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His eyes were too wild to be Richard of Bordeaux’s. Had anyone noticed or cared, they hadn’t said a thing. Perhaps they were simply too awestruck that their dead king seemingly rose from the dead, a blasphemous parody of Christ’s own reawakening.
The throne seemed too big for him at first, but Thomas Warde had grown accustomed in these few weeks to its size. He smiled, shifting his leg under his robes just so the man seated upon his knee jostled slightly.
Warde saw Edmund’s composure break, cracking the stoic facade. What a young pup! Just twenty four years of age, but he was the king crown and commoners would heed to, not the son of a Lancaster usurper.
Warde grinned, his voice whispered syrup sweet with a sting of bitterness.
“Don’t fear, Edmund. You have much to learn but-” he paused, picking up a piece of marchpane from a golden platter beside the throne. “I will teach you from the shadows everything you need to know.”
His laugh was quiet as he bit into the marchpane. He took the remaining bit of the sweet and lifted it towards Edmund’s mouth, fingertips pressing against his mouth. Edmund opened obediently, letting the sugary sweetness fill his mouth; it mixed with the taste of Warde’s skin on his tongue. Edmund swallowed it down, gulping hard as his body remained rigid, hesitant to step off his place at Warde’s knee.
Humming softly, Warde picked up another piece of marchpane and held it to Edmund’s mouth, silently coaxing him.
Edmund took it once again, this time savoring the flavor.
“You have your brother to thank for all of this.”
“I do.”
“Are you grateful, King Edmund?”
“Yes. Very thankful.”
Warde’s fingers brushed the side of Edmund’s neck, staying there, feeling the warmth and the pulse. He laughed at feeling Edmund shudder.
“Remember, Mortimer. You are but a puppet. A living doll. You…hold the power, but I control you.”
Edmund exhaled through his mouth, breath trembling from his lips. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He focused his gaze towards the window, imagining the English army on the horizon returning from France.
Puppet or not, he was the rightful king. He felt Warde’s arm tighten about his waist. He would make them yield.