In the ancient, crowded city of London, on a chilly autumn day, nearly 500 years ago, two baby boys were born, who looked so much alike, they might have been carved from the very same block of marble.
But while one was welcomed with the ringing of church bells, the firing of cannons, and the cheering of an entire kingdom, the other arrived in a dark, drafty room, where nobody wanted him at all.
This story comes to us from the literary tradition of the United States, written by the great American author Mark Twain in the late 19th century.
Yet, like a ship crossing the wide Atlantic, it carries us back in time to the foggy, cobblestone streets of Old England, during the reign of the Tudor kings.
It is a story that has been told in many ways over the years, but at its heart, it remains a tale of two lives turned upside down by a single daring choice.
The first boy was named Edward Tudor, the Prince of Wales.
He lived in Westminster Palace, surrounded by walls of thick stone, tapestries of rich crimson silk, and more servants than he could count.
When he woke in the morning, one servant handed him his shirt, another buckled his shoes, and a third poured his water.
He was never allowed to run down the long corridors, never allowed to get dirty, and never allowed to play with other children.
He was a prisoner of his own high birth, watched constantly by guards and tutors who reminded him every hour of the heavy crown he would one day wear.
The second boy was named Tom Canty.
He lived in a wretched, smelling alleyway called Awful Court, not far from the muddy banks of the River Thames.
Tom's home was a single, decaying room on the third floor of a house that seemed to lean sideways with age.
He slept on a pile of dirty straw in the corner, sharing the floor with his mother, his twin sisters, Nan and Bet, and his father, John Canty.
John Canty was a thief and a bully, a man with a voice like gravel and a hand that was always ready to strike.
He expected Tom to go out into the streets every day to beg for pennies, and if Tom came home empty-handed, he was beaten and sent to bed without even a crust of moldy bread.
Yet, despite the hunger and the bruises, Tom was not entirely unhappy.
In the very same tenement house, lived an old defrocked priest named Father Andrew.
Father Andrew was a kind soul, who had saved a few precious books from the ruins of his old church.
In the quiet hours of the evening, when the rest of London was asleep, the old priest taught Tom how to read and write.
He taught him a little Latin too, and told him magnificent sweeping stories of brave knights, golden castles, and noble princes who ruled with justice and mercy.
These stories became Tom's escape.
When the rain poured through the holes in the roof, and his stomach growled with hunger, Tom would close his eyes and pretend he was a prince.
He practiced speaking with a slow, courtly dignity.
He walked with his head held high, pretending his ragged coat was a velvet robe.
Soon, the other children of Awful Court began to notice.
They called him Prince Tom in jest, but they also began to bring their arguments to him, marveling at how fairly he settled their disputes.
Still, Tom's greatest wish was to see a real prince, just once with his own eyes.
One cold winter morning, Tom wandered far from his usual haunts, his bare feet blue with the frost.
He found himself outside the grand gates of Westminster Palace.
Peering through the gilded iron bars, he saw a sight that made his breath catch in his throat.
There, on the manicured lawns, stood a boy of his own age.
The boy wore a doublet of shimmering red satin, slashed with gold thread, a small sword in a jeweled scabbard at his hip, and a cap of blue velvet, adorned with a curling white feather.
It was the Prince of Wales himself.
Tom pressed his face so hard against the iron bars that his nose turned white.
He was so lost in wonder that he didn't notice the royal guard marching toward him.
"Get back, you young beggar!" the guard shouted, grabbing Tom by the collar of his ragged shirt and spinning him around, sending him sprawling into the muddy street.
The crowd of onlookers laughed, but the young prince, who had seen the whole thing from the lawn, ran to the gate.
His face was flushed with anger.
"How dare you treat a poor lad so?" Prince Edward cried, his voice ringing with authority.
"Open the gates and bring him inside."
The guard, pale with fear, bowed low and opened the heavy iron gates.
Tom, trembling and covered in mud, was led past the whispering courtiers and into the prince's private cabinet.
It was a room filled with wonders, heavy oak tables, shelves of leather-bound books, and a roaring fireplace that filled the room with a delicious, comforting warmth.
Edward dismissed his servants, leaving the two boys alone.
"You look cold and hungry," Edward said, his eyes softening as he looked at Tom.
"Sit by the fire, and we shall have a feast."
With a wave of his hand, the prince ordered a platter of cold meats, white bread, and sweet fruits.
Tom had never tasted such food in his life.
As he ate, Edward plied him with questions about his life in the city.
"Tell me of your home," Edward said, leaning forward.
"Do you have friends?"
"Oh, yes, your highness," Tom replied, his mouth half full of bread.
"We race in the canals, and we swim in the river, and we play in the mud, and we shout until our throats are sore."
The prince's eyes shone with envy.
"To play in the mud, to swim in the river. I would give up my father's kingdom for a single afternoon of such freedom.
Tell me, do you ever dress as a prince?"
"Only in my dreams, your highness."
Edward stood up, a sudden mischievous spark in his eye.
"Let us try a game. Let us swap our clothes just for a moment, so that I may feel what it is like to be free, and you may know what it is to be a prince."
Tom was terrified, but he did not dare disobey.
The two boys retreated behind a silk screen.
They peeled off their garments, the heavy satin and gold thread on one side, the thin gray rags on the other, and slipped into each other's lives.
When they stepped out and looked into the tall glass mirror on the wall, they both gasped.
They were identical, the same dark eyes, the same brown hair, the same shape of the jaw, the same height.
If they did not speak, not even the king himself could have told them apart.
Suddenly, Edward noticed a red welt on Tom's hand, where the guard had struck him at the gate.
"The guard did this to you?" Edward cried, his royal blood boiling with indignation.
"Do not move from this room. I shall have him punished this instant."
Forgetting entirely that he was now dressed in Tom's filthy rags, the prince grabbed a heavy gold object from the table, the great seal of England, which he had been using to crack nuts, and shoved it into a pocket of the rags.
Then he bolted out of the room, through the palace corridors and out into the courtyard, shouting for the guards.
The very guard who had thrown Tom into the mud, saw a ragged boy running toward him, shouting demands.
"Out of my way, you insolent dog!" the prince commanded.
The guard laughed, grabbed Edward by the collar and threw him out of the palace gates, into the cold, gray London fog.
"Take that, you little beggar!" the guard sneered, "and do not let me see your face here again!"
Edward scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding with shock and fury.
He turned to the gates, shaking his fist.
"I am Edward, Prince of Wales! You shall hang for this!"
But the crowd only laughed, throwing cabbage leaves and mud at him.
The prince was alone, penniless, and dressed in rags, cast out into the cold world he was born to rule.
The fog of London was thick and greasy, smelling of coal smoke and the river.
Prince Edward walked through it like a ghost, his bare feet stinging as they pressed against the sharp cobblestones.
He had never known what it was to be cold.
In the palace, the air was always warm, scented with lavender and dried rosemary.
Here, the air tasted of soot, and the wind bit through his thin gray shirt like a knife.
"I must find my father, the king," Edward muttered to himself, his teeth chattering.
"He will recognize me. He will punish that guard, and he will give me my warm bed."
He marched down the crowded streets, pushing past merchants selling oysters, coal heavers with blackened faces, and women carrying heavy baskets of laundry.
Every time he tried to speak to someone, to tell them who he was, they laughed or pushed him aside.
"Make way for the king of the beggars!" a butcher's boy mocked, splashing dirty water from a puddle onto Edward's legs.
"I am the Prince of Wales!" Edward shouted back, his voice cracking with frustration.
"You will show me respect!"
"Aye, and I am the Pope of Rome!" a woman laughed, shaking her head as she walked past.
As the afternoon faded into a gloomy twilight, Edward's stomach began to ache with a deep, hollow hunger.
He had never had to ask for food before.
It had always appeared before him on silver platters.
He walked up to a bakery, where the warm, sweet smell of fresh bread drifted out into the street.
"Please," Edward said to the baker, trying to keep his voice steady and noble.
"Give me a loaf of bread. I am the prince, and I shall see that you are paid a hundredfold when I return to my palace."
The baker snorted, reaching for a wooden paddle.
"Get along with you, you lazy little thief! Work for your bread or go hungry!"
Edward backed away, his eyes stinging with tears he refused to shed.
Princes did not cry, but he was so tired, and his feet were bleeding.
He wandered toward the river, hoping to find someone who would recognize his face.
Instead, a heavy, rough hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"So, there you are, you lazy young scoundrel!"
Edward spun around to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with a red face and a tangled beard.
The man's breath smelled of cheap ale, and his eyes were dark with anger.
It was John Canty, Tom's father.
"Let go of me!" Edward commanded, trying to pull away.
"How dare you lay hands on your sovereign!"
John Canty stared at him for a second, then let out a harsh, barking laugh.
"Sovereign, is it? What new madness is this? You've been reading those foolish books with old Father Andrew again, haven't you?
Where are the pennies you begged today? Show me the money!"
"I have no money," Edward said proudly.
"And I am not your son. I am Edward, Prince of Wales!"
John Canty's face darkened.
He raised a heavy wooden cudgel.
"We'll see if we can beat this prince nonsense out of you. Come along!"
He dragged Edward through the narrow, twisting alleys, ignoring the boy's struggles and protests.
Edward kicked and bit, but he was no match for the grown man's strength.
Soon, they arrived at Awful Court and climbed the creaking stairs to the dark room on the third floor.
Inside, Tom's mother and his sisters, Nan and Bet, were huddled near a tiny fire of twigs.
"Look at him!" John Canty bellowed, throwing Edward onto the floor.
"He comes home with no money, and he claims he is the Prince of Wales!"
Tom's mother gasped.
She rushed to Edward's side, kneeling in the dirt.
She looked into his face, her eyes filled with a mother's deep, anxious love.
She could see that this boy looked exactly like her Tom, but there was something different in his eyes, a fierce, proud light that her gentle son had never possessed.
And his voice, when he spoke, was different too.
"Good woman," Edward said, his voice trembling but polite.
"I am not your son. I am the prince. I beg of you, help me return to Westminster."
"Oh, my poor boy!" she whispered, her heart breaking.
"The hunger has turned his brain. John, please do not strike him. He is mad!"
"Mad or not, he will learn to obey!" John Canty roared.
He raised his stick, but before he could strike, the door burst open.
It was Father Andrew.
"Stop!" the old priest cried, throwing himself between John Canty and the prince.
"Would you murder your own child?"
In the scuffle that followed, John Canty, blind with rage, swung his cudgel.
It struck Father Andrew squarely on the head.
The old man gasped and fell to the floor, motionless.
A terrible silence fell over the room.
John Canty stared at the priest, his red face turning suddenly pale.
He had not meant to kill him, but he knew what the law did to murderers.
They were hanged from the gallows until they were dead.
"We must run!" John Canty whispered, his voice shaking.
"We must leave London tonight! Pack what you can!"
In the confusion and panic, as the family scrambled to gather their few belongings, Edward saw his chance.
He slipped out of the door, down the dark stairs, and ran into the foggy night.
He was free from John Canty, but he was now a fugitive in a city that did not know him, hunted by the cold and the dark.
While the true prince was running for his life in the dark alleys of London, Tom Canty was sitting in the royal cabinet, shivering with a very different kind of fear.
He had waited for hours for the prince to return.
The room grew darker, and the fire began to die down.
Tom's heart hammered against his ribs.
He knew that if anyone found him here, dressed in the prince's clothes, they would think he was a thief.
They would hang him.
"Please," Tom whispered to the empty room.
"Please come back."
The door opened, and a gentleman of the court, dressed in velvet and carrying a long white wand, stepped inside.
He bowed low to the ground.
"May it please your royal highness," the gentleman said, "the king, your father, desires your presence."
Tom stared at him, his mouth open.
"The... the king?"
"Yes, your highness. He is very ill, and he wishes to see you."
Tom fell to his knees, clasping his hands together.
"Oh, please, sir, do not mock me. I am no prince. I am only Tom Canty, a poor beggar boy from Awful Court. I came here by accident, and the prince swapped his clothes with me. Please let me go home to my mother!"
The gentleman's face turned pale.
He stared at Tom, then slowly backed out of the room, whispering to himself.
"The prince is mad! The prince has lost his wits!"
Within minutes, the rumor spread through the palace like wildfire.
The Prince of Wales had gone mad. He did not recognize his own name. He thought he was a beggar.
Tom was hurried down the long, echoing corridors to the royal bedchamber.
The room was dark, smelling of medicine and wax candles.
In the center of the room, sat a massive bed with heavy purple curtains.
On the bed, lay King Henry VIII.
The king was old, bloated, and very close to death.
His eyes, once fierce and sharp, were now clouded with pain.
But when he saw Tom enter, his face softened.
"My son," the king whispered, his voice weak and wheezing.
"Come closer."
Tom approached the bed, trembling so hard his knees knocked together.
He fell to his knees beside the king.
"They tell me you speak of strange things," the king said, laying a heavy, warm hand on Tom's head.
"They say you claim you are not my son."
"It is the truth, your majesty!" Tom sobbed.
"I am a beggar boy, and..."
"Silence!" the king commanded, a flash of his old, terrifying anger returning to his voice.
"You are my son! You are Edward, Prince of Wales, and the heir to the throne of England!
Even if your mind is clouded by overstudy, you shall still be king!"
The king looked up at the worried lords who stood around the bed.
"Listen to me, all of you! My son is not mad! He is only temporarily distracted!
No one is to speak of this again upon pain of death! He shall be treated as the prince he is, and if he forgets his duties, you shall gently guide him."
The king sank back into his pillows, exhausted.
"And bring me the great seal of England. I must sign the death warrant of the Duke of Norfolk before I die.
Where is the seal, my son? I gave it to you for safekeeping."
Tom stared at the king.
He had no idea what a great seal was. He had never seen it.
"I... I do not know, your majesty," Tom stammered.
The king sighed, closing his eyes.
"No matter. Go, my son. Rest. Your mind will clear."
Tom was led away, his head spinning.
He was trapped. He could not escape, and he could not tell the truth.
He was forced to play the part of a prince.
At first, it was a nightmare.
Tom did not know how to eat with a fork, or how to speak to the ambassadors who came to bow before him.
But he was a clever boy, and he had spent years dreaming of this very life.
He began to watch the courtiers closely.
He learned when to nod, when to smile, and when to remain silent.
He also found a friend in Humphrey Marlow, the royal whipping boy.
In those days, it was considered a sin to strike a prince, so if the prince made a mistake in his lessons, another boy was hired to take the punishment for him.
Humphrey was a cheerful lad, and when he came to Tom's room with red, sore hands, Tom was horrified.
"Why did they beat you?" Tom asked.
"Because you did not know your Latin grammar today, your highness," Humphrey replied with a shrug.
"But that is not fair!" Tom cried.
"It was my mistake, not yours!"
"It is my job, your highness," Humphrey said.
"If you do not make mistakes, I do not get paid, and my family starves."
Tom smiled.
"Then I promise you, I shall make many mistakes, Humphrey, but I shall also see to it that you are paid double, and that no one strikes you again."
As the days went on, Tom began to use his common sense to rule the court.
One afternoon, the Lord Protector brought several prisoners before him to be judged.
The first was an old woman and her young daughter, accused of witchcraft.
The accusers claimed that the woman had sold her soul to the devil to raise a terrible storm that had ruined the crops.
Tom looked at the poor, frightened woman, who was weeping in her rags.
He remembered his own mother, and how easily she could have been in this woman's place.
"Is it true?" Tom asked.
"Can you raise a storm?"
"No, your highness," the woman sobbed.
"I am only a poor widow. I have no such power."
Tom turned to the accusers.
"If she has this power, let her show us.
Good woman, I command you to raise a storm right now, in this room.
If you do, I shall let you go free."
The woman stared at him, bewildered.
"But I cannot, your highness!"
"Then she is innocent!" Tom declared.
"If she had the power to destroy crops, she would surely have the power to save herself from the gallows.
Let her go, and give her five shillings from my treasury to help her find a home."
The courtiers gasped in amazement.
They whispered to one another that the prince's madness was fading, replaced by a strange, deep, and miraculous wisdom.
Tom Canty, the beggar boy of Awful Court, was bringing mercy to the palace of kings.
And remember,
Meanwhile, the true prince was discovering that the world outside the palace walls was far more brutal than he had ever imagined.
After escaping from John Canty, Edward had wandered into the dark, wet woods outside of London.
He was cold, his feet were cut and bleeding, and he had not eaten in two days.
He found a lonely barn and crawled into the hay, shivering beside a warm, sleeping calf.
For the first time in his life, he felt utterly abandoned.
The next morning, he was found by a band of thieves and beggars, the very dregs of the kingdom.
They were led by a man who called himself the Ruffler.
They dragged Edward to their campfire, mocking his fine speech and his insistence that he was the king.
"He says he is the king!" the Ruffler laughed, raising a cup of cheap gin.
"Well then, we shall call him the king of the beggars. He shall learn to steal and beg for us, or we shall beat him."
"I will not steal!" Edward cried, his eyes flashing.
"And I will not beg! I am your sovereign! And when I return to my throne, I shall have you all hanged for treason!"
The thieves laughed and threw mud at him.
But before they could hurt him, a tall man stepped into the clearing.
He was dressed in a faded leather doublet, with a long, battered sword at his hip.
His face was scarred from battle, but his eyes were kind and bright.
His name was Miles Hendon.
He was a soldier, returned from the wars in France, only to find that his treacherous brother had stolen his lands and his sweetheart, by telling everyone that Miles had died in battle.
Miles looked at the brave, ragged boy, who was standing up to a dozen thieves, and his heart warmed to him.
"Leave the lad alone!" Miles said, drawing his sword.
"He is under my protection."
The thieves grumbled, but they knew Miles Hendon was a dangerous man with a blade.
They let Edward go.
Miles took the prince back to his humble lodgings in London.
He bought him a simple meal of bread and beef, and watched with amusement as the boy ate with the manners of a king, waiting for Miles to serve him.
"You speak well, little master," Miles said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"What is your name?"
"I am Edward, Prince of Wales," the boy replied, looking at Miles with absolute seriousness.
Miles sighed.
He thought the boy's mind had been broken by the cruelty of the streets.
But he also saw a noble spirit in the lad, a courage that could not be beaten out of him.
"Very well, your highness," Miles said, bowing his head.
"I shall be your loyal knight. I shall protect you from your enemies, and I shall help you regain your throne."
Edward looked at the soldier, his eyes shining with gratitude.
"You are a brave and noble man, Miles Hendon. For your loyalty, I dub thee knight."
Edward drew Miles's own sword and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Rise, Sir Miles. You shall always have a place at my right hand."
Miles smiled, playing along with the game.
But as they traveled together through the countryside, the game became a harsh reality.
Edward saw things he had never known existed.
He saw a man branded with a hot iron on his forehead, his ears cut off, simply because he had lost his job and was caught begging for food.
He saw a mother burned at the stake because she refused to change her religious beliefs.
He saw families evicted from their homes, left to starve in the winter cold, because a wealthy landlord wanted their land.
"Is this the law of England?" Edward asked, his voice trembling with horror, as they watched a young girl being whipped for stealing a loaf of bread to feed her dying mother.
"It is the law, your highness," Miles said sadly.
"A harsh law for a harsh world."
"It is a wicked law!" Edward cried, his hands clenching into fists.
"When I am king, I shall rewrite the laws of this land! No man shall be branded for being poor, and no mother shall be burned for her love of God!
I shall rule with mercy, for I have seen what my people suffer!"
Miles looked at the boy, and for the first time, he began to wonder.
There was such passion in the lad's voice, such a deep, instinctive understanding of justice.
Could it be? Could this ragged boy truly be the prince?
Before Miles could ask, a sudden shouting arose from the village square.
A messenger on horseback was winding through the crowd, blowing a silver horn.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" the messenger cried.
"The great King Henry VIII is dead! Long live King Edward VI! The coronation shall take place at Westminster Abbey in five days' time!"
Edward's face turned white.
His father was dead, and someone else, the beggar boy he had left in his room, was about to be crowned King of England.
"We must go to London!" Edward whispered, his voice cracking with a sudden, terrible grief.
"We must go now!"
The city of London was alive with light and sound.
The River Thames was covered in grand barges, their silk banners fluttering in the wind.
The streets were swept clean, and the houses were decorated with colorful tapestries and garlands of ivy.
It was the morning of the coronation.
Inside Westminster Abbey, the air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of hundreds of voices whispering in anticipation.
The great lords of England, dressed in their finest robes of velvet, ermine, and gold, sat in the pews.
At the front of the altar, stood the grand throne of England, waiting for its new king.
Tom Canty sat in the anteroom, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He was dressed in a robe of pure white satin, embroidered with gold and pearls.
A heavy gold chain hung around his neck, and the crown of England sat on a velvet cushion nearby, waiting to be placed upon his head.
For the past five days, Tom had lived a life of absolute luxury.
He had eaten the finest foods, slept in the softest beds, and had everyone bow before him.
But his conscience was a heavy, painful weight in his chest.
He knew he was a thief. He was stealing a kingdom that did not belong to him.
Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the face of the true prince, wandering somewhere in the cold, dark world.
"Your highness," the Lord Protector said, bowing low.
"It is time. The people are waiting."
Tom stood up, his legs shaking.
He walked out into the grand nave of the Abbey.
The music of the great organ swelled, filling the stone vaulting with a glorious, roaring sound.
The crowd gasped and bowed, as Tom walked slowly toward the altar.
At that very moment, outside the heavy oak doors of the Abbey, a ragged boy was fighting his way through the crowd.
It was Edward.
He had lost Miles Hendon in the crush of the city, and he was alone.
His shirt was torn, his feet were bare and covered in mud, and his face was smudged with soot.
But his eyes were bright with a fierce, desperate determination.
"Let me through!" Edward shouted, pushing past the guards.
"I am the king! Let me pass!"
The guards laughed, pushing him back with their pikes.
"Get back, you little beggar! This is no place for the likes of you!"
But Edward would not be stopped.
He ducked under the arm of a guard, slipped through the legs of a horse, and threw his weight against the small side door of the Abbey.
To his surprise, the door was not latched.
He burst inside, running down the long, carpeted aisle, just as the Archbishop of Canterbury raised the golden crown above Tom Canty's head.
"Stop!" Edward's voice rang out through the silent, holy space of the Abbey.
"Do not place the crown upon that head! I am the king!"
The music stopped.
The Archbishop froze, the crown hovering in the air.
Hundreds of lords and ladies spun around to look at the ragged boy who had dared to interrupt the sacred ceremony.
"Seize him!" the Lord Protector shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"He is a madman! Take him away!"
Several guards rushed toward Edward, their swords drawn.
But before they could reach him, Tom Canty raised his hand.
"Stop!" Tom cried, his voice ringing with a clear, royal authority.
"Do not touch him! He is the true king!"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
The Lord Protector stared at Tom, then at the ragged boy in the aisle.
He looked back and forth between them, his eyes wide with a sudden, terrifying realization.
They were identical.
Except for their clothes, their faces were exactly the same.
"What is the meaning of this?" the Lord Protector whispered, his face turning pale.
"Who is the true heir?"
He stepped down from the altar, walking toward Edward.
He looked at the boy's dirty face, his proud carriage, and his bleeding feet.
"If you are the king," the Lord Protector said, his voice trembling.
"You must prove it. There is one thing that only the true prince would know.
When the king died, the great seal of England went missing. We have searched the palace, but we cannot find it.
Tell us, where is the great seal?"
Edward looked at the Lord Protector, his face calm and serious.
"The great seal? It is in my cabinet, in the left-hand corner, hidden inside the arm of the decorative suit of mail that stands against the wall.
I put it there for safekeeping before I left."
The Lord Protector turned to a guard.
"Go! Run to the palace and search the suit of mail!"
The guard bolted out of the Abbey.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the crowd.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
The two boys stood looking at each other across the space of the altar, the prince in his rags, and the beggar in his gold.
Tom smiled, a gentle, relieved smile.
"Do not fear, my lord," he said to the prince.
"You are home now."
Within minutes, the guard returned, panting for breath.
In his hands, he held a heavy, round disc of solid gold, carved with the royal coat of arms.
It was the great seal of England.
The Lord Protector took the seal, his hands shaking.
He turned to the crowd, his voice booming through the Abbey.
"Behold!" he cried.
"The true King of England!"
The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer.
The lords fell to their knees, bowing before the ragged boy who stood in the aisle.
Tom Canty knelt too, his head bowed, his heart finally free of its heavy burden.
Edward walked slowly up the steps of the altar.
He looked down at Tom, and then he did something that no king of England had ever done before.
He reached down, took the beggar boy by the hands, and raised him to his feet.
"Rise, my friend," King Edward VI said, his voice soft but clear.
"You have ruled my kingdom with more mercy than I could have hoped for.
You shall not return to Awful Court. You shall be the king's ward, and you shall always have a place at my court."
And as the golden crown was finally placed upon Edward's head, the bells of London began to ring, their joyful sound carrying across the river, through the narrow alleys of Awful Court, and out into the wide, waiting world.
The reign of King Edward VI was short, for he was a frail boy and did not live to see his 20th year.
But it was a reign that the people of England remembered for generations, as a time of unusual kindness.
Whenever his ministers brought him a harsh law to sign, or demanded that a poor man be hanged for a minor theft, the young king would shake his head and refuse.
"You do not know what it is to suffer," Edward would say to his wealthy lords, his eyes dark with a memory they could not share.
"I have eaten the bread of the beggar, and I have felt the cold of the streets. I know the hearts of my people, and I shall rule them with mercy."
Miles Hendon was restored to his lands and his title, and he remained the king's closest friend and protector until the end of his days.
And Tom Canty, dressed in comfortable robes of blue silk, lived a long and peaceful life, always remembered by the people as the king's ward, the boy who had once worn a crown of gold, and found that its greatest value was the mercy it allowed him to give.
The two boys who looked so much alike had crossed a bridge that few ever get to cross.
They had stepped out of their own lives and into the skin of another, and in doing so, they had changed not only themselves, but the history of a whole nation.
And so, we find ourselves back in our own world, far from the foggy streets of Tudor London, but with the same human hearts beating inside us.
How differently would you understand the world if you had to live someone else's life for a while?
If you woke up tomorrow in the shoes of the person you understand the least, what would you see?
What would you feel?
And how would you look at your own life when you finally came home?