The Demons of York

England, August 22nd, 1485

There was something about the way Lord Strange stood that made Sir Ratcliff pause. A man about to be separated from his head was never so calm.

"And why shouldn't I?" screamed King Richard, pointing a gauntleted hand towards the army waiting along the neighbouring ridge. "If Stanley refuses to give his support, why the bloody hell shouldn't I make good on my promise to execute his son? Aren't you always telling me I need to go through with my threats? And now you want me to wait?"

The Earl of Northumberland closed his eyes and held up both hands. "Your Majesty, please. We are only asking you to wait until the end of the battle. Once you've secured the crown, he can be executed publicly. That will set an example and brand the Stanleys as traitors. Now, it's little more than spite." 

"Politics again, Dickon. Not your favourite. Why not turn your mind to what you do best: commanding an army."  

Sir Ratcliff didn't bother flicking his gaze for more than a few seconds from Lord Strange to the man who had just spoken. 

Viscount Lovell stood in full armour, gold-and-wine-red surcoat fluttering in the breeze, smiling benevolently at the king. He'd taken a deep, and in Ratcliff's opinion, dangerous, liking to their human charge, indulging him when he should have pulled the lead line tighter and spending far too many nights drinking with the king in his chambers. 

"And besides, Tudor is aching to meet his maker. I can hear him calling from here," Lovell added. 

As the councillors continued to bring forward reasons for not dispatching Strange immediately, the battle crept slowly towards them from the South. 

Henry Tudor's Lancastrian army had breached the swampland and was gaining ground towards Ambion Hill where King Richard's 10,000-man army watched from the ridge. Yorkist cannon shook the ground every few heartbeats, attempting to break the Lancastrian lines early. Gigantic war horses pawed the ground and danced in anticipation, nearly jerking the squires holding their reigns off their feet. Dogs ran amok, priests roamed among the soldiers hearing last minute confessions and men prayed or vomited up their breakfast in equal measure. The heat and stink of tar, sweat and freshly-sharpened metal mixed with the smell of grass and the nearby forests. 

The day was not going well and the tension was pressing on everyone, not just the king, whose nerves were strung as taunt as a long bow.

There was just something not right with Lord Strange but Ratcliff couldn't put his finger on it. Why did he show no signs of unease? He was a helpless prisoner who had just been written off by his own father for political reasons. Lord Stanley's curt reply to Richard's order to attack the approaching army had been a mere: "Kill him, if it please you. I have other sons."

Ratcliff eyed the prisoner standing quietly between two guards even more closely. The man's short, blond hair was mussed and his clothes were dirty from the makeshift prison he was being held in, but his face was smooth and almost featureless, as if it hadn't been completely formed yet. Strange was said to be all of twenty-five, and yet he looked no older than ten. How could he look so very young? And where. . .

The incongruency Ratcliff had felt the whole time suddenly struck him. 

Lord Strange's face was clean. Not only clean shaven, but without even the slightest trace of dirt. 

Ratcliff's gaze dropped to the man's hands bound together in front of him with leather straps. Pale. Delicately formed. 

And spotless.  

Oh, God's bones, that's all they needed!  

Sir Ratcliff turned in Lovell's direction and allowed his eyes to glow red for a fraction of a second. Any humans who noticed would think it was a trick of the light or their own jangling nerves. Lovell turned to him, that stupidly affectionate smile still on his face, and his eyes glowed slightly in response.