Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu by Jonathan Green

Author:Jonathan Green
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Snow Books
Published: 2016-08-03T04:00:00+00:00

May 5th, 1502 – The Garden Tower, London

“And then?” More is captivated by this episode. He leans over his ledger, as though his body is pulled into Tyrell’s orbit by the dark, sucking pools of the condemned man’s black eyes.

“Nothing. The light did not return. There was no sign of any response to her incantation, and we departed in utter despair. I to Calais, where I busied myself in my Guisnes duties, hoping to forget what England was to become. Margaret I never saw again – but I will never forget the sight of her standing over the spot where the Shining Splendour had birthed, where the remains of children were buried, and where the sun refused to shine. I have never seen such desolation. Richard once said, ‘Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women rail on the Lord’s anointed.’ And it appeared his dark prayer was answered; Margaret’s was not.

“But distance from England made no difference. My arm continued to wither and my nights were filled with horrors. I shared Clarence’s dream of drowning and Stanley’s nightmare of a boar triumphant over England. I saw Clarence rise from the Malmsey butt like a serpentine sea beast from the deepest abyss, spilling blood that filled the tower and overflowed, drowning England. I saw a boar with Richard’s face, and its crookback sundered to pour forth unspeakable abominations that burrowed into battlefield corpses and fed mightily, and animated the dead, giving them new life to ravage the kingdom with bloody strokes and mortal-shearing warfare forever.

“I dreamed of the princes, whose eyes were black, empty voids in which the light of stars birthed, lived, and died in an instant, and who gleefully told me: The Seal has been broken by Anjou, the Mother of Ruin. Azathoth’s dread servants are building a mighty eyrie to nest in, which will scorn your sun. And we will make prey.

“I did not need the weekly dispatches to know the kingdom suffered under the usurper. I knew I was jointly responsible for the tyranny and despaired with the realisation there was nothing I could do, that it would only worsen. Until the following spring, when the sign that had so cruelly evaded Margaret shone in the heavens.”

More looks momentarily confused. He flicks through his documents, frowning.

“16th of March, 1485,” Tyrell says with a hint of reproach. “The death of Richard’s queen. She passed on the same day as the sun was eclipsed by the moon.”

More’s hand trembles on the sheaf of papers.

“Even in Calais I saw it,” Tyrell continues. “While some took it to be the final sign of England’s damnation, that the Lancaster queen cruelly usurped by Richard had passed and God hid His sight from the world in despair, I saw what others could not.”

His black eyes glisten. “I saw hope. I saw through the darkness, saw the light beyond this veil fade and vanish – and I knew the curse could be lifted.

“It was the same month Henry Tudor raised Wales and I

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