The room reeked of sweat, wine, and lust. Thomas, Duke of Clarence, lay on his back, his chest heaving from the exertion. His eyes stared blankly at the wooden beams above, lost in thought.
Beside him, the prostitute curled into his side, her fingers lazily tracing patterns along his chest. She had a sharpness in her eyes, a knowing look that suggested she was more than just a body for hire. She tilted her head, watching his face closely.
"You seem troubled, my prince," she murmured, her voice low and sultry. "What weighs on your mind?"
Thomas sighed, shifting to sit up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "I must go," he said, his voice flat. "I need to welcome my beloved brother."
"Prince Hal?" she said, a smirk tugging at her lips as she sat up behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Is he back from Wales?"
"Yes," Thomas replied, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable. "He's back to claim his throne."
She chuckled softly, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Don't you want it? The throne..." she asked, her voice teasing but with a dark edge.
Thomas stiffened, turning his head slightly. "Of course i do, what fool wouldn't want it."
She whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. "It could be yours."
He pulled away, standing abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "Are you suggesting I—"
"Well your father was a usurper," she interrupted, rising from the bed and approaching him slowly. "Why shouldn't you be one too?"
His face darkened, his jaw tightening. "You dare speak of such things!?"
"Why not?" she said, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous excitement. "You just said who wouldn't want to be king? But you don't want to kill for it, especially when the crown is wit—."
Before she could utter another word, Thomas's hand lashed out, striking her hard across the face. The crack of the impact echoed through the room, and she stumbled back, clutching her cheek in shock.
"You insolent whore!" he spat, his face contorted with fury. "How dare you suggest such treachery!?"
She recovered quickly, the defiance in her eyes undimmed. "It's the truth," she said, her voice low but steady. "You've thought about it, haven't you?"
His hands trembled with rage as he advanced on her, grabbing her by the throat. "You dare plant poison in my mind?" he growled, his grip tightening. "You think I would betray my own blood!"
She gasped, her hands flying to his wrists as she struggled to break free. Her nails dug into his skin, drawing thin lines of blood, but he didn't relent. He shoved her back onto the bed, pinning her down as his fingers crushed her windpipe.
Her eyes bulged, her face turning a mottled shade of red as she writhed beneath him. She kicked and clawed, her body convulsing violently. The bed creaked under their combined weight, the sheets twisting around them like a serpent.
"You think of me weak?" Thomas hissed, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and ragged.
Her struggles grew weaker, her nails scraping feebly at his forearms. Her mouth opened and closed in desperate attempts to draw breath, but his grip was ironclad.
Her eyes rolled back, her body giving one last shudder before falling limp beneath him. Thomas remained there, his hands still clamped around her throat, even as her lifeless body ceased to move.
The room was deathly silent, save for the sound of his own labored breathing. Slowly, he released her, his hands shaking as he backed away from the bed. His chest heaved, his mind racing as he stared at her lifeless form.
Blood thumped in his ears, a deafening rhythm that drowned out all reason. He looked down at his hands, still trembling, the weight of what he'd done crashing down on him.
The atmosphere in London was thick with anticipation as Prince Henry of Monmouth made his return, the cheers of the crowd ringing out as he passed through the streets. His triumphs in Wales were known far and wide, and with his father, King Henry IV, growing weaker by the day, all eyes were now on the eldest son. Hal knew what was expected of him—his time was near.
At the royal palace, the heavy scent of sickness hung in the air. Hal entered the chamber where his father lay, his once-commanding figure now frail and broken. King Henry IV rested in his bed, his face pale and sunken, the weak flutter of his breath the only indication of life. The physicians stood around, their faces grim, speaking in hushed tones.
Hal approached the bed slowly, his heart heavy with dread. His father's hand was cold as he clasped it gently, his voice barely a whisper. "How is he?" he asked the physicians, his words tight with emotion.
One of the physicians stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "Your Highness," he began, "this illness is mysterious. No remedy has worked, and His Majesty...I'm afraid he will not recover."
Hal stood there in silence, absorbing the words. The weight of them pressed down on him like a stone. His father, the king, was slipping away. There would be no easy transition. The thought of stepping into his father's shoes, taking up the mantle of a king, felt surreal, but it was now his destiny.
His mind then turned to matters of the kingdom. He left the room, the walls closing in on him as he walked through the corridors of the palace. Waiting for him in a nearby room was William Gascoigne, Chief Justice of England.
As Hal entered, William greeted him with a nod. "Prince Hal, it is good to see you back," he said. "And it is time for you to take a more active role in the governance of the realm."
Hal's gaze was distant, as though seeing beyond the walls of the room. "Yes, now that the Welsh rebels are defeated and the Percys subdued, it is time for us to unify the country."
William studied him carefully. "And how do you plan to unify your country, my prince?"
Hal's voice was firm, carrying the weight of a future king. "By a common cause."
William nodded slowly, sensing the direction in which the prince's thoughts were heading. "Yes, a common cause," he echoed, his tone laced with the gravity of the situation. It was clear to both men what that cause would be—war. The conquest of France loomed large in Hal's mind, as it always had. It was a cause that could unite the kingdom and secure his reign.
As they spoke, the door to the chamber opened, and in walked Thomas, Hal's younger brother. His face was pale, and his hands trembled as he approached them. Hal's eyes narrowed, concern creeping into his chest. William left them.
"Thomas," he said softly, "are you unwell?"
Thomas didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes flickered to the floor, and his voice cracked as he looked up, tears welling in his eyes. "I killed her, Hal" he whispered.
Hal froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Who did you kill!?" His voice was calm, but the tension in his body betrayed the shock he felt.
Thomas trembled, his hands shaking violently. "She... she spoke of treason," he choked out, his eyes wild. "She talked about father... about the throne." His voice broke as he collapsed into a chair, his face contorted in guilt. "I couldn't control myself. I just... I just..."
Hal took a slow step toward him, his gaze hardening as his mind raced. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice flat.
Thomas hesitated, his breath ragged. "In my room. A whore."
A cold shiver ran through Hal. He exhaled, grateful that it was prostitute, yet the gravity of his brother's words sank deep. He leaned in closer, placing a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "I'll take care of it," he said, his tone softer now, more measured.
Thomas lifted his tear-streaked face to Hal, his eyes pleading for reassurance. "I didn't mean to, Hal. I was angry... and she pushed me too far."
Hal's eyes darkened as he glanced at his brother, his thoughts swirling with anger and responsibility. "I know," he muttered. "