Chapter Text
York, 1399
It was 1399, and nobody was looking forward to 1400 more than Crowley.
“I hate this century.” He grumbled to Aziraphale. “Plagues, famines, wars, peasants’ revolts, crazy kings. Hell is preferable. Heaven is preferable.”
Aziraphale, to whom this tirade was directed, smiled wryly.
They were in York, a stone’s throw from the castle where the once great King Richard II was being held prisoner*. It was whispered that he had lost his mind, and now he had lost his throne. Twenty-two years of tyranny, said the people of England.
Richard had started off so promisingly as well. Sure, he’d become king when he was ten, which isn’t the best age to become king, but his uncle John of Gaunt had stepped in to help. How thoughtful of him, Aziraphale had exclaimed at the time. Crowley wasn’t convinced with John of Gaunt’s motives, and he had a feeling that, deep down, Aziraphale wasn’t either. In fact, most of the population of England weren’t sold with John of Gaunt ruling the country in Richard’s stead, especially as the one thing that John was good at was taxing people. After the Peasant’s Revolt (which, really, was more the Middle Class Merchant’s Revolt With A Few Peasants Coming Along For The Ride), John scarpered from the country, reluctantly relinquishing the crown, and then there were celebrations in the streets, all hail King Richard, yadda yadda yadda.
Crowley wasn’t impressed.
“He’s just a child.” He said. “Remember when he fainted at his coronation because the crown was too heavy.”
Aziraphale nodded. “Poor child.”
“Should we help him?” asked Crowley.
Aziraphale shook his head.
“I haven’t received any orders to do so.”
“Jobsworthy.”
Crowley did regret not just ignoring Aziraphale and his heavenly orders, ignoring all his devilish training. Although he would never admit it – demons don’t have regrets – he did regret not helping Richard when he had the chance.
It transpired that Richard didn’t need Crowley’s assistance anyway; he had enough of his own demons to deal with. After the death of his beloved wife, Aziraphale and Crowley had to watch their king descent down the spiral staircase of slowly increasing insanity (a metaphor that Crowley invented when he was drunk that he thought sounded rather good).
“He’s not crazy.” Said Aziraphale, watching as the king accused yet another unfortunate nobleman of trying to kill him (this erratic behaviour was not endearing him to the nobility, and neither was his new boyfriend, Robert. It reminded Crowley of a time about fifty years previously, and he had a horrible feeling that Robert would end up executed just like the unfortunate Piers Gaveston). “He’s just misunderstood. He’s in pain.”
“He looks fine to me.” Said Crowley. “I think the nobleman’s going to be in pain quite soon though. Appointments with the executioner never go swimmingly.”
“I wasn’t referring to physical suffering.” Said Aziraphale. “I was referring to suffering of the mental variety.”
He sighed. “This is not good for England.”
Robert de Vere was lucky. The nobleman threatened him with certain death if he stayed in England, and as Robert was a man with good common sense and a lack of backbone, he left. That, Crowley decided, was the sensible thing to do. Not that Robert’s escape to France helped the noblemen in anyway; in fact, by provoking the king’s wrath, their lives were more at risk than ever.
“The king fancies he’s God.” Said Aziraphale disapprovingly.
“He couldn’t do a worse job than the real thing.” Said Crowley bitterly.
Aziraphale glanced up at the sky fearfully, waiting for a lightning bolt or something equally dramatic and implausible to hit Crowley in the face. It didn’t happen. Perhaps Heaven didn’t care about the people of the earth anymore.
And now it was 1399. The nobility had finally grown tired of Richard and his despotism, and led by Richard’s own cousin Henry Bolingbroke ** , he was deposed and thrown in Pontrefract Castle.
Because Crowley was nosy, he took a break from the royal court and went to stay in Yorkshire.
“I hope Richard doesn’t get murdered.” Said Aziraphale. “But that always seems to be the case with kings.”
Crowley, who had been humming a bawdy drinking song, nodded. “Mm. Oh dear. What a shame.”
Aziraphale sighed. “Shouldn’t we do something?”
“You should know better than anyone not to go against God’s will.” Said Crowley.
So that was that. It was decided. They let Richard die.
Of course Richard died. Kings don’t last very long in prison. Henry Bolingbroke became King Henry IV. He was always plagued with guilt (and generally just plagued). Aziraphale blamed Crowley, because Crowley seemed like the petty sort of person to give the King of England lice. Crowley fervently denied all accusations. In fact, Crowley quit his job as a courtier and went and bought a farm in Devon. He was fed up with kings, he said.
So yes. The fourteenth century was bad. And the other centuries weren’t much better.
*it seemed to be the case with King Richards that they were never as good at their job as they first appeared. Crowley could remember the first King Richard, more commonly known as the Lionheart, and could confirm that he was terribly overrated.
**as you should know by now, royal families were incredibly dysfunctional. But if you didn’t know, then I’m telling you now.