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    Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper)
    Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper)
    Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper)
    Ebook182 pages2 hours

    Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper)

    By Dr E J Yeaman

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    About this ebook

    Hi. I’m Tom Canty, a beggar boy in London in 1547. I dreamed of meeting a real live prince. But, when I met Edward, Prince of Wales, things got kinda complicated. Edward and I will tell you about it. (A retelling of The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain.)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDr E J Yeaman
    Release dateAug 29, 2016
    ISBN9781370444557
    Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper)
    Author

    Dr E J Yeaman

    I retired (early) and started a new career as a writer. I wrote short stories and articles. Some were published; some won prizes; some sank without trace.Having heard my stories, two friends suggested I should write for children. I’d never thought of that, although I’d spent my first career communicating with young people – as a Chemistry teacher, and running clubs for badminton, chess, table tennis and hillwalking.I tried writing for young people – and I loved it. It became my main occupation. I sent samples to publishers. One asked to see a complete story. In excitement, I sent it off. Then nothing. After four months, I rang, and was told the manuscript was being considered: I would be notified. Then more nothing. Now, after eight years, I no longer rush to the door when the letter box rattles.But I kept writing the stories because I enjoyed it so much. Until, in late 2013, I learned I could publish my stories and games as e-books. Since then, I’ve been polishing and issuing some of them. I hope everyone enjoys reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.Check out the series:C: Charades – party game – a new twist to the traditional game.D: Diagags – party game – gags written as plays for two people.M: My Story – novels – classical stories, told by the heroes.O: One-Offs – party game – guess the titles, not quite the classical ones.P: Pop Tales – short stories – inspired by 60s and 70s hit songs.Q: Quote-Outs – word games – can you deduce the missing words?S: Inside Story – novels – a boy’s adventures inside classical stories.T: Troubleshooters – novels – space adventures for young people.

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      Book preview

      Edward and Tom - Our Story (from The Prince and the Pauper) - Dr E J Yeaman

      INTRODUCTION

      Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens 1835-1910) is perhaps the best known and loved American author. He wrote The Prince and the Pauper after a trip to Europe in 1878-79.

      Like Dickens with Oliver Twist, Twain’s purpose was to highlight how the rich and powerful inflicted punitive laws on the poor. Both men set their stories in England. Dickens used a contemporary setting, illustrating the theme through the sufferings of a workhouse boy. Twain engineered his story so that a royal prince swopped places with a pauper boy and thereby experienced the laws for himself.

      Twain’s original intention was also to use a contemporary setting, but that might have caused political storms, so he moved it to the mid-sixteenth century, perhaps because the reign of young Edward VI saw a relaxing of the most oppressive laws. It thus became his first historical novel.

      As with the other books in the My Story series, I have adhered closely to the plot of the original. But I wanted to run the boys’ stories in parallel, having each in turn describe a day’s adventures. That needed a little rearrangement of Tom’s account.

      The climax is the coronation, so the story should close soon after, but I couldn’t resist adding a short scene at the end. I would like to believe that the addition would have appealed to Mark Twain.

      Like Mark Twain, I have not designated this as a children’s book because I hope it will appeal to people of all ages. As I wrote it, I grew to like the two boys. I hope you like them too, as you read of their adventures in their own words.

      P.S. As I worked on this story, I noticed the similarity in names between the pauper boy’s sisters, Bet and Nan, and the girls in Oliver Twist – Bet and Nancy. Was that Twain’s little tribute to Dickens?

      EDWARD AND TOM – OUR STORY

      28th January 1547

      1: TOM

      My name is Tom Canty. I’m eleven years old. In January 1547, before my great adventure, I lived in Offal Court off Pudding Lane. That’s near London Bridge.

      Offal Court wasn’t the cleanest street in London. Or the widest. Or the lightest. Each storey of the houses stuck out over the one below. We lived on the third floor. I’d often thought I could jump from our window to the one across the street.

      My family lived in that one room. Six of us – me and my dad and mum, my two sisters and my gramma Canty. My dad and mum had a rickety bed in one corner. The rest of us had a pile of ancient straw and two thin, ragged blankets. In the morning, we kicked it all into a corner. At night, each of us gathered what we wanted – or what we could.

      Our job – if you could call it that – was begging, but my dad often took things without bothering to ask for them. And we had to watch out. Begging was against the law. I’d be punished if I was caught at it. But I’d be punished if I didn’t do it. If my dad thought I hadn’t collected enough – or if he was drunk or in a bad mood – he beat me. Then my gramma beat me too, and sent me to bed.

      My dad and gramma were cruel, but my mum and sisters were kind. When my dad sent me to bed, my mum tried to bring me food. Anything she could spare. Even a stale crust. If my dad caught her bringing it, he beat her.

      But I wasn’t unhappy. Not really. Our family was like all the others in Offal Court. I was used to the shouting and thumping and cursing and banging and drunken singing all around. And I spent as little time begging as I dared. Because I did other things that were more fun.

      I might go to the square at Cheapside and see the people dancing round the maypole; I might wander round a travelling fair; I might watch the parade when a prisoner was taken to the Tower of London.

      I often visited Father Andrew, an old priest. His room was on the ground floor of our house. He taught me to read and write. He even tried to teach me Latin, but he didn’t have much luck with that. He let me read his books and he explained them to me. I learned of the wonderful world beyond Offal Court. Of fairies and magicians; of palaces and castles; of kings and princes. I dreamed of those as I lay on the smelly straw after the beatings.

      My friends were boys who lived near. We played together in the streets and by the great River Thames. Our favourite place was the river bank, especially the muddy part. The people in Father Andrew’s books often washed themselves. My friends and family never seemed to think of that, but I tried it. I did feel better so I sometimes did it without telling them.

      Me and my friends had a special game. I got the idea from Father Andrew’s books. I was a prince, and the others were my royal court – lords and ladies, captains and admirals, guards and servants. We had long meetings about affairs of state. I tried to act and speak nobly like the princes in the books.

      At first, the others made fun of me. Then one asked my royal advice. I gave him the answer I thought a prince would give. He liked it. After that, they asked my advice for real. Some of their dads and mums asked me too.

      They began to treat me like a prince. I liked that, although I knew I wasn’t one. But I really wanted to see a prince – to know what a real prince looked like. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it.

      One January day – cold and wet – I tramped barefoot in my beat around Cheapside. As usual, I lingered at the cookshops. I stood at the doors and breathed the warm smells. I gazed in the windows at the juicy meat pies. They looked delicious, but I’d never tasted one.

      At last, cold and miserable, with my rags soaking wet, I went home. My dad and gramma didn’t beat me. They probably reckoned it couldn’t make me more miserable.

      I went to bed, to my dream world where I was a prince with fine clothes, rich jewels, and servants rushing to obey all my orders.

      When I wakened, our room seemed even colder, dirtier and meaner than usual. And my wish to see a real prince was even stronger. When I went out that morning, my dad thought I was going begging, but I was determined to find a real prince.

      I found a street called The Strand, with a row of houses on one side, and big mansions on the other with beautiful gardens stretching down to the river. I was so busy looking at them that I didn’t watch where I was going. I bumped into people. They shouted at me and slapped my ears, but I hardly noticed.

      Beyond the Charing Cross, there was a big palace on the left, but I ran past it because I saw an even bigger one ahead. It seemed to stretch forever in both directions, with towers and windows and arches and pillars and statues and fancy doors. It had big grounds, surrounded by a high wall with huge iron gates in the middle, and smaller ones at the sides. Posh carriages were going in and out the side gates. I asked an old woman. She told me it was Westminster Palace, where the King and the Prince of Wales lived.

      A king and a prince! That’s just who I wanted to see. The big main gates were shut. Beside them, two sentries with long spears stared straight forward, pretending they didn’t see the crowd of loafers that were hanging around. I wriggled to the front.

      And – who could I see through the bars of the gate? He must be a prince! He looked about my age, but he was wearing a long green coat and yellow trousers. They shone: they must be the silks and satins I had read about. From his belt hung a sword and a jewelled dagger. On his feet were beautiful boots with red heels. On his head was a crimson cap with a big white feather, fastened with a sparkling jewel – a diamond, maybe. Well-dressed men stood beside him. They would be his attendants and servants.

      He was a prince, a real prince! I’d seen a real prince! I was so excited! I rushed forward and put my face to the bars of the gate to see him properly. He was splendid! He might’ve come straight out of my dreams.

      One of the sentries grabbed my arm and threw me back. Mind your manners, you young beggar! I sprawled on my back among the laughing, jeering crowd.

      2: EDWARD

      My name is Edward Tudor. I am eleven years old. In January 1547, before my great adventure, I lived in the Palace of Westminster. My father was the King – Henry VIII – and I was his heir, the Prince of Wales.

      One morning, I wearied of my French lesson. That was not unusual, but on that day I suggested that I would learn the language more easily by walking around, conversing in it. As usual, my French master agreed to my suggestion.

      Idly, we strolled towards the main gate. A boy’s face appeared at the bars. I began, Le puer… before the face vanished as a sentry seized the boy and flung him back.

      That made me angry. I ran to the gate, shouting, How dare you! You will not treat my father’s meanest subject in that manner. Open the gates. Let him in.

      My French master began, But, sire…. I waved him to silence. The sentries hesitated, but I glared at them until they bowed to me, opened the gates, escorted the boy in, bowed to me again, and closed the gates.

      Outside, the crowd cheered. Long live the Prince of Wales! I gave them a regal wave.

      I said to the boy, That sentry ill-treated you. You look tired and hungry. Come with me. I started towards the palace.

      My attendants, seeming horrified, would have barred the way, but I parted them with a gesture. I took the boy to one of my apartments and ordered a meal for him. When the servants brought it, they would have lingered, but I dismissed everyone: perhaps the boy would be embarrassed to eat in their presence. And I confess I was curious to speak to him, and my attendants would not have approved.

      The servants had placed an empty plate in front of the boy, and the plates of food around. But he seized a whole meat pie, and, holding it in his hands, began to devour it.

      Pretending not to notice his poor table manners, I asked him, What is your name?

      Tom Canty, sir.

      That is a strange name. Where do you live?

      In the city, sir. Offal Court off Pudding Lane.

      Offal Court. That too is a strange name. Do you have parents?

      I do, sir, and twin sisters. And Gramma Canty. I don’t like her. I’m sorry. If I was wrong to say that, may God forgive me.

      Is your grandmother not kind to you?

      She’s kind to no one. She’s been cruel all her life.

      Does she mistreat you?

      The only times she doesn’t beat me is when she’s asleep or drunk. But she makes up for it afterwards. With the meat pie gone, he began on a leg of ham.

      Beatings? I cried. Beatings!

      Oh, yes, sir.

      Beatings! And you are so small and thin! I tell you: before this day is out, I shall send her to the Tower.

      Sir! Isn’t it just the great who are sent to the Tower?

      Yes indeed. I forgot that. I shall consider her punishment. Is your father kind to you?

      Not any kinder than my gramma, sir.

      Perhaps fathers are all the same. Mine has a sharp temper and a heavy hand, although he spares me that. However he does not spare me with his tongue. How does your mother treat you?

      She’s always kind, sir, and so are my sisters, Bet and Nan.

      How old are they?

      Fifteen, sir.

      "Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and Lady Jane Grey, my cousin, is my age. She is pretty and gracious. Not like my elder sister, Lady Mary. She always looks miserable. She forbids her servants to smile. She claims that

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