Young Writers Society

Authors note: This is a short story concerning Prince John of England, who later became King John. This is a story concerning the time when he was eighteen, and going to a country that he had just recently been named Lord over. Ireland.

See if you can find the reference to a cartoon I placed in there! :)

The English countryside unrolled before John like an intricately-weaved rug. He could see everything, even the boundary of France lay on the distant horizon.

Dover Castle was situated on the mountaintop, overlooking the sea on one side and the English countryside on the other. Many said it was situated perfectly, and his father King Henry II, knew that and constantly strived to make it even stronger. His dream was to have a fortress that was impregnable.

John knew how ridiculous that dream was. Everything could and would be breached in time. It only took the right weapons and numbers. He wasn’t a warrior anyway. He never had been.

Perhaps the greatest reason for that was his stature. Compared to the rest of his family, he was a dwarf. His brother Richard was extremely tall, broad-shouldered, and strong, built like the Great Tower of Dover Castle. John had been compared once to a barrel of wine, being deep chested and short. He was always jealous of Richard’s kingly appearance, while John could have passed off as a servant without an issue.

John walked about on the top of the Great Tower, enjoying the scenery. The tower was one of the greatest symbols of England. He ran his hand along the smooth stones that added to the structure by adorning the ledge. Glancing down, he could see courtiers and peasants rushing back and forth from building to building. All of them had their specific duty to their king. Every duty had a deadline within a certain period of time, so they could sleep without being in constant fear of their lives.

John hated duties and commitments. He would have preferred to just immerse himself in his traveling library and read his books all day rather than perform the duties of a Prince of England. He didn’t even have property! As King Henry’s fourth and youngest son, he would be left destitute when he died. In fact, that knowledge was so apparent to everyone; he had been given a nickname. John Lackland.

Of course, his father tried to smooth things over; to make thing better than what they really were. John knew what that he was trying to make it not seem that he would have nothing when his father died. So his father gave him lands. Many Lords of different castles and lands all around England had to give up their fiefs when King Henry gave the land to John, in hopes that he wouldn’t feel so left out. What his father finally did was attempt to make him King of Ireland, and at an age of eighteen years old. But of course, Pope Innocent II didn’t agree with that. So his father made him the Lord of Ireland instead, to appease the Pope.

So he was expected to make the voyage to Ireland, something he didn’t really want to do. Why did he have to journey to another country? He didn’t really care what happened to Ireland. Even though his whole life had been planned out from the start for him to be a ruler, to govern countries and fiefs, he detested it. His books were the only things that he loved to be with, and they seemed to him the only things that spouted intelligent words. Where were their authors? John would have preferred to talk to them instead of the blabbering lot of English.

He turned away from the beautiful landscape and walked towards the staircase that would take him down to the banquet hall. John didn’t know what he was doing, or where to go. Even though he had spent his whole life in preparation for being a Lord, he didn’t know where to go or what to do.

If his father was in the banquet hall, which was below his feet, perhaps he could question him. He only needed a few answers. Then he would be able to take things from there.

The guard standing beside the entrance to the staircase bowed respectfully to him as he passed, and John smirked. They showed such respect for their royalty, but he wondered what went on inside that armored man’s mind. Was his heart really for England? Where did his loyalties truly lie? He didn’t trust anyone at all, not even his brother Richard. No, especially his brother. John knew that his brothers walked past him sticking their noses in the air at him. His short stature, his lack of land, everything. They were better than he was.

Well, he was going to prove them wrong.

His hand trailed the rock wall, feeling the roughhewn edges. He imagined the people of England like the stones. Those thousands of bricks, woven together in formation to build a tower that would stand for centuries. While people could build such towers and lavishing paintings with so much care and devotion, they couldn’t put that same aspect into their lives. People were people, he realized. They never changed. Unlike the stone tower, the country of England could crumble down into piles of rubble.

He continued down the spiral staircase, each corner bringing more and more guards and courtiers rushing past him, all bowing to him as they passed hurriedly.

He stopped at a glass window and stood up on his tiptoes to look at his reflection. Sighing, he shook his head in distaste. Red hair curled around the golden crown on his head; a crown that John hated because it was one size too big and always slipped down in his face. The hawk-like nose, which people jokingly referred to as being very Romanly. The pointed chin, which Richard liked to refer to as the sword-point. The only things that he could see that wasn’t ugly were his eyes. Dark brown and mysterious, full of mischief and cunning. People called them snakelike eyes behind his back, but he didn’t care. They were the only thing that made him look dangerous.

The banquet hall was like it usually was: full of loud, busily eating people. He avoided the drunken men that stood over the food and ale like starving hogs, yearning to gorge themselves, and searched for his father.

Not even the elaborate tapestries hanging from the ceiling, depicting lions with outstretched claws, ready to spring on their enemies, could cloud out the relaxed ambience of the hall. The red colors flashed in his face irritably, like a cape opening and closing unexpectantly.

The long lines of tables made a perimeter around the outside of the rectangle shape hall, leaving one side out for the servants to come and go, fetching different foods and whisking the dirty dishes away. It was a constant cycle of food that was brought in and out, and there were always people coming in to eat and drink. Always.

He stepped around a beer-bellied man who smelled like the pig-house, but had to duck as one of his flapping arms sideswiped him on accident.

John slapped his arm angrily and the drunk man slowly turned his head to see who had hit him. His eyes grew wide as he noticed who had slapped his arm. “I'm s-so s-sorry, your highness!” He said in a frantic stutter.

John scowled and grabbed the man’s jerkin, pulling him down to his level. Everyone around them held their breath in anticipation. No one could tell what John would do when he got angry.

“Keep your fat hands to yourself, you stuttering blabbered fool! If you so much as touch me with those filthy common hands of yours, I will gladly separate them from your miserable body.” His eyes only added to the threat. He meant what he said.

Everyone could hear the man gulp in fear. “Yes, y-your highness. You have my word of honor!”

John shoved him away and scoffed. “You word of honor,” he said spitefully. “What is your honor worth but the dirt on your hands? Don’t give me empty promises.”

Satisfied that the man was duly warned, he walked away from him. Everyone gave him a wide birth then, not wanting to provoke him to greater anger. If it happened one more time in the next day, the next person wouldn’t only suffer a few insults. The penalty would be far worse.

Then John caught sight of his father moving through the crowd, exchanging conversation easily and laughing with the commoners. He turned around, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea once again so he could get through the throngs to his father.