King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Rubbing his brow as if he could erase the pain within, he let out a deep, pent-up sigh and said, “Yes, George.”

  “The arts council members are waiting in the receiving rooms and the science council are just arriving for their briefing. I’ve had them directed to the drawing room. Shall I serve refreshments and tell them you will be with them shortly?” All business. George was always good at putting on a professional, business-like air.

  In all the foray and confrontations with the two queens and the Prince of Wales, Henry had forgotten George’s earlier reminder. “Yes, George. That would be fine. I will meet with the arts council first. Some sandwiches and a light beverage would be nice. I feel as if I could use some fortification as well.” Looking at the clock on the mantle, he was surprised to see it was after twelve. It had been a busy morning. Then again, he had arisen a little later than usual.

  The Edinburgh Arts Festival. One of the highlights on his calendar. His ancestor, Queen Mary Elizabeth had initiated the project to not only nurture the growing arts community in Scotland, but also to encourage artists from around the world to at least visit if not participate. The entire Edinburgh Castle was taken over by the arts community for the month of July each year. The halls displayed countless works by rising stars in the arts community, like this new group known as the Impressionists, Claude Monet and Edgar Degas. These artists had frequently shown their works at several exhibits in Edinburgh and Glasgow over the past few years. The Scots seem to applaud what the French could not, the vision of impressions created on canvas. Henry had become close friends with several of these artists. Claude and Edgar being frequent guests at either Holyrood House or Balmoral, were starting to voice their desire to settle permanently in Scotland.

  “The countryside beckons, Your Majesty,” Claude said during his last visit. “The mists and the fogs help inspire our creative visions. This land is for impressionistic endeavors, don’t you agree?”

  Nothing further was said, but Henry expected to have dinner with Claude and others over the course of the month-long festival. He would learn more then. He hoped he could entice them to take up residence on a more permanent basis. He even had a plan in motion to construct an artist community in the heart of the highlands.

  The festival featured literary works as well. There would be readings by current authors like the French Symbolist poet, Stéphane Mallarmé, and the Scottish born mystery writer, Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle. Plays and musical concerts would be featured in the grand hall and open-air events would also welcome visitors in the castle’s grand courtyard. It was a big event. Even bigger than the famed Salon de Paris. The Edinburgh Arts Festival encouraged and promoted the new and the daring in all the creative arts. The Salon de Paris was only interested in academic works duplicating what had been done for centuries.

  Henry straightened his jacket and fussed with his collar, rotating his head around to stretch and sooth his neck muscles. He made his way to the receiving rooms, following George and allowing him to announce his presence.

  George did so in great style. He swung open the double doors and announced in a booming voice, “His Majesty, King Henry I of Scotland.” Stepping back, he bowed his head, allowing Henry to walk into the room to greet a row of now standing and respectfully quiet men and women, all with their heads bowed. The solitary woman curtsied as he approached.

  “Robert, Margaret, Billy.” Henry walked around the room greeting everyone by name, returning to his two closest artist friends, the writers Robert Louis Stevenson and Margaret Todd. Margaret was a teacher, but Henry knew she had great potential. Having visited her in the future, he knew she would one day become a fine doctor and a novelist.

  “Robert. Glad to have you back from the Riviera.” He studied the man closely. “You do look better than the last time I saw you.” The Scottish climate didn’t always agree with the writer and Robert often took long sojourns to the sunny French Riviera to recuperate and to delve deeper into his writing muse.

  “I am much improved, Your Majesty. And always pleased to return to Edinburgh in time to help with the annual festival.” Robert had been instrumental in promoting the event over the past few years. Henry often wondered what he would do without him.

  “Billy. I loved the painting you gifted me of Balmoral at sunset. Absolutely splendid array of light and colors, well blended for extra effect. But you must allow me to purchase your works. You shouldn’t be giving it all away.” Billy, or William McTaggart, had been strongly influenced by the French Impressionists, but chose to remain in Scotland and use his talents to capture the beauty of the Scottish landscape. He also painted marine scenes and could often be found roaming the extensive coastline of Scotland, as well as its major harbours at Edinburgh and Greenock.

  Billy and Henry had been close friends since the day, as children, they stumbled upon one another, quite literally, in an isolated glen in the highlands. Even as a youngster, Billy was always out in the wilds sketching. It’s what he was doing when Henry and Ian were racing their mounts through the thick brush and almost trampled the young artist. A few sketches were torn up by the horses’ hooves in the process, something Billy never let Henry and Ian forget, but otherwise there was no damage and a strong friendship between the men staggered out of the initial anger on Billy’s part for his damaged art and Henry’s part for the race he was winning before he had to pull up short.

  Standing before the only woman in the group, Henry studied the woman. She was a bit young to be on a planning committee such as this. She came highly recommended, though. A teacher as well as a passionate follower of the arts, she was a good choice to keep the others on track, on schedule and organized. This was her first year with the council and Henry was quickly learning to respect her areas of expertise. “Have you given further thought to writing your novel, Margaret?” he asked. “At the last meeting, you were suggesting you might write a novel some day.”

  Margaret look a bit startled at her king’s familiarity. She wouldn’t have thought a man who met so many people each day and was responsible for the entire country would remember her after just a few committee meetings. To top it off, remember a comment she made at random about possibly taking up the art of writing. “Not yet, Your Majesty.” She gave the king a demure smile. “But some day I hope to write it. Right now, my students keep me awfully busy.”

  “I’m sure they do.” Henry nodded in agreement. “I hear you are doing a fine job, though. Reverend Scott is all praise when discussing your merits as a teacher.”

  Margaret blushed again. The king had been checking up on her. She didn’t mind. It was understandable he would want to know a little more about her. She was young. She knew it. She had only been teaching for a couple of years. She had been hired on by Reverend Scott, one of the first teachers at the newly built Abbeyhill Primary School on Regent Road. It wasn’t far from Holyrood House, but it certainly didn’t mean the students came from wealthy families. On the contrary, most of the students were from working class families. Not like the working class in England who were mostly impoverished. Scotland would never allow it. All Scots were given free education and equal privileges to their peers; equal in the sense of allowing them the opportunities to succeed and prosper should their learning lead them in a certain direction. For this Margaret was thankful. Had she not been allowed an education, she would never be a teacher herself and probably married off to some working-class man with a herd of children at her feet. It was not a pleasant thought.

  “Sorry we are late.” The door swung open dramatically behind the gathering and everyone glanced at the intruder.

  “Hamish, Hector, Gladys,” Henry greeted the late arrivals. Two musicians and an actress. In London, the actress would be considered nothing more than a prostitute; in Edinburgh, it was considered an art form and revered as such. Gladys McCordick was an artist in her trade and an exceptionally fine actress. She had performed many leading female roles, like Lady Macbeth in Shakespeare’s Scottish set play, Macbet
h, as well as many other powerful roles. Hamish MacCunn and Hector MacCallum were late Romantic composers who painted in music the true spirit of the Scottish people and their land.

  “Your Majesty.” Hamish and Hector bowed. Gladys curtsied.

  Henry nodded in acknowledgement and motioned the three to join the others. “We should get down to business. Please everyone, take a seat.” He motioned to the table, making his way to the head and sitting, shuffling through the thick folder at his place. “I presume we have most of our issues from the previous meeting settled and the program is coming together without further complications?” It was part statement, part question. Henry took a minute to look around the gathered group of artists, making sure to make eye contact with each one in turn. They all nodded. “Billy. Perhaps you could lead us through the program as it stands now.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty.” Billy cleared his throat. He had been the chair of this committee for a couple of years and even though he was an artist and free spirit at heart, he knew how to handle the business side of anything. Part of the reason why he was so successful with his own art was his proficiency as a good businessman. A salesman too.

  The next hour passed swiftly as they outlined the program and shared comments, as well as suggesting a few changes. The general consensus was this would be the best Edinburgh Arts Festival the country had every hosted. Then again, they always vouched to make the current year the best.

  “Gentlemen. Ladies.” Henry closed the portfolio before him and stood up to bring the meeting to a close. “Thank you. All of you. For working so diligently on this project. We shall meet again in a month’s time. Check with Lord Bothwell as you leave to make arrangements for this final meeting before the festival begins.” Everyone stood and bowed their heads in acknowledgement. Henry paused briefly, a thought just popping into his head. “Before we go, there is one other matter I would like you to consider. I have decided to donate Balmoral Castle to the arts committee as an artist retreat. Perhaps we could launch the idea with a prize for a month-long sojourn, an invitation of sorts to someone from each branch of the arts community.” He ignored the looks of shock and surprise. If things hadn’t transpired the way they had earlier, this might never have happened. Now he wanted nothing more to do with anything which reminded him of his friendship with the English royals. Turning Balmoral over to the arts community was a brilliant idea, one which would compliment his mentor, Prince Albert’s memory. The castle was, after all, a work of art in itself. It had great potential. He should have thought of the idea sooner. Oh well. It was out there now.

  “And as the final thought to consider, I bid you all good day.” Henry marched from the room, satisfied to be leaving the others to finish discussing the issues. Seeing George, he gave a tired smile. “I know. I’m running late. I shall see to the science council right away. Make sure the arts council has a meeting set up for next month.”

  George nodded and made his way into the receiving room. Henry proceeded across the hall. He had almost reached the door to the drawing room when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw his older self waving for his attention.

  Eight

  “Uncle Harry,” he greeted the man. He didn’t want to waylay the scientists much longer, but it was obvious his older self had something to share. Something important.

  “You must try to discourage the time travel research,” the older Henry spoke just loud enough for the king to hear. “It’s much too soon and too many mistakes will be made if it progresses as planned. Cecil needs watching. I wouldn’t grant him too much trust. And I certainly wouldn’t grant him the additional funds he’s about to request at this meeting.”

  “How do you know?” Henry asked and then shook his head. Of course he knew. They were both time travelers, though his older self had a little more experience in the art of time travel than his younger self did. “Very well. I shall take your advice under consideration.”

  Uncle Harry had an amused look on his face. “I thought you might. There are more important things to spend your money on.”

  “Like.” The king raised an eyebrow of curiosity.

  “Like electricity, for one. Making it more affordable and universally available. Just having electric street lights is not enough. And better water management and distribution.”

  “As in an advanced indoor plumbing system, one more sophisticated than the old Roman model we’re still using.”

  “Exactly. And the science of agriculture needs more funding. There is a way to eradicate the rotting potatoes which are making people starve in many countries. Scotland needs to be ahead of everyone else in agricultural advancements.”

  “Good point. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Make sure to approve bringing Alexander Graham Bell back to Edinburgh where he belongs. He was born here, after all. His studies in long distance communication are amazing.”

  “The acoustic telegraph. Yes, I’ve heard of it. An important development, for sure.”

  “He’s not getting funding elsewhere. Offer it to him and he’ll be here. You want to keep his patents in Scotland, lad.” Patting the young king on the shoulder, the older man nudged him forward. “Now off you go, young man. Don’t keep those scientists waiting. Who knows what mischief they can come up with if left to their own devices, in your drawing room for too long?”

  “Exactly.” Henry chuckled and opened the door to enter the drawing room.

  The men within, and the one lady scientist, stood as he entered. All conversation ceased immediately. Silence ensued until, one by one they bowed, the lady curtsied, and they all greeted him with, “Your Majesty.”

  “Gentlemen.” Henry marched swiftly towards the gathered group. Nodding his head to the single lady scientist, “And, my lady.” She returned his smile. Waving his hands, he motioned everyone to be seated and he did the same. “Now. We have a lot to accomplish. Who will go first?”

  “We are all here to update you on our progress in various research projects, Your Majesty.” The woman took the floor and started the meeting. “I have been working on various agricultural issues, particularly the potato blight which has led so many people around the world to the brink of starvation.”

  One of the men cleared his throat. “All very fine for a lady scientist, Your Majesty.” The man stood, interrupting the woman.

  “And you are?” Henry knew the names of everyone present except this man. He couldn’t remember seeing this man before. Not at these meetings. Yet he was strangely familiar. “I do believe Lady Mallory had the floor, good sir. Perhaps you should introduce yourself first by apologizing for your rudeness.”

  The man stuttered, blanched and shuffled on his feet. “Yes, Your Majesty. I do apologize, Lady Mallory.” Turning back to the king, he continued. “I am Lord Cecil Stuart, Your Majesty. And I have been researching the powerful possibilities of quantum physics.”

  The room was suddenly full of shaking heads and signs of disbelief. “He’s talking about time travel, Your Majesty,” Lady Mallory clarified for the king, her voice clearly indicating her distaste for both the man and his research.

  Henry cleared his throat. No one present knew of his own personal ability to travel through time, so he chose his words carefully. “And how do you propose the furthering of your research project, Lord Stuart? Another Stuart. Are we related?”

  “Perhaps distantly, Your Majesty,” Cecil replied briskly. “The entire project is based on principals of wormholes and…”

  He didn’t get to finish. The woman did it for him. “He wants to implant things into our heads to allow us to jump through time. He claims if we can go back in time, we can change things for the better.”

  “Or for the worse,” Lord Stanley added. “Changing time is a waste of time, if you ask me and ignore the pun.” Lord Robert Stanley was the scientist working on electrical currents, among other things.

  “Perhaps.” Henry gave a noncommittal response. He waved Cecil to sit, before returning his attention to Lord
Stanley. “Robert. We need to invite Alexander to return to Edinburgh, don’t you think.” Henry used given names for those he had known since childhood. The boys had studied and played together. Henry had always marvelled at their brilliant minds, wishing he understood half of what they were talking about most of the time. Robert and Alexander had been both friends and competitive colleagues for many years. It was not unexpected Henry’s request for Robert to invite Alexander and his acoustic device to Edinburgh would meet with a welcome response. Instead, Robert bristled.

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He didn’t say any more, sitting with a bit of huff.

  The meeting stretched on longer than Henry would have liked. The scientists argued and stated their cases for more funding. Some, like Lady Mallory and her potato research, received it; others, like Cecil’s time travel research, received nothing. There was a mixture of content and disgruntled scientists who bowed to Henry when he brought the meeting to a close and marched out of the room. He made his way directly to his chambers, George following closely on his heels.

  “Are they gone?” Henry asked when the doors closed behind him and he felt secure in his own space to speak his mind.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” George knew what the king was talking about. “The English royal train crossed the border just over an hour ago. All royals on board. Your wife,” he stuttered at the reference to the king’s wife, not knowing how to address the now exiled Queen of Scotland. “|Is being safely transported to Loch Leven Castle and will be locked in the tower upon arrival.”

  “Very good. Send up some tea and toast. I need some sustenance, but I don’t care to eat much. Then make sure no one disturbs me until the morning.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” George left, closing the doors quietly behind him.

  Henry sat in his comfortable chair by the window, stretched out his legs and dozed off as the twilight of early evening submerged his room gradually into darkness.