Tower of London Historical Fiction

My name’s Henry. Not King Henry VI, just Henry. A regular citizen of London in the 13th century. And I’m currently serving life imprisonment in the Tower of London. I was lucky that the beefeaters gave me some paper and a pencil, though. You probably have many questions right now, so let me answer some of them.

It all began in 1381, when the “Tower Revolution”, as my mother called it, invaded the Tower of London and fought with the British forces. You call it a “rebellion” in the 21st century. Back here, we call it “suicide”. The fighters lost to the monarchy, and all of them either were executed on the streets in public or were dead in the massacre. Either way, you were sure to die. It turns out that my uncle, George (again, not King George, just George) was a part of the rebels and was killed in front of the King’s eyes. George was born in 1363, so he was just 8 years old when he went to war. In this time, kid fighters were never spared, and were always seen by the King or Queen. I know, gruesome. However, when his brother grew up and married another local, I was born. I was a fighter, even when I was in my mother’s stomach. I would keep on kicking and thrashing around. When I was in my teens, I loved the idea of serving my country and fighting for what was right. So, I joined the British military. Back in the day, there was no such thing as a medical test to pass.

I was in my late forties when news came out that my uncle was murdered. As you would probably think, I was enraged. From that moment on, I made an oath to crash this party and stop the British from murdering innocent people once and for all. In my early 60s, still part of the army, I received the beefeater badge. This means that I had access to the places where the King goes and I must protect him with all my life. However, I had no intention of doing that. On the outside, I was jumping with joy. This was a very prestigious award. On the inside, I was excited for another reason. To get some revenge, for my dad and uncle.

Ya see, now that I could visit the King with no one stopping me, I had my perfect chance to do some damage. Every Sunday, the King went to the chapel in the centre of the Tower of London to pray. This means that I could intercept him on one Sunday, and get him down. King Henry VI arrived at the chapel promptly when the bells started to ring. Crouching in the shadows, I had him just where I wanted him. King Henry started muttering something I couldn’t bother to listen to, and as I stabbed him right in the back, I yelled, “There can only be one Henry!”

And that leads me to now, stuck in jail for life, writing my autobiography, something that will only become popular centuries in the future. That’s my life. That’s my story. That’s me, Henry.

This is just so sad.