They were little gilt cubes the size of his thumbnails (his own thumbnails, not Richard's; Richard's hands were big and long and graceful because of course they were and all Harry's extremities had yet to catch up with him) and they rattled like bones every time they were thrown down, but they always came up the same. Richard kept worrying them between his palms before a toss, and it was driving Harry up the wall -- the dice, his hands, his thumbs, the table between them and the nasty silence all around them, hanging like a net to catch them up. A man could going mad waiting like this, and his eyes ached in his head, but he was wary of what could happen if he went to sleep. What certainly would happen, if he let his guard down; he'd close his eyes just for a moment in this suffocating heat and then it'd all be his fault. They were far from alone there, as snug and safe in the Tower as they could be anywhere -- which, just then, did not feel very safe at all. And yet Richard, sunburned and tired out and with his yellow hair hanging in his eyes, was enough at ease, or bored enough, to bother amusing himself with old toys. Nobody wanted his father's head on a pike.
He found himself wishing Mary were there. She'd have hated it.
Richard threw the loaded dice again, then counted; he pushed his hands through his hair, noted the dice's positions relative to one another and swore mildly in surprise. (He wasn't this free with oaths when other people were around; he must have figured that Henry didn't count, or felt the situation was too dire to bother keeping his oaths to himself. His tutor was asleep down the hall and in no position to correct him, however gently.) Then he did it all again. Harry was still unclear on whether it was acceptable to find God's anointed king annoying, but he'd been like this for hours. He could be such a child.
"They're always going to roll the same thing, you know," Harry said sourly, and a bit unwisely; Richard started, like he'd forgotten he was even there. "That's the whole point." Which made passing the time even more difficult, even if he'd had anything on him with which to bet; he wasn't good at hazards even when played honestly but the game was already spoiled to start with. The memory of past Christmases just made the present state of gloom that much heavier.
"Oh, I know." Richard started prying at one with the tip of his knife idly before casting them down again. "You're just sore you didn't work it out sooner. I didn't know then, of course, but I wish I'd asked what makes them work. John thought they were enchanted, and it'd wear off over time if I played with them too much, but I think he was just sick of losing. They're weighted, you see, it's only a bit of lead or something. I'll find it out. "
The rattling resumed, and the counting, and the exclaiming.
Harry swallowed a few choice words about dicing and its associated vices that would have surely made a firm reproach coming from his father but that even in his own throat sounded distinctly whiny. He tossed himself back against the wall with his chair creaking under him, resigning himself to worry until the morning, and to listen. One could hear distant snores, the settling of stones and beams, intermittent far-off shouts in between each scrape of the blade on bone. (His stomach felt like one solid knot.) Guardsmen calling, one to another, or rebel infiltrators coming to cut their throats?
If he'd have been any other boy Harry would had found it deeply irritating how much he favored that knife, but surely Richard had much more to boast of than a hunting knife with a pretty handle. He was chipping at the edge of the die and succeeding only at crunching off the thinnest scrapings. Richard knocked the other one onto the floor with a careless sweep of his sleeve and set to the one die again from a different angle, gouging at each carved-in black spot.
What did they want? Not all this about taxes and concessions; they wanted men dead. What was he supposed to do about it? Father would know, but these men hated him more than anything, and he wasn't even here. Maybe he'd never return, if things kept up like this.
Harry stopped paying attention by then, mulling over the morning's obligations and feebly endeavoring to pray, and it was only when the dice had stilled their infernal clattering that he realized Richard had hurt himself.
He could see it too clearly despite the uneven light; Harry was enough of a man not to cower from the sight of a mere scratch, but a sudden twist of revulsion almost made him buckle and he knew not why. Blood began to well up from his index finger, a nick not deep (Henry hoped) but long. He expected him to cry out, or blanch or something, or to lament his own clumsiness, but Richard didn't even stick his finger in his mouth like either of them might have six months ago. He looked contemplative, and strange. Harry couldn't remember if he'd ever seen him hurt before, with so much as a skinned knee.
Belatedly he did cry out, more annoyed than pained, dropping knife and clever workmanship to the tabletop both.
A fat drop of blood fell, and the spell broke. Richard wiped away the blood on his red sleeve; it could still be seen, dark and unhappy.
Henry rose from the table, rubbing at his arms and feeling gooseflesh. "I should go to bed," he said lamely. "I'm not leaving with you tomorrow." We're all counting on you, he wanted to say, but held back; the king was the only one capable of this, the only one the rebels wouldn't dare harm. It was Gaunt they hated, not him. It's Harry they'll hate tomorrow, should Richard displease them.
Richard looked at him across the tabletop, and for the first time that night seemed to recognize him. There was something strange about his eyes.
"Yes, that's probably wise. Say a prayer for me, Henry."