husk of that vicious cow, bloodshot eyes bulging out of the sockets of her skull, and relish in that most pleasurable act, before I escape this cursed prison.

I swear to whoever is willing to listen in heaven above or hell below, even to the devil himself, that I will see Margaret dead, before I ever let her do this to me again.

IV

My hands traced the walls in darkness, and finally found the door that was the entrance to my cell. Sinking through my knees, I crouched down by the side, my grip tightening around a spike that I had fashioned out of a wooden candleholder. I had worked it against the stones till it was as sharp as a knife's end. Shutting my eyes, I imagined what great pleasure it would give to use this to put out Margaret's mad old eyes. The pointy end piercing through the wet membranes, the pink jelly squirting out and running like bloody gelatinous tears down her hollow cheeks, the look of utter horror on her bewildered face. Such fun this grisly thought was that I had to cover my mouth to prevent myself from succumbing to a fit of mad laughter that tickled like a nest of ants in the back of throat.

"What are you doing uncle?"

Letting out a long anxious sigh, I deliberately did not turn around. I could still not figure out why my brother's dead brats had started to appear in my waking hours to taunt me, but for ghosts, they were certainly fast becoming more bothersome than frightening.

"Why are you hiding?" My nephew Richard asked.

"It does not concern you. Leave me in peace!" I barked, and prayed to his dead father in heaven that it was enough to shut him up.

"Are you going to kill Margaret with that?" Curious little Richard peered over my shoulder. "You think that is enough to strike her down?" He was pointing at the spike that I had tried to hide from him.

"Well it certainly should be enough for your scrawny little neck." I muttered under my breath.

"You cannot harm me uncle Richard." The boy replied, not without a hint of smugness. "Edward assured me that you cannot. So there is no use in trying to frighten me. I won't go away."

Much to my dismay, the bold little devil even came over and sat down next to me.

"I don't think you can kill a witch just by using a pointy stick." He pondered. "Are you not afraid of what she might do to you if you fail? She could turn you into a toad, or worse, a hedgehog."

"Why in the name of good reason would a hedgehog be any worse than…look why don't you go seek out your older brother, hmm? Go and discuss with him your seemingly endless moments of pure wonder for a lifetime or two."

"Edward is asleep. He sleeps a lot. You don't sleep. You are always awake. You're far more fun to be with."

"Am I now." I chewed on my lower lip till it of tasted blood. "I did not realize that I was this good with children."

Before my young nephew could bother me again, footsteps were heard outside of my prison cell.

"It's the mad witch!" Richard exclaimed rather excitedly. I bumped my head against the back of the wall in shock as his high-pitched cries completely shattered my nerves. "She's coming! She's coming for you uncle Richard! She is coming!"

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" I shouted, pressing my hands flat against my ears. It was only then that I realized that Margaret could only have heard my own mad ramblings, not the cries of my overexcited dead nephew, who was possibly and very probably, only existing in my head. The sound of a key slowly turning in the lock sent me jumping up like a winded coil. The door opened, widened slightly, spilling a narrow band of light over the floor.

It was now or never.

Raising the spike high in my trembling hands, I was prepared to fight or die.

But Margaret did not appear.

I swallowed hard. Still holding my position, still ready to strike, I waited and held in my breath. Seconds crawled by at glacial speed. Then the seconds turned into an eternity of minutes.

Still, Margaret did not appear.

"I don't think she is coming." My nephew whispered.

"No, no, no." I muttered. "It's a trick. She will come. Don't you see? She's just trying to catch me off guard. As soon as I lower my weapon -"

"What, your pointy stick?"

The insolent boy rolled his eyes at me and moved closer to the door. Unrestrained by the paralyzing fear that had left me indecisive, he even ventured out of my stone prison to take a better look outside.

"There is no one there." He informed after he returned.

"That can't be true." I whispered, shaking my head wildly in disbelief.

"I am not lying to you. Go take a look for yourself."

Anxious, I crept closer to the door and peered my head around the corner while making sure that I kept myself shielded for any possible attacks.

My nephew was right. The corridor outside my prison cell was deserted.

"You see, no sign of Margaret." Little Richard said. "But you better make haste if you still want to escape."

Of course I wanted to escape.

So I ran.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, down the long bleak corridor lit by torches till I reached a flight of stairs. I struggled up the winding steps, opened a heavy door, and stepped into another corridor. It had a row of glass-paned windows on one side that flooded the place with natural light. So I was above ground. The corridor itself was richly decorated with various artworks, carved out in the wooden panels, and was adorned with paintings and tapestries depicting landscapes and victorious battles. The walls were filled with portraits of men and women of noble and royal birth. The whole luxurious arrogance of it all struck me as very familiar.

It was hard to believe, but I had to conclude that I was in Westminster. The witch had kept me in the dungeons of the royal palace. If Henry Tudor's men found me here, I should not expect to live.

On the other hand…I had lived here for over a decade. First in servitude of my king brother, later as the monarch of the realm. I knew the building's ancient plan by heart. If I could reach the small antechamber of the lord chamberlain's court and enter a hidden passageway that led to the sewer exits, I could put myself out of harm's way.

Quickly, I composed the shortest possible escape route from my memories. My mind became so occupied, that I did not notice that I had accidentally ventured into another chamber.

A young boy stood in front of the fireplace and was staring at this ragged looking stranger in silent awe. The boy himself was dressed in the finest red velvet, and in his hand held a short practice sword made of wood. His elderly servant, who was carrying the child on his back the moment I entered, raised himself up from all fours immediately. "How dare you to come into the prince's privy chambers!" He placed himself between me and the child. Such loyalty and selfless dedication from a feeble old man must have been paid for with a lot of coin and personal favors. I briefly contemplated to kill the old man and grab the little princeling as a valuable hostage, but his riding horse slash nanny already was opening his mouth and yelling his lungs out.

"Guards! Come quickly! There is someone in here! Protect his royal highness!"

I did not wait for the guards to come but spurred my legs to run. Out I went of the vestibule and into the courtyard. To my desperation, I found it crowded with the king's entourage. The whole parasitic flock of noble free loaders, lured out into the open by the gentle spring sun for a breath of fresh air after months of stale sweat and bad breath caused by palatial over-occupancy. I hurtled through a procession of leisurely strolling court ladies, who shrieked and recoiled like an alarmed clique of hens when I rushed by. Meanwhile, a group of armed guards had assembled in response to the alarm and were coming right after me. When I reached the entrance to the smaller inner courts, I pulled down a heavy rack of lances from the wall in an attempt to slow them down. I also managed to swap my pointy stick for a long sword on the way. It boosted my confidence just little that I would somehow, in some miraculous way, get out of this mess alive.

Stumbling into the antechamber, I ran straight for the wall in the east that faced the courtyard, and cut down a heavy tapestry depicting my brother Edward's favorite hunting-scene to reveal the entrance behind. I had not used this doorway for a very long time, and had to search in blind panic for the right stone to push to unlock the hidden door. Meanwhile, the clattering of armored boots and metal tassets had already reached the inner court.

"It's this one uncle Richard!" My nephew pointed out a red brick that unlike the others was not covered in black sooth. I pushed it down and to my great relief, it gave way, triggering a mechanism that opened up a whole section of the wall. I slipped inside, just in time for the armed guards to see me disappear behind the closing structure.

Leaning back against the damp tunnel wall, I tried to catch my breath for a moment. When I turned to scuffle down into the pitch-black tunnel, I overheard the men on the other side, loudly arguing among themselves. They had seen me fumbling with the stones. It would not take long for them to figure out how to unlock it.

"We must make haste." My nephew transformed into a speck of light and boldly drifted forward, telling me to follow. Guided by my memory and having the advantage of my nephew's ghost lighting my way, I quickly found the correct route through this hidden maze. One more turn and the entrance would reveal itself, but when we passed the corner, a blind wall appeared in front of us.

"No, no, no! This cannot be!" I slammed my fists on the wet stones and prayed to god that the opening would somehow magically reappear, but the cursed thing remained forbiddingly solid.

"Maybe you took a wrong turn. Or you remembered it wrong." My little nephew tried.

"No I didn't!" I sneered back at him "I used to sneak in and out of the palace through this passageway almost every single day. I am most certain it was here. Right here!" I ran my fingers through my mad tangle of hair while backing away from the unyielding structure. "They've must have changed it." I concluded. "Margaret, she must have done this! Moved the walls around with her devil's witchcraft."

"Uncle, this sounds completely mad." My nephew remarked in a frightened little voice.

"Margaret, do you hear me?" I yelled, ignoring him. I threw my head back and looked up at the dark vaulted ceiling, spinning around in search of her shadow. "Are you here? Come out you wicked old hag! Stop tormenting me!"

"Margaret is not here uncle. Get your wits together. We need to leave. Go back the way we came from and find another passageway."

Letting out a cry of pure frustration and cursing Margaret for everything foul under the sun, I turned around, just when voices came from the other end of the tunnel.

A flickering of torchlight became visible, fast approaching. Finding myself cornered in a dead end like a rat in a blocked sewer pipe, I dropped down on my knees, utterly defeated. As the armed men came closer, I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip around the handle of my sword.

Henry's men shall not take me alive.

TBC