Strange Times: Richard III in the 21st Century--Book 3

Strange Times

Joan Szechtman

Dedicated to my dearest Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bernie.

Books by Joan Szechtman

about

Richard III in the 21st-Century

This Time

Loyalty Binds Me

Strange Times

Strange Times, Copyright © 2017 by Joan Szechtman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission except for fair use as codified in Section 107 of the Copyright Act.

This book is a work of fiction. All events and characters are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All fifteenth century characters who are real are used fictitiously. The events, buildings, locations, names, and characters were either created by the author or used fictitiously.

Cover design copyright © 2017 by Joan Szechtman

Cover: Photo of entry to Minster Lovell ruin copyright © 2009 by Joan Szechtman

Editor: Myrna Smith

Contents

Previously on Richard III in the Twenty-first Century

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

Author’s Notes and Discussion Topics

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Previously on Richard III in the Twenty-first Century

THIS TIME looks at Richard III as he adapts to modern technology, medicine, and American culture while investigating his past and Shakespeare’s damage to his character.

Seconds before Richard III was about to be killed in battle in 1483, a team of Ricardians rendered him unconscious and exchanged him for an armored corpse. They brought him forward in time to Portland, Oregon on August 21, 2004.

The three principal members of the team were, billionaire Evan Hosgrove, owner of Ambion Technologies, Michael Fairchild, physicist who modified a prototype to transport matter across space, the Quantum Displacement Engine (QDE), to now move matter across space and time, and linguist Katarina Parvic, to help Richard bridge the gap between Early Modern English and twenty-first century American English.

Richard soon learned of the damage to his reputation and that he could not return to his own time. He then decided to do everything in his power to bring his wife, Anne, and son, Edward—both of whom predeceased him in the fifteenth century—to this time. His wife’s health was too compromised from tuberculosis to effectively save her. He focused all his energies to save his ten-year-old son from a dying of acute appendicitis.

Ambion Technologies located and hired Sarah Gold, physicist and the original inventor of the QDE. Richard was smitten the moment he met Sarah, a divorcee with two girls, Emma and Mary. They were able to bring Richard’s son forward and cure him.

LOYALTY BINDS ME revisits Richard two years after he was brought into the twenty-first century and one year after his son Edward’s rescue.

Richard, Sarah, Edward, Emma, and Mary, traveled to England on a pilgrimage for Richard and Edward to visit Anne’s grave in Westminster Abbey and pay their final respects. The British authorities are led to believe Richard is really Richard III and they arrest him for the murder of his nephews. The Metropolitan Police are skeptical of the claim, but they proceed with the arrest under orders from MI5. Before he can clear himself, MI5 Agent Adrian Strange holds Richard hostage and threatens to hold him for life in a dark prison.

To get Richard free, Sarah works out a deal with British Intelligence for the QDE. Sarah and Richard manage to keep the time travel aspect from the British.

STRANGE TIMES opens just after Richard and family return to Portland, Oregon.

ONE

16 June 1487

Battle of Stoke Field

River Trent, near Newark

As much as he tried, Francis Lovell could not sleep. For the morale of the troops, he should project optimism about the upcoming battle, even though the king’s armies were superior in numbers and discipline. His gut twisted at the thought of facing them.

In the predawn hour, Francis slipped out of his tent, passing the priests who were setting up the crosses, bread, and wine for the mass before the men went into battle. Battle. Now, he would fight for Edward V, who was untested in battle, unlike his uncle, the late King Richard III. Francis wondered how different things would have been if Edward had been sixteen in 1483 instead of twelve when his father, Edward IV, died. Would Richard and his wife and son be alive today?

The morning mist hung heavy on the grass, but the sky was cloudless and the sun would soon burn off the dew. He circled around the other generals’ tents to Edward’s. As he approached, the guard drew to attention, and only relaxed upon recognition.

Francis entered Edward’s tent to awaken him, only to discover his sovereign sitting at the edge of his bed, face drawn and pale. At that moment, he looked so like his uncle on the fatal morning nearly two years earlier. Francis knelt on one knee and parted his lips to speak. His mouth had lost all moisture, and all he could manage was a hoarse, Your Grace.

Edward stood. It is with God, and surely we have Him on our side. He placed his hand on Francis’s shoulder. Rise, we must be ready to defeat that Welsh milksop!

Surprised Edward should use his uncle’s name for Tudor, Francis slapped his hand over his mouth to hold back the laugh that threatened to erupt from his lips. He then saw an impish grin reach Edward’s eyes. Both laughed.

After Low Mass, Edward pulled Francis aside at the tent’s entry. He reached into his pouch and retrieved a parchment roll that carried his seal. He handed it to Francis. Swear you will deliver this to my mother in the event I do not survive this battle.

Francis placed his hand over his heart. I swear, if it is within my power.

By nine, Edward’s forces had amassed on the crest of Burham Hill across the Upper Fosse. The sun beat down on bowman and knight alike; but those in armor suffered most from the trapped heat. Francis wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered across the grassy stretch at Oxford’s army—Henry’s vanguard. In addition to Francis, Lincoln, Schwartz, and the Irish generals stood with Edward. Eight horses were held to the side for an escape to Newark, should the battle go against them. Edward tensed in his saddle and it spread to his destrier. The warhorse sidestepped, tossing his head high. Francis reached for the steed’s rein. Patience, your grace. We wait for their attack and then we defend. He circled in front of Edward.

Where are the Royalist forces? Edward asked.

Francis scanned the field. Oxford’s army is the only one in view. If we attack now, we will have more men.

Henry’s forces cannot be far behind, Lincoln said, and then we will be outmanned and lose the advantage.

Before we make a move, we should find out how far away they are. Our scouts should be returning shortly. Fitzgerald drew up to Lincoln and scanned the grassy slope towards the River Trent.

Francis guided his destrier a few feet towards the river.

Lincoln followed. Any sign of our scouts?

Francis shook his head. I expected them to have returned by now. I pray they have not been captured.

Lincoln turned his steed towards the rise. We must decide now.

Someone comes. Before Francis could identify the livery, the man ducked into a copse and disappeared from view.

Fitzgerald met up with him. Friend or foe?

I could not see his colors.

They waited for the man to reappear, scanning to the right and left of the copse for any movement.

As they watched, a man emerged from behind the trees, making straight for the rebel commanders. Francis and Fitzgerald rode down the hill and quickly met up with the scout. Where are Henry’s armies—did you see them? Fitzgerald asked.

Panting, the scout nodded. I reckon they are eight miles south. It could take them more than an hour before they join with Oxford.

With speed, Francis and Fitzgerald rejoined the commanders and relayed the intelligence. If we attack now, before Henry can join with Oxford, we outman Oxford by two thousand, Francis said.

Lincoln frowned. We lose the defensive advantage by attacking.

If we do not attack now, Francis said, Oxford will be content to sit there and wait for Tudor. Then they will have the advantage. He turned to Fitzgerald. Will your archers be able to shoot and advance at the same time? We need their cover.

Aye.

Francis glanced at each commander, and when all nodded in agreement, he donned his helmet and faced Edward. Give the command to attack, your Grace.

At Edward’s signal, the rebels marched against Oxford. At first, it appeared the rebels had the advantage, catching Oxford still deploying his troops across the Upper Fosse. The rebels had organized themselves so their best-protected men—the gunners and crossbowmen—were surrounded by pikemen. The archers walked behind them. The rebels had planned to hold their fire until they got in range of Oxford’s troops, but before their archers could let loose their shafts, the sky blackened with the enemies’ arrows.

The mercenaries charged down the grassy hill at the Oxford host. The ground shook from the force of thousands of troops pounding towards victory or defeat. Fitzgerald shouted orders and the bowmen set their crossbows to fire. Some bolts found their marks, but most missed. The gunners managed to shoot a couple of rounds before the bolts felled them.

Lincoln drove his army down towards the mercenaries. Fitzgerald and Schwartz sent runners to their men to get them to hold their ground. To Francis’s dismay, the mercenaries fell back and were trapped between opposing armies. He turned toward Edward, but he was not where Francis last saw him a few moments ago. Just then, Edward rushed past him heading towards Lincoln’s army, who were now engaged in the most heated part of the battle.

Francis flipped down his visor and charged to where he had last seen Edward. He scanned the field and spotted Edward in the midst of Oxford’s army, horse and youth fighting fiercely. Before he could get near Edward, Oxford’s men pulled Edward to the ground and he disappeared under the swell of soldiers.

Fearing the worst, Francis spurred his destrier to the center. A bowman loomed before him. His horse reared, fighting as fiercely as any warrior. Francis swung his broadsword at the enemy. The destrier bucked and kicked his rear legs high, throwing him into a thicket. He slammed into a stout oak, a bolt of pain shot down his spine, and his vision momentarily clouded over. When his sight cleared, the most he could see was a slit of blue sky. He could hear the enemy moving away from where he lay. When he tried to move, he found the armor restricted his right arm. He prayed he would be able to get out of his harness.

When the sounds of battle died, he brought his left hand up to the helmet’s visor and flipped it open. He froze when he heard a soft neigh, but saw it was his destrier. Argent came up to him and stood so Francis could grab the stirrup and pull himself upright. Except for the pain across his back where he had connected with the tree, he could move, although with some difficulty. A cursory scan showed he was surrounded by trees, bushes, and grasses with no one near.

Francis removed his helmet and crept to the edge of the copse. He was a distance from where the victors—his enemies—were milling around and marching his friends and allies to their deaths. Sweet Jesus! Where was Edward? Francis had seen him go down, but had he been captured or killed? He blamed himself. He was supposed to have kept Edward safe. He would never forgive himself. He sent up a silent prayer Edward was alive. If he survived, Francis vowed to return to this spot and search through the dead.

The field was strewn with the dead and dying. Ravens circled overhead. Edward’s colors were not visible. If he searched now, he would undoubtedly be captured and executed. But he had to find out. He made a more measured scan of the field this time, and a plan formed in his mind. He crept as close as he could to where Henry’s troops were executing the rebels. Even from this distance, he saw the blood soaked ground with the liveries of the fallen strewn about. Edward was not among them, dead or alive.

Still hidden from Henry’s troops, he crept back to where he left Argent and led him away from the battlefield toward a bend in the river. Cries of the wounded and dying faded as he neared the river, muffled by the turbid water flowing past. The land fell away at the bank where Francis found a cove where he could hide.

He slipped into the cove, using the reeds and bushes for cover. He turned and saw a small knot of Henry’s troops sweeping the battlefield on foot. He did not know how long he had, but he had to get out of his armor. The sweat from the heat mixed with fear stung his eyes and trickled down his back. He could not let them capture him. He had to devise a ruse—something to make them think he was dead.

He remembered the hay-men the farmers constructed to scare the crows from the fields. Inspired by this sudden thought, surely sent from heaven itself, Francis realized he might be able to build one that would support his armor.

He tore the gauntlets off his hands and tried to undo the leather knots holding the armor on his right arm. His left hand shook with fatigue and was too clumsy to work the ties. He slipped the dagger from its sheath and slashed at them, sending up a prayer of thanks he was not wearing the full armor, which would have made it impossible to remove it without a squire. He now had sufficient mobility in his right arm to remove the rest, although it was not until he cut the ties connecting the breast plate to the back plate he regained full range of movement—albeit painful. Next he removed the padded jacket and leggings, and stuffed them with reeds, making a crude hay-man. Finally, he slashed strips of linen from the bottom of his surcoat and tied the armor to the hay-man with it.

The enemy had drawn closer, but they came upon some hapless camp followers, giving Francis time to put his plan into effect. He had to make it look like he had drowned. While the soldiers were occupied with the camp followers, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and hid them in the reeds. Then he guided his warhorse into the river and set the armored simulacrum on the saddle. He swam to the far side of the bank so Argent would block the enemy from seeing him.

A shout went up in the direction of the riverbank, Hoy! Kill him.

The arrows flew at Argent, piercing the armored hay-man. The horse screamed when he was hit, and made a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to rear, but could not. Francis cut the linen holding the armor and pulled it into the water. He swallowed a lung full of air and dove. The water was thick with mud, making it impossible to see. He struck for what he hoped was the riverbank.

* * *

August 27, 2006

Gloucestre residence

Portland, Oregon

Richard placed his drink on the coffee table and pulled his wife close. Sarah melted into his chest and rested her head against his shoulder.

That was no vacation, she said. I’m still wound up from what happened.

Shall I pour you a drink?

No!

He straightened at the anger in her voice. Sarah, I thought it would help you to relax. What’s wrong?

She turned and slipped her hand in