King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

The Cave, Scotland Wilds, Autumn, Year of Our Lord 1875

  Henry woke to the chill and the aches which accompanied the discomfort of sleeping on a cold, hard packed, dirt floor. The embers in the fire had long since died out. The rain outside abated.

  He studied the men lying around the cave and the one half asleep at the entrance, presumably standing guard. James was nowhere to be seen. Henry hadn’t expected to see James again. Not here. Not now.

  Hearing the king moving about, the others made attempts to awaken as well. It was time to make haste to Edinburgh. Henry knew his son was safe. But for how long? The others with him in the cave knew nothing of what had transpired at Holyrood House. Or did they? Was there a spy even amongst his most trusted guards here in the cave?

  “Saddle up,” he ordered as he pushed himself off the ground, picking up the cape he had wrapped around him for meagre warmth during the night. He gave it a good shake before tossing it across his shoulders. It was damp, but if the sun was managing to peak through the thick overgrowth cloaking the hillside, the cape, and himself, would dry quickly and provide him with some comfort on the ride. “We must go. Now.” There was no time to bank up the fire. No time for a morning repast. They had to make haste.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” came a chorus of grunts and accolades. The men were honorable, trustworthy. Henry only had the best close by. Robbie had helped him select the men. He trusted Robbie and Robbie trusted these men. He hoped his trust wasn’t misplaced. He had to trust someone.

  They saddled, mounted and made their way across the hillock and down the other side, only to mount another hillock after circumnavigating the valley and the rushing stream which ran through its center. They maintained this course most of the morning, up and down, splashing through streams and keeping their mounts at a steady pace. They didn’t stop to eat or drink, only a little water for the horses before they crossed the last stream before entering the outskirts of Edinburgh.

  They made their way directly to Holyrood House. They entered the main courtyard and dismounted, handing the horses’ leads to the stable boys who came rushing out. “Give them a good rubdown, lads,” Henry called out as he dashed towards the main entrance. “And an extra serving of oats. They deserve it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” was echoed several times as the boys acknowledged his orders before going about the task.

  Henry entered the main hall and was greeted by a rather disturbed guard. “Your Majesty. Something terrible has happened.” The guard all but sputtered, shifting from one foot to another. “Someone must have spiked our food or drink. We were only knocked out for about an hour. Long enough for them to take your son.”

  “Them? Who?” Henry’s voice struggled to maintain calm. He was angry, but hopefully he could rely on the fact his son was safe. He came here first in the hopes of ascertaining the guilty persons. He knew the nanny was part of the plot, but who was the Englishman in the nursery, the extremely angry Englishman?

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew there wouldn’t be one. The guards didn’t know any more than he did. Tossing his muddied cape along with his gloves on a nearby chair, Henry dashed up the main staircase, taking two steps at a time as he left a trail of mud in his wake. He stormed into the nursery to find his son’s attendants in a fluster, not knowing what to do or who to blame.

  “What happened? Where’s Miss Margaret? Bring her to me now!”

  The ladies studied each other. No one wanted to speak. Finally, the woman who served as the young prince’s nursemaid stepped forward. She curtseyed, rather awkwardly, then started to speak. “She’s…” she stumbled, not sure how to continue. “We found her…” Breaking into shudders of sobs, she merely pointed in the direction of the room where the baby slept.

  Henry rushed into the room. It was in shambles. The walls were split open, kicked or crushed by a sharp object. The corner which hid the secret staircase was still intact more or less, his secret secure for now. The cradle was overturned and the baby items scattered helter-skelter across the floor. In the center of all this mess lay the body of Edward’s nanny. He didn’t need to look any closer to realize she was dead. The amount of blood caking the back of her neck and pooling around her upper body attested to the fact. So much for learning anything from her.

  He returned to the main room of the nursery. Looking at each woman astutely, studying them closely, he demanded, “Where’s my son?” No one answered. “What happened here? Who did this?”

  “We fell asleep, Your Majesty,” the nursemaid whimpered. “The guards who woke us said everyone was drugged. Miss Margaret was already dead,” she fidgeted nervously at the word, ‘dead’, “and the young prince gone.”

  “Who was here before this happened?”

  “An English lord, Your Majesty. He claimed he was here to see you and he would await your return. But he’s no longer here.”

  “What English lord?”

  “Perhaps I can answer your question.” It was the voice of the guard he had met in the main hall. “Lord Dudley of the Lake District. Very abrasive. Didn’t trust him. Set guards to watch him, but I guess he got the better of us all.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Just hours.”

  “Go after him. He can’t have gone far. You know the land between here and the border better than anyone. You’ve also seen this man and will recognize him. Get him. Bring him back.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The guard bowed smartly and left to do the king’s bidding.

  “Have someone remove the body. Then you ladies must clean up the mess.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The women chorused, somewhat unsure of the situation, yet relieved to have been issued orders they could follow.

  Henry made an abrupt turn on his heel and stormed out of the room, his anger barely contained. How dare anyone threaten his family!

  He made his way to his chambers where his attendant was waiting to help him clean up and put on fresh, dry clothes. The shivers subsided once he had changed. He dismissed his man, locked the doors and made way for the secret panel leading to the same staircase. He squeezed inside, pulling the panel securely shut behind him. He went up, instead of down. Mary Elizabeth was right. It was time he started spying on all those around him. He wanted to listen in on the conversations while the nursery was being tidied. Someone knew something and neither he, nor his son, was safe in this building until he knew who was involved in the conspiracy.

  Settled inside the hidden space near his son’s nursery, Henry listened intently. “You have to tell him.” It was Robbie.

  “I can’t, my lord.” A woman’s voice. One of the nursery attendants, but which one, he couldn’t be sure.

  “He needs to know.” Footsteps thundered away, the only sounds left were the sniffles of women as they set about cleaning the nursery.

  “Your Majesty.” It was Robbie. Down below. Just outside his own chambers.

  Henry made his way back down the stairs and entered his chambers, carefully closing the panel shut behind him. Robbie sounded frantic. “Your Majesty. You must escape. I must see you safely away from here. Before…” His next words were cut off as the door crashed open and his man’s limp body was thrust inwards.

  “How dare you!” Henry greeted the hulk of man invading his private space.

  “I dare on the commands of my queen, Victoria, Queen of England. And soon to be Queen of Scotland as well.”

  “I don’t think so.” Henry maintained his calm with a demure smile. “And you are?”

  “Arthur Dudley, Lord Warden of the Marches. You needn’t have sent your man to bring me back. I have my orders and I wouldn’t dream of leaving Edinburgh until I had followed all of my orders.” He paused briefly, allowing his words to hang in the air long enough to garner some sort of reaction from the Scottish king. Not satisfied, the lord decided to poke deeper. “I am here on behalf of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, who will one day rule all of Scotland as well as England. After I remove you and your son and take your wife
home to the English court, the English will invade and the Scottish crown will be no more. It’s what should have happened hundreds of years ago. If it hadn’t been for your Stuart ancestor, Queen Mary Elizabeth, you would not exist and neither would your crown. Now. Where is the young prince? You have obviously spirited him away somewhere you deem safe.”

  “I have, but you’ll never find him.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Guards.” The irksome English lord bellowed. He glanced away from Henry for mere seconds. But it was long enough. Henry made a quick decision. It was time to move out of this time. To the future. But how far? At what point could he fix this problem? Or could he fix this problem? It was time to visit his once favorite cousin, Bertie, the Prince of Wales. But when? And where? There had been a time when they were friends, trusted confidantes. Were they still? Now was the time to test the waters, so to speak.

  The Lord of the Marches returned his gaze to the king. Or, at least where the king had once stood.

  “Find him!” he bellowed.

  Twenty-One

  HMSS Serapis, Enroute to India, October, Year of Our Lord 1875

  “It’s a fine ship, the Serapis,” Henry leaned over the rail, standing next to his cousin as they both feasted their eyes on the calm blue waters. It wasn’t always like this. A gentle rock of the ship as waves splashed lazily against her hull. The ocean could be a fierce companion. Today, however, it was calm. “A fine day to take in the fresh sea air.”

  “Henry,” Bertie boomed with his usual exuberance, letting out a puff of his cigar, allowing the smoke to drift across the open water, before turning to greet the Scottish king. “I didn’t know you were on board. Oh! Wait! No! You jumped through time again, didn’t you?” Bertie was one of the few non-time travelers who knew about Henry’s ability to jump through time, a secret he swore to keep. However, it was a secret he kept reluctantly, almost jealous since he couldn’t do what Henry could do. What a blast it must be to jump through time. Bertie would use the talent to jump from one bordello to another! All over the world. He had managed to keep the secret. It was more out of self preservation. Who would believe him, anyway? Time travel? Not a chance. They’d all think he was daft and there were plenty of people who already believed he was.

  Henry continued to scan the waters. He decided it was best to let Bertie take the lead in the conversation. “So, what can I do for you now?” the English prince finally asked, barely masking the tone of exasperation in his voice. “You know I’m half a world away from Mother, so I can’t intervene on your behalf. She wouldn’t listen anyway. The captain says we’ll be at our destination in a few days. India. Who would have thought she’d allow her heir to venture so far from her powerful grasp?”

  “India. One of the many countries under the cruel English controlling fist of power.”

  “Now Henry. You’re putting it a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Bertie argued, taking another draw from his cigar and slowly exhaling the smoke which slithered away in the gentle breeze washing across the waters and the upper deck where the men stood. “We’re not all bad, you know.”

  “And yet the English crown still wants to control Scotland and all its colonies.” Henry pivoted so he was only half leaning on the rail. He wanted to study Bertie’s face as he grilled him, challenged him. “You know your mother sent someone to kidnap my son, so he could be brought up in the English royal court and married off to one of your daughters. The same person your mother sent was intent on taking my life as well. Now how do you explain it?” He couldn’t resist the urge to point his finger into Bertie’s chest, something he had often done in his younger years, something his cousin didn’t like one bit.

  Bertie let out a cough, as if he were choking on his cigar. A stickler for his appearance, it was a wonder he favored this appalling vice. Dressed, meticulously as always, in a tweed outfit, sporting a Homburg hat and Norfolk jacket and trouser legs pressed from side to side, a personal preference and a style he promoted, Bertie had the look of both casual comfortable and formally important. He was obviously a man who was never uncomfortable with who he was or how he appeared to others. “My dear fellow. I have no idea what you’re talking about. But the charade you led back in the spring, evicting us, the English royals from Scotland, and convicting your wife to a life imprisoned in a ghastly medieval castle where none other than our ancestor, Mary Queen of Scots, was imprisoned. It was all a bit much. Having Mother, and myself as well, escorted to the border and forbidden admittance ever again to Scotland. You did go a bit far. Turned the hand, so to speak.” He paused to take another puff of his cigar. Leaving it between his teeth, he half muttered, “You do realize they’re going to name Mother, Empress of India. It’s the whole reason for my trip here. To boost morale and promote her influence, her importance, and her imperial power.”

  Henry snorted. “Right. Through abuse and bully tactics.”

  “Now, Henry.” The prince shook his head. “Don’t be so harsh. You’ve been known to use bully tactics on occasion. Your wife being the most recent example.”

  “I have never and will never bully anyone, let alone my wife.” He could almost taste the venom of his words, but he didn’t stop his tyrannical words of self defense. “I had to protect what is mine, Bertie.” Henry was barely able to control the mounting anger. He knew his cousin could be a bit pompous at times, but pointing an accusing finger at him? Too much. “Scotland is mine and my son’s. Not England’s. And it never will be. My wife and your mother have been threatening me and what’s mine for some time now.”

  “So, you claim,” Bertie snapped back, his anger equally evident in his barely contained expression. “She would never have married your son to one of my daughters, you know. Too closely related and all.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Henry moved closer to his cousin, seeking restitution and a plausible explanation. “Are you suggesting Edward is not mine? Perhaps yours?” The thought had never entered his mind before this, but it was entirely possible. Isabel had grown up in the English court and Bertie had easy access to her. He was the flamboyant ladies’ man after all.

  “Time will reveal all.” Avoiding further direct confrontation, Bertie returned his concentration to the waters below, his usual stance to prevent others from witnessing his distress. “So, who did she send?”

  “Arthur Dudley.”

  Bertie guffawed, which converted into another fit of coughing. When he recovered, he said, “Never did fully recover from the bout of typhoid a few years back. A real miracle I survived at all. I do hope this dry air in India helps.”

  “They have typhoid epidemics too, Bertie. And I’m sure your smoking doesn’t help.” He couldn’t avoid the lecture tone of voice.

  “Yes, they do. And my smoking soothes, not hinders my condition.” He cleared his throat. “So, she sent the Lord Warden of the Marches. A real brute of a man.” He shook his head. “We’d be better off without men like him. He takes an order and manipulates it in such a way no one benefits and the end result is a lot of casualties.” He patted his cousin fondly on the shoulder closest to him. “I am sorry, my dear old fellow. But there is nothing I can do for you. Except offer my sympathies and perhaps have a chat, face to face, with my dear mother. When I do get to see her again. Which, of course, won’t be for another year or two.”

  “Bertie.” A woman’s voice, perhaps his wife, perhaps his latest mistress, called from behind the men. “Who are you talking to?”

  Bertie was about to explain when he noticed his cousin had vanished.

  Twenty-Two

  Stirling Castle, Late Fall, Year of Our Lord 1875

  Henry loved this old castle. He had spent considerable time and money on multiple renovations to keep the castle liveable as well as fortified to face whatever late nineteenth century warfare could throw its way. Scottish royal history was invincibly connected with this powerful stronghold. Situated on the peak of an intrusive crag, known as Castle Hill, in the tiny community of Stirling, the castle had
a reputation of being almost impenetrable from invading forces. It was surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs, giving it a strategic advantage of a strong defensive position. With thick, stone walled ramparts, the sprawling castle, much of which dated from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (though some of it was built much earlier), was the birthplace of countless Scottish kings and queens, many of whom had also married at Stirling and held court in the castle. It was a good place to hide out, which was Henry’s intent. At least until the English assassins seeking his untimely death were caught and dealt with.

  He had managed to slip through the iron grasp of the Lord of the Marches. Initially playing along with his capture, Henry had secured some valuable intel. Queen Victoria’s instructions had been to bring both the Scottish king and his heir to the royal court at Windsor. Lord Dudley had only managed to secure Henry as his prisoner for a few minutes at most. He had tried to grill the king, to no avail. Even if Henry had told him the prince’s whereabouts, Lord Dudley wouldn’t have believed him.

  The Lord of the Marches had an explosive temper. Barely contained. Henry knew he had no alternative than to just vanish into the time warp. It was the only way. Who knew what this temper-infested man would do when he thoroughly unleashed his fury on the king? The quick decision to leap through time had been executed with precision. After his quick jump to visit his cousin, Henry returned to his time. Though not to Holyrood House. He returned to Stirling Castle.

  Reports from Edinburgh outlined the destructive nature of Lord Dudley’s search for Henry, not just in Holyrood House, but in the entire city. Anyone standing in his way was executed on the spot. Bodies, bloodied and lifeless, littered the streets and the halls of the great homes, including his own.

  What have I done to deserve this? Henry repeated this question like a mantra, over and over again in his head, as he slept, as he paced the ramparts, the battlements and the courtyard, and as he wandered from room to room. What have I done to deserve this? What have I done to deserve this? What have I done to deserve this?