Archive for July 3, 2010

The Duke of York laid his hand on the throne. Now he would be king!

“Uh,” the Archbishop of Canterbury hummed hesitantly. “I don’t think you should do that.”

“But I want to be king!” the Duke of York fumed.

“And I think he should be,” pouted the earl of Rutland.

“Well, I don’t,” argued the earl of March.

“Can I have a quiet word? In private?” insinuated sir Thomas Nevill.

“Let’s go and see what the king has to say,” the Archbishop suggested.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the King flummoxed. “Ask the lawyers.”

“How are we supposed to know?” the lawyers dissimulated. “Ask the Earl of Warwick, he’s wise and powerful and everyone loves him.”

“I tell you what,” the Earl of Warwick pontificated. “Henry can be king until he dies then York can have a turn. How does that sound?”

“Fair enough,” conciliated the King.

“It will have to do, I suppose,” harumphed the Duke of York.

“Meh,” equivocated the Earl of Salisbury.

“Que’sckesay?” shrieked the Queen when she heard the news. “My son! Mi hijo! Eee is to be, ow you say? disinerited? Non! Non! and Non!”

Then the Duke of York went to Sandal Castle and got himself killed at Wakefield, which rendered the whole question moot.

“Shit!” quoth the Earl of Salisbury just before he died.

He dreamed of her at night, flitting through his mind like a wraith, dancing on the moonbeams of his memories. He would sigh and turn, reaching for her and find instead his pale and insipid wife, the Countess of Warwick who made him angry. She would tremble at the thought of his anger and weep silent tears for her lost hopes while he settled himself back down and went to sleep again, hoping, hoping, to catch the stray fragmented remnants of his dream of love.

“I think we should go back to England now and take over the government,” the Earl of Warwick said, idly tossing stones into the roiling sea beneath the cliffs on which sat he and his father, the taciturn and hardbitten Earl of Salisbury.

“Men,” Salisbury said.

“Oh, thousands,” Warwick confided. “Lots and lots. Plenty. Don’t you worry about that, Father.”

“Wife,” Salisbury grunted hardbittenly.

“If you think I should,” agreed Warwick. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll pop over this afternoon.”

So, in keeping with his father’s wishes because he was a respectful man to his father even if he wasn’t to anyone else, the Earl of Warwick, using his powers as Captain of Calais, sailed over the Ireland and collected his mother, who had gone to Ireland with the Duke of York who was in Ireland.

Meanwhile, in Calais, the Earl of March was getting bored because he’d bedded all the women in Calais in the first week and there weren’t anymore. They fluttered around him like wanton butterflies, drunk with his beauty and sexual p0tency. Sometimes, when he felt sorry for them, he bedded them again, but it wasn’t the same as the first time, which for him was an adventure, an exploration of feminine pulchitrudinessness which always held some surprise despite the fact that women are essentially all built fundamentally the same.

“I’ve come to take you back to Calais,” Warwick instructed his mother. “Father thinks it’s time you stopped being attainted and started behaving like a wife.”

“Yes,” the Countess of Salisbury conceded, nodding relievedly. “I should like that, I think. It’s very tiring being political.”

Just as he was about to leave, the Duke of York, who missed his wife terribly and his children, especially the frail and angelic® Richard or Dickon, stopped him just as he was about to leave.

“What should we do, nephew Warwick?” he doubtingly said. “I miss my beautiful wife Cecily, the Duchess of York, so much that I can’t think straight.”

“Father thinks we should invade England and take over the government.”

“Allright,” the Duke of York obeyed. “You get started and I’ll join in later.”

On the way back they went to Sandwich and found the Earl of the Rivers and his son and took them back to Calais to mock them. They got them out of bed so they were a bit disoriented and didn’t quite follow the mocking. The Earl of the Rivers had a son, who was also with him, called Anthony and the Earl of March mocked him particularly mockingly then quietly so that no-one could see, he took him to one side and asked him if he had a sister.

“Wife,” the Earl of Salisbury said when he saw his wife who he hadn’t seen for a long time and missed very much only he wasn’t about to tell her, or anyone else, that because it would use up too many words. He looked around to see that no-one was looking, then kissed her on the cheek. She giggled girlishly and followed him upstairs to his bedroom and there I think we shall draw a veil over the scene because there’s nothing a taciturn man likes less than being caught in fragrant delecto.

The Earl of Warwick, famous for being Captain of Calais, a pirate and not famous for being the secret lover of Queen Margaret and the secret father of her son, the Prince of Wales because no-one knew about that, gathered all his men together and put them on the ships and sailed back to England.

All the way across the English Channel, the Earl of March kept thinking how he would go about bedding the Earl of the Riverses’ son Anthony’s sister, who he’d told him about in glowing terms and made him want to bed her.

When they got to England, Warwick said, “Well, here I am, England! Deal with it!”

They went to London, but the king wasn’t there so they went looking for him.

“Stay,” Salisbury said, so they let him stay behind while they went and fought the battle of Northampton which they won because they were young and everyone loved them, whereas everyone hated the Queen, Margaret of Anjou, because she was French and turning into quite a bitch. She left behind her husband the king who was taken back to the Tower of London and locked up.

Cecily Nevill looked at herself in the mirror and was relieved to find that she was still the most beautiful woman in England so she went to meet her husband.

“I’m going to be king now, I think,” he said.

“I’ve had a new gown made special,” Cecily said. “It’s beautiful, just like me.”

“Nothing is as beautiful as you, my darling wife,” the Duke of York said and she knew he was right.

All the women of Northampton were quite a flutter because the Earl of March was in town and they all wanted to be his special girl so he chose some of them and bedded himself self silly for a few days before going back to London where there were more women than he could shake a stick at.

“Can I be chancellor?” George Neville the youngest brother of the Earl of Warwick and Archbishop of York said.

“Yes, I think you’d be good at that,” Warwick said with a proud smile of his brother.

In Scotland where she was hiding with the Earl of Warwick’s secret son, Margaret of  Anjou was starting to get really angry. Things were not going her way at all and that was not to her liking. She was French, dammit! And a queen! She would get an army together and destroy the Earl of Warwick once and for all, though she feared she’d weep over his mangled corpse like a widowed bride who has just lost her husband and love of her life, which he was.