King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  .

  Nine

  Holyrood House, Edinburgh, Sometime in the Future

  He has walked through this door many times in his life. Holyrood House. His home in Edinburgh. So different. It is never like this. It appears far away. He walks slowly towards it. Stops. Pivots. Stares at the space.

  Sterile.

  White.

  Bright lights.

  He looks towards the window he knows should be just to his right. If it is, it’s well covered.

  Camouflaged.

  His private chambers?

  It can’t be. It’s nothing. Certainly nothing familiar.

  Clashes cause him to jump and look the other way.

  Towards the door.

  Out in the hall.

  He follows the sounds, tentatively putting one foot in front of the other. His feet feel like lead. They slide along, almost as if he were dragging them. He reaches for the wall to steady himself. He shouldn’t be up and about. Isn’t it what they said?

  Who said?

  Someone said it.

  When?

  What year is it?

  He can’t remember.

  He’s traveled through time before. Many times. But to this time? He wasn’t sure.

  The door slides open at a mere touch.

  Not his door. Different. The doors used to be solid oak, carved from the timber once gracing his land.

  He steps through the doorway.

  And blinks.

  Many times.

  The light is like daggers piercing his eyeballs.

  The hall is as bright, as white and as sterile as the room he left behind him. The doors on either side are shut, but there are windows. Where once there hung portraits and paintings of landscapes, he notices windows. Instead of admiring works of art, he can look inside each room. It had never been the case before.

  Everything was so different. This is, or was, his home. His domain. His kingdom.

  Yes. He was right.

  He is a king. King of Scotland.

  He approaches the first room on the side retaining physical support, his hand still braced on the wall to steady him. He looks in the window. There’s a bed. A figure lies under crisp white sheets, monitors beeping all around.

  It’s a woman. Her great ancestor. At least it looks like her. Only younger than he remembers from his frequent jumps through time.

  Mary Elizabeth.

  Was she queen at this age?

  Or had she yet to claim her throne?

  He moves on down the hall. The next room is a hive of activity. As he glances through the window, he sees the figure on the bed, covered in the same crisp white sheets as the woman in the previous room. Monitors beeping. But there are others present. All wearing crisp white lab coats. Some carrying needles, syringes.

  There’s blood.

  And voices.

  “Close it up.” A man’s voice.

  “Did it take?” A woman’s.

  “Too soon to tell.”

  A woman turns towards the door and sees him staring into the room. She marches over and pulls down a blind. He can no longer see what’s going on. But he can hear.

  “Who was it?” The man again.

  “Young King Henry.” A woman.

  “He is a difficult patient. You would think by the twenty-fifth century our technology would be sufficient to overcome the brain of a nineteenth century human.”

  “Can you wipe his memory again?”

  Again? Wipe his memory? It doesn’t sound good. What’s going on here? And why would they want to wipe his memory?

  “He’s too strong. Too independent. His mind’s too powerful.”

  It was time to retreat. But where? He used to know all the safe places in Holyrood House. Places he could hide and not be found. He and Bertie had discovered them together as children. But he was no longer a child. This was no longer the Holyrood House he knew so well.

  His brain fog was clearing; his balance restored. He was able to walk along the hall without bracing himself for support.

  Looking into another room, he noticed a prone figure connected to a similar arrangement of beeping monitors. This wasn’t good. What was going on?

  He should escape. Find an exit. The doors to the outside must be as they were.

  No. Looking down at his attire, he realized he was a sight.

  All he had on was a hospital gown, a light blue, light weight garment which barely reached his knees.

  “Your Majesty.” The woman’s voice. From the room where they worked on a body. Whose body, he didn’t know.

  Turning, he realized he was caught. Again.

  Why did he think he was caught? Why did his mind flash the word ‘again’ across his memory banks?

  The woman reached him and took his arm. “Your room is down this way.”

  There would be no escaping this time.

  Ten

  Balmoral Castle, June 1st, Year of Our Lord 1861

  “Uncle Harry.” The boys called out in a chorus of cheerful, yet boisterous voices. There was Bertie, overtly assured of himself at the age of twenty, Alfred, not much younger at seventeen, and Leopold a young boy at only eight. The English princes and himself at sixteen. A self-assured young man who, even at a young age, was fond of his English royal cousins.

  Young Henry was standing beside an older man, Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s prince consort. A bond had established between the two. Albert had taken a liking to the young Scottish king, taking him under his wing, so to speak, after Henry’s father passed away suddenly when the young prince was only ten. Now at sixteen, he was a young man ready to take on his crown, a task he was determined to do as soon as he was eighteen. In the meantime, the young king was active in his realm.

  This latest project, the building of Balmoral, had caused some conflict between himself and his mother, the Regent. Prince Albert had come to his defense, pointing out it would be a great learning project for the king-in-waiting, one his sons would benefit from as well.

  As if his thoughts could speak volumes, Albert met his gaze. “Uncle Harry,” he called in greeting, a huge smile plastered across his face. He chose to call him uncle to avoid confusion between the other Henry present. “Come see what we’re doing.”

  Henry, the boy, waved him closer. “Uncle Albert has been studying my drawings and he thinks we can use some of my ideas in the castle we’re building.” He recalled the affectionate title they attributed to Queen Victoria’s husband. He had always been such a friendly sort, reaching out to the young people with care and enthusiasm, often treating them as his equal.

  When the older Henry stood next to his younger self, he studied the drawings he remembered making all those years ago. “Yes,” he agreed with enthusiasm. “I think there should be a tower or two. You have the right idea, young Henry.”

  “I am not so young, any more, Uncle Harry.” The boy took in a deep breath and shook his head, tut-tutting as if scolding his older self. “I will soon be a real king, ruling on my own.” At the moment, Henry, the king-in-waiting, demonstrated his true colors. His strengths. His commanding presence. At the moment, he was every inch the king he would soon become.

  “Henry. Show your elders some respect.” A woman slid towards them, silently. Slid is the best way to describe the manner in which the Regent Queen moved. Everything about her was slick and slippery. You never knew where you stood in her presence and her sharp tongue was always at the ready. The older Henry recognized her conniving personality now, but in his youth, he merely cowered in her presence.

  “Elizabeth.” Uncle Harry greeted the woman.

  She nodded in response. “Henry. I didn’t know you were visiting again.” She put added emphasis on the word, ‘again’. “I have been doing my research. I can’t seem to find you in any of my husband’s family trees. How did you say you were related?”

  “I didn’t.” He no longer cowered when she challenged. Uncle Harry met his mother’s scrutiny with equal intensity. “Perhaps you
should consider some of the illegitimate possibilities?” This woman was being far too analytical of his presence and his right to be with the royals. A simple word explaining his family connection would no longer suffice. A suggestion of an illegitimate drop of royal blood might do. For now.

  She tipped her nose in a snub. “Perhaps.” She took up position on the other side of young Henry, pretending to show interest in his drawings. “Well, Albert.” She ignored her son and addressed the Prince Consort. “What do you think of this project? Truthfully, now. Is this a project worthy of all the time and money?”

  “Worthy?” Albert cocked an eyebrow. He was familiar with Elizabeth’s challenging ways. Challenging, of course, was a mild description. Elizabeth was every bit her father, Lord George Borthwick, the twenty-second peer of Borthwick Castle in the historic county of Midlothian just south of Edinburgh. One of the oldest royal lords in Scotland, the Borthwick peerage dated its presence in Scotland to the eleventh century when the noble family accompanied Queen Margaret to Scotland during the reign of King Malcolm III. The Borthwick family had long been ardent supporters of the Scottish crown and sided with Queen Mary I as she fled captivity in 1567 and later with her daughter, Queen Mary Elizabeth I, in her claim to the throne which kept the country free and independent. Since then, the Borthwicks enjoyed a rare and honored connection with the royal Stuarts of Scotland, including young Elizabeth’s marriage to King James VIII. Henry was their only child, his parents choosing to lead separate lives after his birth. When James was killed tragically in a riding accident, which Henry continued to believe was more than just an accident, Elizabeth was quick to assume the role of Regent of Scotland, a role her family supported. The Borthwick lust for power and control became exceedingly evident as the young king slowly approached the age of majority, the age when he would assume the throne in his own right.

  Albert was well read in the histories of both England and Scotland. He knew the Borthwick heritage. He recognized their lust for power. Their ability to plot and manipulate others to their own purposes. They were all strong willed, determined people, intent on bending the will of others to mirror their own. They were privileged peers, always close to the Scottish crown, and the first to take advantage of any given situation. When it was decided Henry’s father, King George, needed a wife to provide an heir, it was decided a Scottish lass should be chosen. What better choice than a Borthwick lass like Elizabeth.

  She was as strong willed and unrelenting in her prejudices and opinions as all the other Borthwicks as well as being a beautiful woman. She hid her obstinate nature from the king until he was pledged to her. She provided him with a son and then sought refuge in her own affairs until the sad demise of Henry’s father. Then Elizabeth, Queen and Regent, rose to her full potential. She was a powerful, obstinate force to be reckoned with.

  Young Henry couldn’t wait to have full control of his realm. Always a patient man, his younger self was quickly losing it where his mother was concerned. He would be a powerful king in his own time, the older Henry gave a smile of satisfaction as he studied his own inner conflict where his mother was concerned. He might be short in patience, but he knew how to avoid confrontation, diplomatically, of course. It was something he honed to perfection, even more so where it concerned his southern neighbors. He was forever aware of the consequences of creating friction between England and Scotland.

  “Your son is a good student,” Albert gave the regent queen a warm smile. He was also aware of the woman’s lust for other women’s husbands. Albert had often been confronted with her uncomfortable advances. So far, he had managed to escape unscathed and with his reputation as a faithful husband to Queen Victoria still intact. “He is learning more than just architecture, dear queen. He is learning to do more than just dream, to see a project through to completion, to find ways to overcome obstacles and to treat his workers fairly. The latter is most important. For we are all God’s creatures, equal in His eyes. And we deserve equal respect for our labors.”

  Elizabeth harrumphed as elegantly as a lady of her stature could. She did not agree with Albert’s view of the world. Her greed allowed her only one vision: one of power and control. Giving into worker’s rights and demands was definitely not on her agenda. “So you say. No need to preach. I get enough religion every Sunday at church.” She patted her son on the shoulder. “Well, Henry. I think you’ve had enough of building castles for one day. You have other things to consider. Isabel will be arriving soon. You need to make her feel welcome. She will make a good partner for you.”

  Isabel. The older Henry cringed. He had tried to appease his mother in so many ways. Isabel had been one of those appeasements. One he would regret for as long as she, Isabel, lived. Fortunately, his mother had passed away soon after his marriage to Isabel. Elizabeth no longer presented a problem. Only when he jumped back in time and she challenged his right to claim a connection to the royal family.

  Isabel. She was sweet. She was also young. Only thirteen years to Henry’s seventeen. She hadn’t won his heart yet. His heart belonged to another. Always would. Isabel was still too much a child. But she loved to try. Eventually she would reel him in like a coddled fish. He could tolerate her then, be friendly to her. When she was sixteen. Sweet and innocent. He was blinded by youth and duty. He did try to appease her ever wish, every desire. He did try to love her.

  It only made her ultimate deception, her spying for England, more painful to endure.

  Eleven

  Holyrood House, Edinburgh, Sometime in the Future

  “Your Majesty. You need to rest.” The woman again.

  He blinked his eyes at the bright lights overhead. “Where am I? What are you doing to me?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “And the others?” His eyes darted around the room, trying to take in his surroundings. The light was blinding. His eyes couldn’t focus. Even the woman standing over him was a blur of white and skin tones. She was holding something thin and narrow, pointing upwards. Something squirted out. She tapped it with a finger.

  “What others?” Her question sounded programmed. A deterrent from what was happening around him. What was happening? He was so confused. Why couldn’t he wrap his brain around this place? This event? It was as if his mind was engulfed in a thick fog. He spoke without understanding. He so much wanted to understand.

  “Princess Mary Elizabeth. Her mother, Marie de Guise. William Shakespeare of all people. Those others. I know there are more.”

  “Never you mind,” the woman tut-tutted. The hand holding the pointed object lowered. Out of his vision. “You will soon forget.”

  “I don’t want to forget. I want to know. I want to understand.” His head spun left. Then right. Then left again. He could feel the constraints. He tried to pull up his arms. He tried to move his legs. He was strapped down. Confined. “Why?” he cried out in frustrated agony. “Why? Why? Why?” His voice cracked as if he was sobbing from deep within. He didn’t like this feeling of confinement. He was a man who expected full control over all he did. He was incapable of doing anything at the moment. Except cry out in desperation.

  No sympathy from the woman. Just strict words of protocol. “Doctor’s orders, Your Majesty. Doctor’s orders.” A needle pricked his arm. Blackness overtook him. Again.

  Twelve

  Holyrood House, Edinburgh, May 1st, Year of Our Lord 1875

  Henry left his chambers and immediately went to the nursery. He wanted to make sure his son was safe. He should have checked sooner, but with all the demands on his time and presence, his day had not been his own. The plotting and mischief behind his back plagued him. He couldn’t be too careful. He would have to select new nursery staff as the current women employed in this task had been hired by his wife and were, no doubt, faithful to her and not to him.

  He didn’t knock. He marched through the door. It was his right. There was a flurry of activity in the several rooms set aside for his son’s care. The women were packing b
aby items into trunks with quick efficiency.

  “What’s this?” he demanded. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Everyone froze. They hadn’t heard him enter, but they heard him now.

  Miss Margaret, young Edward’s nanny, made her way to the king and gave him his due reverence with a brisk curtsy. “Your Majesty. We didn’t expect you here. We heard the queen had been moved to Loch Leven Castle and we were preparing to join her. The young prince is asleep. Perhaps you would care to see him before we depart?”

  “Depart?” Henry bellowed. “You and my son are not going anywhere!”

  “But Your Majesty,” Miss Margaret stuttered. “I thought…”

  He quickly raised a hand to interrupt. “You are in my employ, not the queen’s. My son stays here. Now. Start unpacking everything and return these rooms to proper order. Yes, I will check on my son. And I will stay here with him until new staff, people who are loyal to me, can be assigned to replace the lot of you.” He waved off any protest and marched through to the next room where young Edward was indeed sound asleep in his cradle.

  “Well, my lad.” He spoke soothingly to his sleeping son. “It’s just you and me, now. Just you and me. Two men at the helm and no conniving, plotting females to hinder our lives. Just the way it should be, don’t you think?”

  “Your Majesty,” Miss Margaret whispered from the door to the adjoining room. “Might I have a word?”

  He waved her in. “I will not leave him.” He eyed the woman warily. “Anyone complicit in stealing him away shall be charged with treason as well as kidnapping. My son stays with me.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I was misinformed. Please accept my apologies.”

  Henry merely nodded. “For now. We shall see.”

  “The others, too. They were only doing as they were told.”