musetel

Henry walks forward, smiling sardonically at his cousin. Richard swallows and presses back against the tree trunk, fingers scrabbling to grip on to the bark as though clinging to it might help him- might provide him with a weapon, or a means of escape. ” I’m almost impressed,” Henry continues. “You got, what? A hundred yards?” It’s more than that, of course: the castle is out of sight and the trees around them are dense, but the men surrounding them laugh appreciatively and Richard flinches, looking miserable. 

He’s standing strangely. Favouring his right leg- he’s ghostly pale, and Henry doesn’t think it’s just fear. “Hurt yourself with that little stunt, have we?” he asks as he approaches Richard. He hands his torch off to the Percy lad who’s hovering at his shoulder, and kneels down before the one time king. He pushes Richard’s shift all the way up to his thighs, trapping the fabric between Richard’s flesh and the tree’s. “Don’t,” Richard says sharply as Henry grabs his leg and drags it up so that Richard’s right foot rests on his knee. 

“What did you think you were doing?” Henry asks. “You don’t even have boots on- for christ’s sake, your feet are covered in mud.”  And his ankle is swollen painfully, perhaps bruising, though it’s hard to tell in the flickering torchlight. Henry takes Richard’s foot and moves it, playing around and provoking whimpers from his cousin- but no screaming, and the ankle does move. “Nothing broken,” Henry announces, rising to his feet. “Yet,” he adds, whispering in Richard’s ear. They’re so close to each other that Henry can practically feel Richard shivering. Henry takes the hem of Richard’s shift and tenderly straightens it back out. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says quietly, “and this is how you repay me? You surrendered, Richard. You promised me no tricks.”

“You speak to me of promises,” Richard replies lowly, eyes boring in to Henry’s face. “My lord the earl of Northumberland swore on the sacrament that he meant no harm to me and yet here-”

“Here you are, my fair sweet cousin, and the only one who is caused you harm is- as always- yourself.” Henry seizes him by the upper arms and turns him around, slamming him against the tree and ignoring his pained cry as his ankle is jostled. He holds out his hand and one of the men hurries forward with a length of rope. “Your wrists together,” Henry snarls, and when Richard does nothing but continue to struggle, Henry knees the small of his back. Richard gasps with pain. “Your wrists, Richard, or I’ll have you whipped,” he snarls again, and Richard stifles a sob, and puts his wrists together. Henry binds them tight, and then stretches the rope down to Richard’s calves and wraps it around them several times before knotting it in to place. He pats Richard’s leg. “I would not do more injury to your poor ankle,” he says, and his men snicker once again. Richard says nothing, and rests his head against the tree. 

He’s shivering. It’s cold out here, for an August night. Henry pulls the cloak off his own shoulders and wraps it over his shoulders. “Turn around,” he says, and Richard shuffles awkwardly until he is facing Henry once again. Henry clicks his tongue and fastens the clasps of the cloak for Richard like he would for one of his children. “There,” he says, when it’s done. “Now, lets get you back inside and we can all get some rest.”

Hollow Crown Thursday Friday: Richard II

A discussion of a dream between Daeron and Aerion

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