Chapter Text
John of Gaunt never wanted to see this scenario again. Richard kneels before the portable altar and begins to pray, for victory, for honour, for salvation. The ghost of his great-grandfather watches, without being able to interfere, as the man whose death might mark the ending of the Plantagenet dynasty puts his faith in the strengths of his men and of a god who perhaps have turned his grace from him. Richard crosses himself, fingers biting into the beads of his rosary, and turns towards his makeshift bed. The openings are closed and a single candle spreads a faint light over the lonely king, there is none of the royal splendour that John remembers from his father’s campaigns across France present. But Edward the fourth had not been a widowed childless king squaring off against a usurper, not that his formidable father had lacked enemies because of that, and the mess that came with having your heir dying before yourself with a child to inherit and many uncles. The duke of Lancaster had quelled under his father´s glare far too many times for his sons and grandson’s sins that he could count, unfair as it has been. John had been prepared to face his older brother Edward’s rage after his death too when he had died, but perhaps death had taken the edge of the Black Prince’s temper. Or perhaps his brother had been a conjuring sent from hell to confuse him. It had seen like an agreeable option at that time. King Richard blows the candle out and settles in his bed, a valiant attempt to get a few hours’ sleep before the day of judgement comes with the light of dawn filtering in through the tent. John can see the line of his spine twisting as Richard turns, looking for a comfortable position. They both know that just before a battle is unlikely to bring good rest. But exhaustion can be as fatal as a spear trust and that too is known. The translucent shape of England´s late queen comes to stand beside the long dead spectre of Edward’s third son. “Do you think he will get a bit of rest?” Anne Neville asks him, her worried eyes on her husband, “He always slept poorly before a battle, not that he would want to worry me with that.” she continued before John can answer her. John looks at her without seeing. Here he is again, a childless king Richard just over 30 years old, a gentle queen Anne dead at 28, a Henry aiming for the crown and a Joanna across the sea and John of Gaunt once more being the cause of it all. 86 years have passed between Flint Castle and Redmore Plains. To John it has been almost nothing and to the five kings who has ruled over this blessed island, it had been everything. Anne does not wait for answer, kneeling before Richards bed and placing her hands on his arm and heart and bows her head to pray that she would not welcome him into her arms the next day. That feels like the cruellest pleading John has ever heard and given his life that truly is something. John of Gaunt departs the dark tent to give Anne some privacy. He will watch the outcome tomorrow and regardless of who stands crowned when the warring is done, he’ll win anyway. It does not make it any better, rather makes him feel even worse that before and that tells a story of its own.