Astoria

n i n e

The three brothers rode into battle, sitting proud atop their horses. The clanging of armor and the chinking of metal rose in a cacophonous noise that announced to everyone the coming of the royal army. Prince William looked from side to side at his two companions, the proud and arrogant King Rupert to his left and the easy-going and good-humored Prince Edward on his right.

They could see, over the crest of a hill, the army of the kingdom upon which Rupert had set his sights, coming to face them, their faces grim and determined even though they were vastly outnumbered by the king's army.

They charged forward and swords met with a crash, shields banged against one another and the scrape of metal on metal filled the air, along with the battle cries of men and the screams of the wounded. The number of the enemy's soldiers was obviously decreasing but the remaining men fought with determination and desperation for their country.

Suddenly, a change seemed to come over the soldiers of the enemy. Six fresh horses each bearing an armored soldier, charged down the opposite hill, and straight into the fray.

William suddenly felt trapped, and a tight feeling began in his gut, making its way up to grasp his throat. His breathing suddenly felt tighter. He whirled around, turning his horse, looking for the enemy he sensed rather than felt.

Seeing nothing, he convinced himself he had just imagined it, that it had only been a touch of battlefield panic, and turned to face the battle once more.

The archer loosed his arrow and it flew straight towards William, its deadly aim true.

Antony jerked awake and sat up, breathing quickly, his sleep-heavy eyes darting around the room, trying desperately to make sense of where he was.

Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dark of his bedroom and he sighed heavily, running both hands over his face and up through his sweaty, tousled hair.

He threw back his blankets and stood, pulling off his linen night shirt and exchanging it for a simple pair of trousers and a plain cotton shirt. He pulled on his boots and exited the room.

Walking the dark hallways of Mansfield, he finally felt himself begin to calm, his heart rate returning to normal and his breathing slowing.

He felt foolish, as he did every night when the nightmares came- the nightmares in which he became his father and lived his last hours of life, his last battle- foolish at being so weak that he awoke sweaty, and in a state of panic, as if he really had been there, on the battlefield.

He ran a hand through his hair once more and sighed. He felt exhausted, but he was lucky, these days, to get a good night's sleep. It didn't happen often anymore. The nightmares had been terrible after his father died, but had abated somewhat in the years that followed. Now, with the pressure of taking the throne in only a few weeks, they had returned in full force.

He kept them hidden, telling no one, not wanting to worry them. It was hard, though, lately. Isabella questioned his frequent yawning, and his Grandmother Olivya was beginning to notice the dark circles appearing beneath his eyes. She watched him carefully, from a distance, but did not press him for answers, which he appreciated. He wished she wouldn't worry, though. There would be no help for him; it was his own private battle.

He continued down the hallway, nodding to the few night-servants he passed, on their way to do jobs such as tend to a fire. They all acknowledged him and continued on their way, by now familiar with the habits of the young prince.

Coming to the far wing, he was surprised to see a light shining through the door of the library and the soft notes of piano music issuing from within.