[FICATHON] Teach Your (Parents and) Children Well, for lareinenoire
Title: Teach Your (Parents and) Children Well
Author: aris_tgd
Play: First tetralogy + Henry V
Recipient: lareinenoire
Characters: Richard Plantagenet (York), Richard Earl of Cambridge, Richard
III
Warnings: None beyond canon; if you, reader, feel as though some ought to
be added please let me know.
Rating: PG
Summary: Fatherhood and filial responsibility in a time of dynastic war.
This was wrong.
Richard Plantagenet looked down at the square of cloth in his hand. It was such a little thing, such a flimsy scrap to tear the whole world down. If the whole world were supported by such flimsy things, why--then it almost made sense that countries were ruled by the wives of their kings, and fathers outlived their sons, and--
The blood on the napkin was drying brown. Some of it rubbed off on his glove.
Young Clifford had his knife out, wicked point still stained with rusty blood. Edmund's blood.
Margaret, Clifford, and Northumberland circled him warily like jackals panting with the scent of blood. He was sweating with exertion, prickling under the mocking crown atop his head.
Edmund--
Such a shy, quiet boy--a scholar, who had intended to serve his family and the realm in a less martial fashion than even young Richard. When he'd seen Edmund last, he'd been...
Well, he had been alive. And beyond that Richard couldn't really say. Quiet and withdrawn. They had talked only briefly. In some ways he'd been a ghost even before Clifford had carved out his revenge.
His other sons were on the field. He was suddenly terrified--how many of them had also been taken from him, out of his sight? How many of them would not live to avenge his death?
At least he had known them. He could tell stories of Ned's bravery, George's passion, Dickon's cleverness. He hadn't been old enough, when his own father had died, to tell anything about him.
King Henry's father had killed Richard's father. Richard had killed Clifford's father. Clifford had killed Richard's son, and was about to kill Richard. What a macabre posy-ring they wove.
If he'd had time, he thought desperately, he would have been a better father. He would have taught Edmund all the things that a man should teach his son--how to lead with a steady head, how to hold a sword, how to be a father.
He would have taught his other sons how to outlive your father. He didn't know if it was possible to learn how to outlive your son.
At least the lesson would not last for long, he thought, as the blood slowly dripped from his fingers and Margaret asked for his final words.
--
Richard had just been arrested for high treason by the title of Earl of Cambridge, so he warranted he could keep it for a moment yet.
King Henry looked particularly regal as he paced back and forth, brow clouded with anger and eyes flashing with spirit. That was a surprise--not the spirit, nor the anger, but the look. His father had never really got the hang of it, even at the end looking rather sourly like someone had handed him the crown as a joke and he was damned if they were getting the last laugh. But Hal, who had spent most of his pre-crowning years practicing dishevelment, drunkenness, and debauchery in Eastcheap, had metamorphosed into this... this king.
And if Henry could be king--if this Henry could be king--then why shouldn't any man with a valid claim be king? The line of Mortimer was just as full-flowered from Edward III's loins as the line of Gaunt. Moreso. If a king could be deposed because good men did nothing, couldn't balance be restored if men acted?
Apparently not.
Well, he thought, resigned, at least he'd made the attempt. Let that be marked down: Richard, Earl of Cambridge, had made the attempt. His son would have that to remember him by, if nothing else. His father hadn't stood by while other men decided the fate of the kingdom. His father had made alliances, and plans to do something about it.
And had been found out, and thus would lose a crown instead of gaining one. And would leave his son nothing but his infamy, and this story.
Richard looked down at the "commission" in his hand, the evidence against him written out in King Henry's pleasant script, and smiled ruefully. Maybe his son would have a better chance with the next generation of Lancasters. He'd have that idea to console him, at least, while he waited for the end result of Henry's judgment.
--
A kingship should have been a burden on a body not built for burdens, Richard thought, but the crown was light as a thought on his head. He poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, setting the golden circlet aside. It was late, and he'd dispensed with the servants, to wait in a little peace.
The first King Richard had been troubled by his brother, the second by his cousin. The third one had no intention of letting trouble sleep lightly in the Tower. Family, he mused, was damned inconvenient.
The men of his family had just died at the wrong time, that was all. If Edward hadn't left two boys to ascend the throne, it would have been easier to judge their character. As it was, boys made terrible kings, even when they grew old. Henry had been proof enough of that, and even the last King Richard, if one wanted to tempt fate by remembering.
So, if Edward had died... or, Richard thought sullenly, if their father had not, he could have worked things out with less trouble.
Their father--he would have done well with the crown, had Margaret and her pack of hounds not taken him down. Now that was death at the wrong age. Their father had warranted the crown. He had desired it, set his sights on it, and taken up arms for it. But his sons--
Well, one could discount George, and easily. Between the drink and the lack of direction, George was never sure where to look. Family, allies, power... he had an eye for power, but no wit for it. Poor George. All in all, he'd died too late.
And Ned could have done it. Richard remembered when he used to love Ned, his strength and his courage. But then Ned had fallen to loving women--and only flattering women, at that. His only use for the crown was as a looking-glass to see himself in, wreathed by his favorites. What a waste.
Edmund...
Richard's fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Edmund had been kind. And almost as clever as Richard, at that age. But too good. The crown would have crushed him. Better that he had died that day, young, innocent.
Of the four of them, Richard was the only one who really understood what it was to want a crown. To truly want something, something denied you. The rest would have been happy enough without it, even to lick the Lancastrian boots if that would get them their positions. Even Ned would have rolled over for that whelp they'd put out of his misery, what with his late protestations of peace.
Peace was nothing. Peace was a way of making you forget that you deserved more.
The knock startled him out of his reverie; in another moment, Tyrrel entered, knelt before his chair.
"Am I happy in thy news?" Richard asked gently.
"If to do the thing you gave in charge beget your happiness, be happy then," Tyrrel answered. "It is done, my lord."
Richard smiled, and sank back in his chair. No appointed babes to take the crown, then. Whatever heir Richard had, he would know what it was to want a throne.
--
Richard Plantagenet died with a prayer on his lips.
Edward would take the throne, he was sure of it. And then, perhaps, the realm would be restored.
Author: aris_tgd
Play: First tetralogy + Henry V
Recipient: lareinenoire
Characters: Richard Plantagenet (York), Richard Earl of Cambridge, Richard
III
Warnings: None beyond canon; if you, reader, feel as though some ought to
be added please let me know.
Rating: PG
Summary: Fatherhood and filial responsibility in a time of dynastic war.
This was wrong.
Richard Plantagenet looked down at the square of cloth in his hand. It was such a little thing, such a flimsy scrap to tear the whole world down. If the whole world were supported by such flimsy things, why--then it almost made sense that countries were ruled by the wives of their kings, and fathers outlived their sons, and--
The blood on the napkin was drying brown. Some of it rubbed off on his glove.
Young Clifford had his knife out, wicked point still stained with rusty blood. Edmund's blood.
Margaret, Clifford, and Northumberland circled him warily like jackals panting with the scent of blood. He was sweating with exertion, prickling under the mocking crown atop his head.
Edmund--
Such a shy, quiet boy--a scholar, who had intended to serve his family and the realm in a less martial fashion than even young Richard. When he'd seen Edmund last, he'd been...
Well, he had been alive. And beyond that Richard couldn't really say. Quiet and withdrawn. They had talked only briefly. In some ways he'd been a ghost even before Clifford had carved out his revenge.
His other sons were on the field. He was suddenly terrified--how many of them had also been taken from him, out of his sight? How many of them would not live to avenge his death?
At least he had known them. He could tell stories of Ned's bravery, George's passion, Dickon's cleverness. He hadn't been old enough, when his own father had died, to tell anything about him.
King Henry's father had killed Richard's father. Richard had killed Clifford's father. Clifford had killed Richard's son, and was about to kill Richard. What a macabre posy-ring they wove.
If he'd had time, he thought desperately, he would have been a better father. He would have taught Edmund all the things that a man should teach his son--how to lead with a steady head, how to hold a sword, how to be a father.
He would have taught his other sons how to outlive your father. He didn't know if it was possible to learn how to outlive your son.
At least the lesson would not last for long, he thought, as the blood slowly dripped from his fingers and Margaret asked for his final words.
--
Richard had just been arrested for high treason by the title of Earl of Cambridge, so he warranted he could keep it for a moment yet.
King Henry looked particularly regal as he paced back and forth, brow clouded with anger and eyes flashing with spirit. That was a surprise--not the spirit, nor the anger, but the look. His father had never really got the hang of it, even at the end looking rather sourly like someone had handed him the crown as a joke and he was damned if they were getting the last laugh. But Hal, who had spent most of his pre-crowning years practicing dishevelment, drunkenness, and debauchery in Eastcheap, had metamorphosed into this... this king.
And if Henry could be king--if this Henry could be king--then why shouldn't any man with a valid claim be king? The line of Mortimer was just as full-flowered from Edward III's loins as the line of Gaunt. Moreso. If a king could be deposed because good men did nothing, couldn't balance be restored if men acted?
Apparently not.
Well, he thought, resigned, at least he'd made the attempt. Let that be marked down: Richard, Earl of Cambridge, had made the attempt. His son would have that to remember him by, if nothing else. His father hadn't stood by while other men decided the fate of the kingdom. His father had made alliances, and plans to do something about it.
And had been found out, and thus would lose a crown instead of gaining one. And would leave his son nothing but his infamy, and this story.
Richard looked down at the "commission" in his hand, the evidence against him written out in King Henry's pleasant script, and smiled ruefully. Maybe his son would have a better chance with the next generation of Lancasters. He'd have that idea to console him, at least, while he waited for the end result of Henry's judgment.
--
A kingship should have been a burden on a body not built for burdens, Richard thought, but the crown was light as a thought on his head. He poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, setting the golden circlet aside. It was late, and he'd dispensed with the servants, to wait in a little peace.
The first King Richard had been troubled by his brother, the second by his cousin. The third one had no intention of letting trouble sleep lightly in the Tower. Family, he mused, was damned inconvenient.
The men of his family had just died at the wrong time, that was all. If Edward hadn't left two boys to ascend the throne, it would have been easier to judge their character. As it was, boys made terrible kings, even when they grew old. Henry had been proof enough of that, and even the last King Richard, if one wanted to tempt fate by remembering.
So, if Edward had died... or, Richard thought sullenly, if their father had not, he could have worked things out with less trouble.
Their father--he would have done well with the crown, had Margaret and her pack of hounds not taken him down. Now that was death at the wrong age. Their father had warranted the crown. He had desired it, set his sights on it, and taken up arms for it. But his sons--
Well, one could discount George, and easily. Between the drink and the lack of direction, George was never sure where to look. Family, allies, power... he had an eye for power, but no wit for it. Poor George. All in all, he'd died too late.
And Ned could have done it. Richard remembered when he used to love Ned, his strength and his courage. But then Ned had fallen to loving women--and only flattering women, at that. His only use for the crown was as a looking-glass to see himself in, wreathed by his favorites. What a waste.
Edmund...
Richard's fingers tightened on the stem of the glass. Edmund had been kind. And almost as clever as Richard, at that age. But too good. The crown would have crushed him. Better that he had died that day, young, innocent.
Of the four of them, Richard was the only one who really understood what it was to want a crown. To truly want something, something denied you. The rest would have been happy enough without it, even to lick the Lancastrian boots if that would get them their positions. Even Ned would have rolled over for that whelp they'd put out of his misery, what with his late protestations of peace.
Peace was nothing. Peace was a way of making you forget that you deserved more.
The knock startled him out of his reverie; in another moment, Tyrrel entered, knelt before his chair.
"Am I happy in thy news?" Richard asked gently.
"If to do the thing you gave in charge beget your happiness, be happy then," Tyrrel answered. "It is done, my lord."
Richard smiled, and sank back in his chair. No appointed babes to take the crown, then. Whatever heir Richard had, he would know what it was to want a throne.
--
Richard Plantagenet died with a prayer on his lips.
Edward would take the throne, he was sure of it. And then, perhaps, the realm would be restored.