The Kingmaker (part one)
Christopher Bernard Leahy & Tom England
Preface ‘The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes of mind’ – William James (1842-1910)
Collected here is the first part of Christopher Bernard Leahy’s The Kingmaker, alongside a four-page comic by Tom England. The Kingmaker has its roots in history. Richard Neville was the 16th Earl of Warwick. He was a nobleman, military commander, and first amongst advisors during the period which became known as ‘The Wars of the Roses’. He betrayed his ally, King Henry VI, and replaced him with King Edward IV of York. Later Neville entered into conflict with York, and returned Henry to the throne. ‘The King Maker’ is later said to have fallen to Edward at the battle of Barnet. The story cuts right to the bone: it examines human potential. We all may question the limits of our freedom; we may feel at times that our destiny is far from our own. But despite the best efforts of our fellows, our short time is governed by our own, central executive. It is in this unique capacity that man may alter the world into which he is so unwittingly thrust. TE&CBL
The Kingmaker The train busied itself through the night suburbs. Its carriages were near empty, vacuous, and packed with furtive lights. The faces of the passengers said it all. They were silent and dreary, lost amongst the cacophony of metal rattle. A young man sat with his legs stretched as far as the door, onto which he forced his soles, allowing the train’s vibrations to conduct down the length of his slim build. A woman approached him, quickly and slyly, without heed of jerky motions or travelling shadow, navigating the aisle with small, expert feet. He could see that she was black old and plump. He greeted her arrival without surprise, for there was no one else in his immediate vicinity, and it was not unusual for the oddballs that wandered the line to harass him. He had grown quite used to it, and on occasion became entertained by it. There was of course the issue of safety, but with the months he’d spent taking the route, the risk had shrank within his mind. She sat in the seat directly next to him. However it was only until he had turned fully to look upon her that she spoke. “Young gentleman, young man, what tale to tell, tale tell to your young self,” went her slow-rising bleat. “What did you hope for in this world? It can’t have been what you found. Or if it was, how will you stand what’s to come? I’ve got to tell ya boy. Just got to tell ya.” Under normal circumstances he would have drowned out her words with his own thoughts of work, of home, of news, pooled with the ever changing discourse of shadow and artificial light. But early on he realised that this woman was of considerable interest. Her speech was somehow at odds with, and markedly distinct from the clamour of the night train. None of it made any sense to him, and yet it all sounded so well rehearsed, so that the unfathomable became mysterious rather than irrelevant. It was like the opening movement of a play’s first scene; the crisp plateau before the plot began to reel.
“If I told you of the danger. You’d cry babe. I don’t want to tell you, to make you going crying but I got to. Hush now baby. Don’t be crying while I tell. You didn’t ask for none of this. No no. Your mama good and bore you without asking and here you are. But be a good boy now and listen up. There’s a man come to see you, but he is no ordinary. You got to be ware of some of the things he’s saying cause I’ve seen him and he don’t want no good to come from you. He says he’ll tell you what to do. But he’s no good one. You’re the gooden one.” Something in her words caught him. He looked upon her face: such sadness, such genuine melancholy. But it was not the appearance of distress, which was common amongst wanderers. He beheld a knowing, kindly expression. It was a sympathy, clothed very much in sanity, that put him very much in mind of a mother. “You must beware of what he says. He says some things true, some true things that gonna be hurting. Bless you, bless you child.” She extended a hand and patted him gently on the brow. It rested there a moment. Just enough time for him to lose himself entirely. He had not felt such a touch for so long. And in another instant, she withdrew, lost to him amongst the riders of the train, down the carriage and out of sight. He sat there, totally anaesthetised. He would have been lying if he said the experience hadn’t influenced him. If he thought back to that period, catching the train from east to west of the city, it represented one of his few coherent memories. For it had been a dull intermission within his life, forced for a time to do a certain manner of occupation within a particular part of the world. He was certain that more lay in store for him; all that remained was to discover an answer to particular question. Was this time an education? Some sort of spring board from which his humble frame would launch. Or was it a mere punctuation? A comma, resting docile within the folds of a sentence. *** He looked down upon his landlord. His own head was a full yard from the window sill, projecting out to survey the man. The landlord
held himself with an air of power, despite the slippery position in which he found himself, balancing upon the balcony railing to peer up. He had caught his tenant staring out of an open window, and he intended to make it count. “Where’ve you been? You’ve been in, that’s for sure. No way have you been out,” jeered the landlord. “You’ve never heard of half the places I’ve been,” he retorted. “You need change mate. Poked up in that flat. Half a mind to come up there and force you out.” “You’re a buffoon. A buffoon and you bloody know it. You’d think such a nosy sod would think to use his eyes.” “No way. No way mate. I won’t let you give up like this. No way to behave. You’re so sore about losing your job you lock yourself away. I’m not getting...” “-Don’t have a clue do you?” the younger man interrupted, “If you knew a bloody thing you’d know I hated that job. And you’ll get your money. You’ll get your money aswell. Don’t you worry.” “Not getting off your case. Wouldn’t be fair to you. We’ll get through this together.” “I’m off.” “Creeping off again.” He left the landlord to his jeering and eased back into the comfort of his flat. He looked upon his possessions, checking through them in turn. A broad wooden table stood at the helm of the room; it had been his most prized possession, with newspaper articles and notes of varying kinds spread across its surface. His fishing rod was propped up in the corner by the door; it was dusty and had fallen out of use. A violin case lay open upon the floor, filled with small keep-sakes and valuables. A few chairs, a bed, and a mantelpiece with empty photo frames and other ornaments he’d picked up.
He walked into the middle of the room- waiting for something. This waiting, it didnâ€™t bother him too much, but the sensation was nonetheless boring. A few more steps, and nothing. He felt entirely removed from these things, his things. They meant something to him, yes. He remembered how precisely he had come by them, and what apparent use they had been to him both then and now, but he could not help but feel strangely distanced from them. He knelt and extracted a bag of marbles from the case. His arm remained straight, holding them away from his body. He did not need examine them closely, familiar as a child of their distinct colours and sizes. It was amazing that they had followed him this far. They slid out of their little cord bad and onto the floor, cascading into one another, producing a familiar polyphonic clunk. It occurred to him that the floor was not the place for marbles and were removed promptly. He left the flat with the horrible suspicion that he was following the landlordâ€™s advice. The air was much colder and fresher than he recalled. He supposed it to be autumnâ€™s fledgling influence, breathing a sigh of satisfaction, for he loved that month best of all. What he did not appreciate was the damp that climbed like a stowaway into his battered shoes. He squelched down the main road, waiting for an idea to come his way. There were some familiar faces: a rosy man who he knew to be a chef from a side road; a suit clad youngster, whose half smiles he had become accustomed to, bustled past him; a middle aged mother hen walked with him on the other side of the road. The sun periodically burst through the clouds, but with varying speeds of illumination, appearing to slow his companions as the light rained upon them all. A church lay just off the street to his right, and he made visits from time to time. His approach was rewarded by the sight of another young man taking the side entrance to the basement. He followed him. He followed him into what resembled a study below ground. The walls were panelled with a shiny wood, lending it a much more inviting atmosphere than one would expect below the stone building. He was greeted by the man, a priest, and ushered into a larger luxurious armchair.
The pair had had many such spontaneous conversations. The truth was that they very much enjoyed each other’s company. From what he gathered, he had held the position for only a few years on the back of completing a degree. The priest was consequently enthusiastic, but not so far as to be irritating, and this was much appreciated. Our man saw some value in such positive thinking despite his obvious lack of direction, and was quite willing to take things in complete faith when the desire erupted within him. It was clear also that the respect was mutual. “How are you?” asked the priest with minimal seriousness. “Somewhere between fantastic and awful,” he answered wryly, “but it must be said, closer to awful than fantastic of late. Especially since I lift that job.” “Do you feel bitter about that?” “Yes, indeed I do. But a bitterness more towards my general situation than anyone in particular.” “Excellent.” “I thought that would please you.” “But surely you mean ‘yourself’ by ‘general situation’.” “Perhaps.” “And really, self-flagellation will leave you in no fit state.” “Perhaps.” “Can I be honest with you?” “I had hoped you were always honest with me.” “Quite so. But to let you in on a particular secret. I think that you never really gain anything from speaking with me.”
“Oh no. Not at all. Besides, you’re a priest, it’s your job to talk to people like me.” “Yes, but, I have the terrible suspicion that you can predict almost everything I say.” “Really?” “Yes. And really you can’t stand it. And because of this strange fact, you initiate a conversation, only to reassure yourself of what you suspected all along.” “What an odd thing to say.” “Yes, well. Putting aside the fact that you are a deeply frustrated man, and I am, as you well know, concerned for your happiness. There’s some feature of you sir that I am unable to explain plainly. It’s sitting there, as clearly as an albatross perched on your forehead.” “Come on. What are you saying? I’ve made you some kind of accessory? You’re no pawn.” “True, I’m bloody clever and great at reading people such as yourself, and have hence come to those conclusions. But we could sit here congratulating each other all day, but it won’t get us anywhere.” “So if what you say is true, I would be thoroughly bored by you, and everyone one of our little chats.” “Yes indeed. Which makes me think you’re waiting for a surprise. You’re waiting for me to say something unexpected. Why you believe such a revelation would come from me I don’t know. But let me just say that I will not be granting you the satisfaction. You won’t get that from me. Long have I felt you hanging on my words, longing not to second guess my sentiments, only to be disappointed. But I’ve seen something different from you today. Where is you desperation? Where has it gone? Have you grown accustomed to
this mundane world? Or, has someone crept up on you my friend? Has someone given you surprise you’ve been looking for? Some meaning perhaps? “Yes and no. You’re right in that I have lost some of my urgency. You’re wrong about the reasons. I can, as ever, find no particular reason to take my next breath. Other than rudeness of course as I feel that our conversation would meet an abrupt end. But I suppose I should mention a particular incident that caught me off guard. A nothing. A crazy woman’s rabid chant on train one night. Absurd I know, but it has stuck with me anyway. “Interesting. I presume it would be of no benefit to relay this story.” “Absolutely none.” *** He was out walking by the lake. It was a dull tepid body of water made lively by its inhabitants. There were three groups of birds that he spied: one near, that consisted of ducks; a middle distanced group of seagulls; and on the far bank a combination of the two. In this latter mix, the fowl moved amongst one another, feverishly searching for food. It was remarkable to see how they avoided each other entirely. ‘What must the seagulls make of their smaller cousins?’ he mused. Well, he knew, they thought of little beyond nourishment and propagation. But the way they moved; it put him in mind of a long held agreement. They must be aware of their fellows, for they judge their deft turns and spurts of speed by spying them in the corner of the eye. They must also have deemed one another to be of no threat; else they would not so happily merge. For if they see, and perceive, what remaining insight do they possess? Despite this, he believed it unlikely that their small minds could dwell on one another, seeing that the humans, having viewed and thought upon his fellow man, rarely considered him. It occurred to him how alike these birds were to people; who bustle through their lives, taking only passing note of the creatures they share it with. Only when this system fails, and unlike the expert birds, we crash with force into our neighbour, do we ever know him.
He continued around the perimeter of the lake. As he approached the third group of birds he saw a small island that was adjoined to the shore by a fallen tree. Instantly a child-like, adventurous idea occurred to him, and as soon as the thought had surfaced it became crystallised in the form of practical considerations. How would he swing himself onto the log? How would he force himself along its slippery surface without losing balance? How would he dismount? Where would he land upon arrival? A cleansing tide of long buried knowledge, hearkening back to the days when tree climbing was the done thing, burst through his consciousness. It was such a relief to liberate himself from the tussling of his unquiet mind, and ponder such forgotten excitements. So great indeed was this rush, that all matters of hygiene and safety were tossed away, as he made his way over to the bank. It was with genuine poise that he crossed the rotting wood. He landed with a squelch, sinking immediately; for it was not an island as such, but an uprising- an anomalous growth on the surface of the lake’s bed. He explored his new territory. There were only ten trees or so, but they clustered together, shrinking away from the boggiest earth of the periphery. The density of undergrowth around them put him in mind of a jungle that had been bizarrely transplanted onto the water. He stared into the heart of the miniature wood. Each second he was lead on by some new indication. The layers of vegetation opened into one another, and he found himself drawn closer, and began to slide inside hungrily. What he found resembled a crow’s nest: a large bowel of twigs throttling one another in a broad concentric mass that spanned a third of the wood. Nestled within this structure was a small figure, curled within a ball with newspaper wrapped around its limbs. She did not move at first- not a twitch. She only spoke, calmly and most notably with same caressing tone, beckoning him to her. “Oh there you are dear child. You come and seen me. Good, good boy.”
Gone was the child-like adventurism. Back was the confusion of reality. He was appalled and enthralled by her. It was as though no time had passed since their last meeting; they recommenced just as they had left one another. “Don’t be afraid now. Didn’t mean to be a scaring you. I’m here now. Stay with your aunty.” He had a sudden mad urge to run; he was desperate to leave. The whole scene was disgusting in a very unique way. But she was moving now. It was as though she was thawing out. Her little wasted limbs were creaking out of place, clutching forwards towards him, begging for his warm body. Meanwhile he spoke, “I still got to be warnin you. Time’s soon. He comin down to you. He comin now. And I’ve told ya, told ya, not to be scared. But I know you’re scared cause he’s a bad, bad one. Riding the very cusp of a wave of anxiety he asked, “Who am I to you?” as he backed away from her. “I know you done stopped seeing your mama. No mama to speak of. But let your aunty be here for you child.” “What do you know about me? What do you know about my family?” “Oh child. Oh no child. Don’t you be askin me no sad question. I know you sad about it. You don’t see that family no more. You sad. But you know you can’t be. No no. Cause sad times are comin already. They’re comin. When he comes...” She lurched with a sudden, grotesque speed, almost catching hold of his scarf. As she rose he saw a large volume of downy grey hair slip from her body, reinforcing the warmth of the nest. Part of him, the stronger part, wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this place as possible. But then there was this other, peculiar sense: a desire to let go, and sink into the quasi-comfort of the repugnant shelter. The more they spoke, the more he bought into her madness. With every one of her mindless words, he became that bit
more of a stake holder in her reality. He bombarded her with questions. He became frustrated, for she could only hint at answers amongst the repetition of kindly, motherly phrases. “Who are you talking about? Who is this man?” “Oh no no,” she wailed, “don’t be askin me. There nothing you can do child. Nothing at all.” “Then why tell me! Why? Why are you telling me all these things?” “I’m sorry child. No there be nothing. But I’ll tell. But I’ll tell what I would do. I’d run child. I’d good run so I would. I’d run far. There no hope. No hope at all. I’m sorry child. Time’s a happening. I’d run. I’d run away. The only thing to do. The only place to be, is away. But don’t be scared. Sit here with your aunty.” Since their first meeting, despite himself, his mind had dwelt upon this woman, and demands gushed forth from him to no avail. She began to visibly tire, at times only uttering soothing noises or gestures. “Away from what? Away from where?” She shrieked back with wide, distant pupils, “Escape! Escape, escape.” He left her just as she was when he had barged so abruptly into the den. A strange mould of emotions shattered around him as he clambered back to shore. He had to leave, there was really no point in his being there; she could tell him nothing more. He could not help but feel that there was something very precious left behind him, but returning was not an option. *** He loved the hum and buzz of the car motor. It felt so alive beneath him. It reminded him of one of those massage chairs that can be found at some hairdressers. He was in complete control of the vehicle, but the enjoyment he derived from its subtle motions, with the countryside congealing past, was like a gift. He could not fathom it, let alone control it. There was no ignition to his happiness. Indeed, this was the first he’d found for months, in an ever-changing expanse. This was no success however. He had not left to find satisfaction. That was a secondary consideration. No. He had left with a mounting fear; an all consuming apprehension that had prompted
him to splash out upon a car, and on that same day leave the city without direction. The old woman’s words were burnt into his psyche. “Escape!” she had crowed- and escape he would yet again. It was not a choice he made, but the very nature of the position in which he found himself. A revolving terror whose origin he knew not of, had enveloped him. ‘Escape’, ‘survival’, ‘away’, all danced as supplications across his mind. He pulled into a lay-by for a break. The hum stopped and there he was dead. His hands lay white and flaccid upon his lap. His eyes fixed upon a point beyond the rear view mirror. A blank grey sky descended like the coming of the end. Here, in this car, there was only silence and more waiting. To his right a sign advertised a hotelten miles away. Ten, a hundred, it couldn’t have mattered to him. *** That evening a visitor called. He had been standing in the hotel room. Quite abruptly he became aware that he did not know what he planned to do- a sensation that he had experienced before, as though something of immediate importance had occurred to him, and in that very same moment had departed his memory. He stood utterly transfixed by the magnitude of his ignorance. So crucial was the action he was about to perform, that any other movement seemed irrelevant; it would merely distract from the foremost task of racking of his brains. After five minutes like this, he began to sweat profusely; the worst sweating of his life, bleeding the stuff in vast pools that ran down his legs and into his shoes. It was as though he had taken a shower entirely clothed. Sweat sprouted from his wrists, from places it should not, out of nothing, and beading down his body, to join the growing circular carpet stain at his feet. It was at this point that he felt someone behind him. He must have seen them in the edge of his vision, although he did not recall doing so, and did not turn his head to confirm the fact; just the certain knowledge that someone had joined him within that room. He was furthermore positive at this stage that every hair on his body was standing erect, and that he was unable to turn to investigate. Something important, something awful was happening. “Jake.”
The voice seemed to echo from every part of the room that was not in his line of sight, so that it couldn’t be localised. “Jake speak to me.” It was a crisp, lively voice, that assumed the beseeching tone of a friend. Every note breathed familiarity into his quivering ears. It had been so long since anyone had called him by name. “Jake come on. You’ve got me in such suspense. I’ve been waiting for so long to speak with you and now this.” To say that he was scared was an oversimplification. The fact that someone had gained entry into his hotel room and was addressing him by name was not the source of his anguish. It was an extension of what had been brewing inside him- the unstoppable crescendo that had chased him here. He had failed in his escape. “No words? What a disappointment you are. I had such high hopes. But you’ll learn. So I’ll talk, and you’ll listen. Perhaps then we’ll get somewhere. You knew I was on my way; that much is clear. Hence your rapid exodus. I admit I didn’t see that particular one coming. It has happened before, and I don’t pretend to have any inkling of how you knew. I don’t possess anything near your abilities sadly. But here we are together. To give you credit where it’s deserved, we might have been kept apart for a few days further had you not so obligingly stopped at this hotel. Clearly you became distracted.” Jake’s eyes were revolving madly within their orbits. If he held his gaze at its furthermost lateral extremity, he convinced himself he could see part of the figure behind; although the fixed paralysis was persevered, and he could confirm nothing. The person seemed to fill the periphery of vision on both sides, so that the body appeared to devour the room, as though it was spilling around him, like water seeping under great pressure through the cracks of his sight. “I’d like to point out a couple of facts. First of all, and this is important, I’m going to help you Jake. You must believe this. It’s not going to be simple, but getting you on board is our most pressing hurdle. Secondly, I am not what you would consider to be the devil. You would be amazed how many times that particular one has come up. It musts be the gifts that I offer- smacks of temptation. But you must see that this suggestion hits the very cusp of the point. I am not going to give you anything as such. I’ll merely politely illustrate what you already possess.”
Jake glanced at the door. It was only a couple of metres away. Perhaps he could heave himself over to it. But this thought seemed to pass through the back of his skull straight to the man behind. “No no Jake. I don’t think you’ll be leaving me quite so soon. And we won’t be disturbed, I’ve made sure of it. Just you and me from here on in.” Emotions were whirling, parting, ebbing and flowing. The fear was mixing with anger- a haemorrhage of rage. He was beginning to despise being toyed with so. He wanted to wriggle away and attack. He wanted to spin his body around and melee the source of these words. But he could not; stripped of more than the power of movement. “Come now really. This is precisely why I have taken time to visit you: such skill, such wonderful skill- to read, to know. Even now, your supple brain is pitted against mine. Were I ordinary... there would be only one victor. But fortunately for us, I am far from it. But let’s not get too bogged down with me. We’re here to discuss you. Such ability in someone so young. Your talents, they’re wasted, wasted on such small things. You know of what I speak. You’ve always known. Yet you cannot embrace it. You even fight it. I’m here to tell you to respect yourself, love yourself. “I mentioned that I was not the devil. This is true, but I’m not going to pretend to be some guardian angel. I presume also that it is the nature of my motives that you most urgently question. What am I after? Put simply, thrills. There is an eternity of nothing reserved exclusively for every one of us. But that’s not to say that we must accept our sentence all at once. Most people die, fearing death, when that is precisely the state in which they have been residing for much of their lives. Friends, family, lovers, sport, money- all of these make us live. But like it or not, all enjoyment fades. We keep on pressing at the pleasure button, the morphine drip keeps coming, but we all develop resistance eventually. It is inevitable, and I can offer you no way out; what I may provide you with is an extended holiday from the unfolding tedium; a brief respite from this death state into which you’re daily sliding. ‘Thrills’ you hear me say. Kicks. We view them as small and meaningless. But they themselves are
the only things onto which we may ever hold. I dream of a large, broad pleasure pier, stretching out into the sea, obscured in the distance only by the horizon itself. “Jake, I’m telling you, you have the chance to live. You have in your hands the tools to create; to fill this desert landscape with civilization. So, your thoughts? You must have a few burning questions.” In the silence that followed his mind became clearer. It occurred to him that beneath the hysteria of fear was a growing relief. This encounter, whatever it was and whatever it meant, had, unknown to him, been the thing he was dreading. So, whatever the ill, its induction had spelled the end this particular miserable segment of his life. He took a degree of relief from this. This nugget of respite gave him a little room for mental manoeuvre. All these things that had happened, what bearing did any of them have upon him anyway? What exactly was he afraid of? When he had a role, in his past life, he held so tightly onto his surrounding- his girlfriend, his job, his friends, his family, his house and his car. They were all so precious to him, and the break from them had been painful. So painful that it had left him sensitized to pain, conditioned to suffer. This played upon his mind, so desperate he was not to suffer further. But now, as things came to a head, and he looked back upon them all, he felt numb, oddly immune. He had nothing now. Nothing apart from that which he could see, hear, taste, smell and the bag of thoughts in his own head. He had searched for something new, that big surprise that would turn things around. But really, all there was, was himself. And here this person was, telling him that he was all he needed to have a bit of fun. Of course, he did not readily accept what this obscure figure had said, or even that his intentions were not malign. But in this context of possessing and believing in nothing, where was the risk? ‘To hell with it’ he thought. To hell with all of it. Without any effort, he broke free and casually strolled over to the mini-bar on the other side of the room. He fixed himself a drink without heed of the figure behind. He had not touched a drop for
months. It was light, fizzy, expensive and tasty. He gulped it down with satisfaction and poured another. Still without turning he said nonchalantly, “So what exactly did you have in mind?” The voice reverberated back in the same deep, talkative fashion, “Oh hello there Jake, nice to have you with us, thought you’d dropped off for a minute there. All that I would suggest is that you make use of the qualities that you and I both know that you have. Beyond that, I’d really rather stop there. I’m not going to tell you what to do. It’s completely up to you. In fact, in time you will come to seriously doubt that I did anything for you. They all do.” Jake slumped in an armchair facing the window. It was at a slight angle, lending his right side more of a peripheral view of the room behind. A dense dark blob, that could have been a coat, filled a large swathe of the space. Still without turning, he collected the outline of the figure: vast and hard to pin down at any one time. He followed the great black curves around the room, still not daring for a moment to move his neck. With a sudden recurrence of fear he made out a head, angled down, just below the height of the ceiling. He swigged his drink for reassurance. What had he seen? Sharp bristles? A domed headdress? There had been no cohesion, nothing solid, no face about which to base his observations. Another big gulp and Jake exclaimed boldly, “Yeah well. We’ll see. You going to tell me anything more about yourself then? Where’ve you come from anyway?” “Ah so I’ve got your interest now. That was all I needed. You’re a clever one Jake. I’m sure you’ll work a lot of this out. I myself am not in the business of idle chat. I’m in the thrills business. I don’t discuss the weather. So I shan’t be dilly dallying. I will however be keeping a close eye on you. That you can count upon. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we meet again. Anyway, thank you for your patience. Ta ta.”
The voice did not sound again. It left him slouching in the armchair, swilling away. He looked down the street. People passed by one by one. He imagined the old woman from the lake, with her waggling, crouching gait, making her away down the road like the rest. She felt far more distant than that morning; her words were dampened somehow. Her small bent frame and downy feathers were things that you might find in a bizarre museum collection. These passers by, they were tall, short, fat, thin, white, black; but they were also kind, severe, meek, bold, stubborn, ignorant and wise. He saw it. He saw it all from his vantage. These folk, betrayed by their manner- a little sniff here, a glance there. And when they spoke, they would sing for him like larks. End of Part 1
Published on Jul 10, 2010
Collected here is the first part of Christopher Bernard Leahy’s The Kingmaker, alongside a four-page comic by Tom England. The Kingmaker h...