by Hall, Ian
I bowed as well as I could, half turning back into the room. “Yes, Your Grace.”
I felt both disappointed and relieved that I had an excuse to leave the rabid Eleanor that night. Her eyes were wide and passionate, and it would have been an act of true courage to have left them voluntarily.
But leave I did, following my own footsteps back to the Prince’s bedchamber.
“Questions, Your Grace?” I asked, finding him under the coverlet, his head high on piled pillows.
“Yes,” he said quickly, then seemed to stumble on his wording. “The Mistress Eleanor?” He looked all around the room, never at me. “Do you think it unwise that she share my bed?”
I nodded. “I think it is unwise to hurry things along, Your Grace.”
Then he seemed to get resolve from somewhere. “My sister, the Princess Margaret, has told me that she has witnessed you in coitus with the Lady Jane Winterbrooke. Could this honor also be extended to me?”
Oh crap.
October 10th, 1501
Prince Meets Princess
The retinue left early the next day, mostly a male affair, leaving Princess Margaret, Lady Jane, and the Mistress Eleanor behind in Richmond.
But if I thought it’d be a one day journey, I soon divested myself of the idea; passage proved unbelievably slow.
With the King’s presence, and the increased pomp to impress the Princess and her Spanish spies, crowds lined the route every single step of the way. I couldn’t count the miles we travelled that day, but it couldn’t have been even close to ten.
The King announced at dinner that evening that a similar coach party had indeed set out from Plymouth, with the Princess Catherine and her own aides.
It took the two processions over a week to get to within twenty miles of each other.
In the snail’s paced coach the next day, as a drizzle dampened both spirits and Prince Arthur’s attention to the crowd, I engaged him.
“Do you feel nervous, Your Grace?”
He half-heartedly waved out of the coach window, sneezed, then turned to me. “I have such a mixture of emotions gathered inside me, I feel I might burst.”
“Would you care to elucidate?”
“Oh, I have joy, don’t mistake me.” He waved again, then as he did so, his face turned away, he continued. “I have sadness at a partner I have not chosen. I have a sense of duty. The whole process is not without irony, without some form of sardonic sense of godly design. I am awakened to the delights of the Mistress Eleanor, then I must perform these new skills on my betrothed.”
“You may be surprised with the Princess Catherine’s countenance,” I chanced. “She may be just the girl that you have always dreamed of.”
But he remained silent for such a long period that I did not pursue the matter any further that day.
The next afternoon we arrived at a large country house belonging to a man called Haysby. I heard the name Dogmersfield as we exited the coaches in the shadow of the large building. As I alighted, I looked back along the tree-lined drive to see another coach party standing still a quarter mile away. Even I felt excitement as we were led into the large three-story house.
“We have a ballroom, your majesty, but alas it is small.” I looked to see the King climbing the steps to the large double doors.
“No matter, Haysby, no matter.” King Henry waved away the man’s protestations. “We need two chairs at one end, nothing more.”
Inside, the servants literally ran around, clearing chairs and tables from the ‘ballroom’ as the retinue from the caravan piled in behind us. Then the room was pronounced ‘ready’. I reckon the whole process took less than ten minutes.
Two large chairs at one narrow end of the wooden-paneled room were soon occupied by King Henry and his son, Prince Arthur, who looked absolutely passionless. I had no idea what ran through his mind at that time, but for sure, he’d gone to his happy place, wherever that proved to be. His expression looked absolutely blank.
Minor courtiers like myself were flattened against the back, to either side, then the Dukes and Earls and Barons stood to our front.
Linacre stood by the Prince.
Six trumpeters, all wonderfully resplendent in matching red uniforms, lined both of the long walls, their long instruments tucked under their arms.
Standing at the ‘royal end’, I faced the small door at the other end like waiting expectantly on the arrival of the opposing basketball team. On my own part, I faced it with a great deal of relief. We’d got both the betrothed together, in one piece despite winter’s rain and Channel storms.
Now history could take its course.
So we waited.
And waited.
By the time a good hour had passed, I felt real glad that the Prince wasn’t standing like the rest of us; not that it hadn’t felt good to get out of the constantly shuddering coach, but my thighs now burned, and my feet felt sore and hot in my high boots.
Then, seemingly quite unexpectedly, a man slid in the door and stood to one side. He banged a long golden jewel-encrusted gavel on the dark, shiny wooden floor.
“Your Majesty,” he began in loud, clear tones. “His excellency, Don Anonstro Vantionado, tutor to the Princess Catherine, and envoy of King Ferdinand the second of Spain!”
Then the man himself walked into the room, and the trumpeters began a deafening fanfare. Don Anonstro waited at the doorway until the trumpet sounds had completely died, then strode across the room to the King, and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, I complete my contract, I bring the Princess to the Prince.”
“You have indeed,” King Henry said. The Spaniard retreated backwards, to maybe halfway down the room, bowing as he did so.
The guy with the long, gold gavel pounded the floor again. “Your Majesty, the Princess Catherine of Aragon, Duchess of Castile!”
But to my amazement, a line of dark-skinned Africans entered and made a passageway for her. Then a lone trumpeter, obviously playing outside, let out a simple, but well-played plaintive air.
Catherine appeared in the doorway, clad in browns and gold. She walked slowly, in time with the trumpeter’s tune, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes firmly on the floor.
Her hair looked the same way I’d seen it before, parted in the center, and swept firmly under a small brown hat. She walked across the room, her head bowed, stopping just a few feet from the King.
She curtseyed so slowly and so smoothly, I swear there stood a small hydraulic jack under her dress, letting her ass glide gently to the ground. Once her body had stopped moving, she bowed her head low.
“Your Majesty,” Don Anonstro said softly after the trumpet outside had died. “The Princess Catherine.”
“Rise, my dear,” Henry said quietly, and she got to her feet, her hydraulic jack working again. But once she’d risen, damn it if she didn’t position herself in front of Arthur, and perform the same deep curtsey again.
“Prince Arthur,” Don Anonstro said. “The Princess Catherine.”
Silence fell on the room, awaiting the Prince’s response.
I saw King Henry look at Prince Arthur, who seemed to be dumbstruck. Then, to my immense relief, he rose and walked the five paces to her and bent down, and holding her hand gently, he helped her rise to her feet.
For the first time since entering the room, Catherine lifted her gaze. The two exchanged glances, and Arthur bowed, then pulled her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
A small moment, but nevertheless, I’m not sure if he’d have done it before my tutelage, so my chest puffed just a little bigger.
King Henry gave a wave, and the trumpeters again mouthed their instruments, and played a soft adagio. Don Anonstro took the Princess by the hand and escorted her out of the room.
Audience over, and she hadn’t spoken one word.
Dinner that night would exclude half of the retinues of either side, as even the ballroom proved too small to seat everyone.
I pushed myself into the crowded doorway more
than once during the meal, but could make little of the comings and goings.
Linacre sought me out afterwards. “It is a disaster!” He threw his arms in the air; I’d never seen him so animated. “They can’t talk to each other.”
I felt temporarily confused. “But they’ve written many letters.” I shook my head. “Can’t she not speak Latin? Was it all a ruse?”
“No, no,” he said, frustrated. “They both speak Latin, but they both have been taught different pronunciations!”
“What?” Again, my head shook of its own accord. “I wasn’t aware that there were different versions.”
“Not different versions, different pronunciations.”
I tried to let the facts settle in my head, then the penny dropped. “They both speak the same language, but speak with different accents?”
“Yes, yes!” He jumped at me, shaking my hand. “I’ve been trying to tell this to the King, but couldn’t find the right words.” He ran away, and I never saw him again that evening.
I instantly knew the problem; I’d been in a Mexican restaurant in Hartford, Connecticut, and witnessed an Irishman trying to order a meal in a thick Belfast brogue. The two battered each other with their differing versions of English for hours, but although they both spoke the same language, neither the Irishman nor the Mexican waiter could make head nor tail of the other.
That night, I visited the Prince, and to calm his frustration, I told him a version of my story, altering it considerably for the sixteenth century.
“So the two spoke English,” he said, frowning, yet following my logic. “But because of their learned, entrenched pronunciation, they could not communicate.”
“Exactly, Your Grace.”
“Then she must learn my Latin,” he said, nodding his head, affirming his solution.
“It’s not that easy, Your Grace.” I raised my hand. “Her learning is so entrenched, she has spoken this way for ten years, it is a major task.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Well, she is to be Queen of England one day, sitting at the side of the new King Arthur. Perhaps the best thing to do is give her a crash course in English.”
“A crash course?”
“A very fast tuition method, Your Grace.”
I met with Thomas Linacre early the next day, finding him in the large library of Dogmersfield House, and told him of our musings.
“Excellent idea, Richard, excellent.” He set off out of the book-lined room. “I have no time for further duties. You, however are still light in yours; you will travel with the Princess today.”
And that’s how I got the job.
That’s how I ended up in a coach with Don Anonstro, the Princess of Aragon, and a rather grumpy-faced fat woman called Isabella, who turned out to be the ‘Duenna’, or chaperone of the Princess.
“People.” I pointed out the window, wanting to start as soon as possible.
“Plebe, pueblo,” she replied, nodding. “People.”
“They wave to you.” I did a mock wave inside the carriage, and Isabella gave me a huge look of disapproval. “They wave.”
“Wave?” She waved back. “Ondeando multitude.”
“Yes, multitude.” I caught her reasoning. This girl was no dummy.
So thus we spent a whole day, exchanging English and common Spanish words and phrases. As we came to a halt, Catherine spoke to Don Anonstro.
“The Princess wishes to greet the Prince properly, in his own tongue. How do you say happy to be here, and I will be good wife?”
It felt so good that she felt the need for conversation with her betrothed, and I determined that the two should travel together the next day. Once we’d got settled into the wayside Inn, I soon found Linacre and told him of my plan.
“The Princess Catherine is certainly intelligent. She’s quick to learn, and quite personable; she seems to enjoy the learning process. If I can get them both together, the learning process itself may break the ice between them.”
Thomas nodded, and agreed with the plan. “We only have nine days till the wedding.”
“What?” I asked, astonished at the slow snail’s speed with which we travelled, and the breakneck speed of the betrothal. I literally had nine days to get Prince Arthur ready for bedding his Spanish bride, and my ‘muse’ was out of reach. “I had no idea it would be so soon. Do we wait at Richmond?”
Linacre shook his head. “The arrangements are being made right now, as we travel. We make directly for Westminster Palace in London, and the wedding will take place at Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Nine days?”
“Nine days. The fourteenth of November.”
So, yes, the Prince sat opposite Catherine the next day, and yes, they did begin to talk to each other in English, and yes, they even smiled at times.
But all I did was go through the motions.
I knew that when darkness fell, I had to run to Richmond and get Eleanor and the Lady Jane to Westminster.
Then get back to the caravan for tomorrow’s travel into London.
The life of a vampire; who’d have it?
5th November 1501
Running Like the Wind
In America, I’ve done some running; racing back and forth to get specific tasks done for the head of the vampire sect in Connecticut, the Council of the Strogoi. But that usually got carried out in daylight. And let’s face it; any running at night can be negotiated quite easily with the sodium lighting that covers every part of the concrete and tarmac of the United States.
But… running at night in 1501 presented one significant challenge; the lack of any outside lighting at all, and the pure unadulterated blackness that falls.
Now, it does have one advantage over the states; it’s a much smaller country, so everything’s a bit more crowded over here.
All that being said, it must have taken me a good three hours to find Richmond, get inside, only to find both females’ rooms empty.
I questioned two of the guards. The Princess’s party had left for Westminster the day before. Brilliant; I’d made a totally wasted trip. Not only that but I had to return to my own caravan before daybreak.
Argh!
I skipped in to the inn with only an hour of darkness to spare. Rested on my bed until roused for breakfast, then walked semi-automatically to the Prince’s carriage. Thomas Linacre stopped me.
“It seems that the King approves of your instruction of the Princess.”
“That’s good.” I couldn’t really manage much more.
“Oh, yes. It was mentioned to me last night that the Princess and the Prince looked in far better spirits than before. Well done, Richard.” He slapped my back and walked away. I stood, like a half-shut knife, too tired to congratulate myself.
Then I realized my problem. Somewhere in the midst of my ‘plan’, I’d forgotten to take care of myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fed.
I slowly made my way out of the preparations to leave, taking first an alley, then a zig-zag of streets and found myself in a small village green, the morning sunlight falling gently over a mown meadow, surrounded by picturesque cottages.
A lone figure walked the grass, her hands extended above her head. I looked around for witnesses, but saw none.
Perfect.
I pounced on her, intending to sweep her off her feet, and carry her far into the countryside, but as I closed on her form, she managed to elude my grasp. I fell headlong onto the dewy grass, rolling, instantly on my feet, ready for whatever had just happened.
The woman stood no more than ten feet away.
I readied myself to pounce, then checked myself. She stood, relaxed, with no sense of fear. “Good morning,” I managed, looking at her, catching her steely gaze.
“Do not ‘good morning’ me, bringer of death,” she snapped.
I flashed at her, intending to grab her by the throat, but again she eluded me, now standing to the east, the low sun behind her. I wondered if my weakness had slowed
me that much.
“So you show the speed of the caste, yet do not recognize it.” She stood with her hands on her hips, almost baiting me to try again.
I looked at her carefully, then caught a slight odor on the morning breeze. My senses had been stuck in the stinking mire of 1501 for so long, they’d lost some of their edge.
So there were vampires in this time. “I apologize, I am weak, and therefore stuck in desperation.” I managed a slight bow, but kept my eyes on her. She looked quite attractive, yet her black hair looked unwashed, dirty, and trailed over her face slightly, masking her true appearance.
Slowly she advanced. Once close, she sniffed at my neck, then stood back, a puzzled look on her face. “You are a strange one,” she said, beginning to circle me. “You are definitely of the caste, yet subtly different. You dress like a courtier, so enjoy the life of the rich, yet you are so weak, you cannot even lay a hand on me, never mind catch me.” She stopped, again at my front. “Do you wish to die?”
“I have other things on my mind at the moment, I have neglected myself.” I remembered the caravan, assembling near the inn. “I have to leave, I’m sorry.”
She held up a hand to stop me. “Yet again you neglect yourself. Would you like to suckle?”
Suckle? Did she mean feed?
Before I knew, she’d grabbed my hand and pulled me across the glade, and into a place of slight privacy, between two houses. The look she gave me was pure animalistic lust.
Our faces were close, our breath suffusing, and I found myself hardening in my trousers. Damn if the ladies in this time didn’t have some sex button that had been forgotten about in five hundred years.
She swept the hair from her face, revealing an incredibly beautiful woman. “Oh, I see you want me now.” She moved closer, so close that when she spoke, her lips brushed against mine. “Yet before, you wanted only my neck, and now you want more.”
She did a flipping maneuver with the front of her dress, and out popped two of the most gorgeous breasts I’d ever seen. Not, ‘lady-in-waiting’ court breasts, but full, woman-sized tits, with rosy-red nipples stiffening in the chilly morning air.