John the Elder had reached a great age.

Now, as winter winds raged through his homeland, he could feel that their icy tips bought death and he, a scribe and teacher at the royal court was ready for his final fate.

Ready to meet a maker he had a low opinion of and to revisit the secrets of 60 years ago which would die with him.

John had been born in this very castle as Henry, second son of the Archduke Frederick.

When his brother, Edric was slain in the Victorious battle at Zetland, the rumour held that he had raised a bloody hand and gasped his last word “Henry!”. And so it was that a sheltered and physically frail 16 year old, was pronounced king of a land he’d never visited and taken to Obersdorf to be crowned.

His reign, a confusing mess of treacherous courtiers and paintings of potential brides, lasted only a few weeks before King Phillipe, back from Crusades, marched upon the castle at midnight, vowing to destroy Henry. Still reeling from the twenty years war, Henry’s armies were not about to die for causes they didn’t understand or a weakling prince and melted away quietly.

Henry watched Phillipe’s distant approach from his window, and too scared to even trust his manservant, attached a piece of rope to the castle walls and lowered himself into the thick woods behind the castle, on foot and alone, carrying only some cloth for a makeshift tent.

Half-starved and desperate he fought through sharp patches of briar and listened for the sound of the forest combing troops who often neared him. The berries made him ill and the cuts from thorns were hard to staunch. In the evenings, unable to make fire, he shivered beneath his tentcloth, warmed by pieces of bracken, crying from the cold and horror.

On the fifth night, he woke from fitful slumbers to see the two brown, staring eyes of a black bear in his tent, it stared at him greedily for a moment before being scared off by another noise, deep in the forest.

When on the eighth day he finally came to an area of fields, villages and rising smoke. He wanted to run and cry out, but realising he was still in foreign lands he walked at night and slept in barns for 12 more days, stealing chickens and apples, until he came to the port of Varcia on the shores of the lake across which his own lands lay.

In Varcia “John”, frequented common taverns lurking in backgrounds listening for news of boats across the lake.

He finally met his sister on the morning of the 28th day and there, together, they concocted plans for survival and agreed never to reveal his identity to his cousin Louis, who he had never met and had been installed as Regent.

John was a better scribe than he had been a prince, using his talents for listening and avoiding attention wisely.

Prince Henry’s fabled demise at the hands of a forest bear was now a wonderful tapestry at the cathedral in Fleghnt and God as he always had, sided with whoever had been the latest winner in the long game of thrones that now seemed so irrelevant.

John tottered to his window, his eyes could not see but the scent of the valley where he had lived his best life still reached his nostrils. He would die that night, satisfied that the story he’d taken to his grave would forever evade the hungry clutches of history.