He picked up a letter opener and carefully slid it under the seal, which lifted with ease. “Let’s see if Queen Mary had anything to say in this letter which might help us.”
Cecil, who had been standing by the door keeping watch, quickly bolted it before rushing over the to king and prince. “We have to leave. Now. Someone comes. And I don’t believe they’ll be friendly. Gather the letters. Leave the casket. Let’s make haste.”
Henry was picking up the stack of letters as Cecil talked. He tucked them carefully inside his jacket. He stood to follow Cecil and his son, stopping when a glimmer of something sparkled from the bottom of the casket captured his attention. He picked it up and, barely looking at it, shoved it in his pocket as well.
Cecil had moved towards the hidden passage. He was definitely a descendant as only Royal Stuarts knew of its existence. He ushered them inside, pulling the door closed just as heavy banging forced open the door to Henry’s chambers with a resounding crash.
“He’s here. Somewhere.” The voice was gruff. Curt. To the point.
“The secret passageway perhaps.” Another voice. Another descendant. Who else knew of the Stuart secrets? “Over here.”
Cecil tugged Henry’s arm with one hand, his other firmly grasping Edward’s. The king blinked and found himself in Grandmother Marie’s study in the twenty-first century.
“You’re here. At last.” Marie greeted them. “We don’t have much time. Do you have the letters?” Henry nodded. “And the jewel?” He nodded again, patting his chest to indicate they were safely tucked away. “Good. You must leave. Immediately. Mary Elizabeth. Go meet your cousins. You have a long overdue assignment from your mother.”
“And you too, Grandmother?” Mary Elizabeth challenged the command. “You must come, too. You haven’t seen your family in years. You must come.”
Grandmother Marie gave her granddaughter a sad smile. “I think seeing their long-believed-to-be-dead cousin, the once Scottish queen and regent, would unsettle them to no end. They might even order us to be burned as witches. No. I cannot go this time. But you must. Now. Before it’s too late. I will see you all in the future.”
Thirty-Four
Castle of Guise, Northern France, Summer, 1587
“What?” a gruff voice exclaimed in the old French spoken in noble circles in the region of Lorraine. A man sat by the fireplace, the hearth burning low, projecting little heat. Robed in the scarlet tunic of a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church, Henry knew instantly who the man was. Louis II, Cardinal of Guise, third son of Marie de Guise’s brother, Francis, Duke of Guise.
“Who goes there?” the voice cackled, as if they man had been roughly shaken out of a deep slumber.
“Your Lordship. Cousin. It is I. Princess Mary Elizabeth, daughter of the late Queen Mary of Scotland.” Mary Elizabeth stepped forward. She knelt before the man, taking his raised right hand to kiss the ecclesiastical ring. She wasn’t Catholic, but she was familiar with the protocol of the era. In order to gain his respect and attention, she had to earn it. As would the others when they were introduced. “I have come with letters from Mother. Letters for you.”
The older man grunted to clear his throat. “My cousin didn’t have a daughter. Least of all one who lived.”
“But she did and I am living proof.”
“Come closer, child.” He squinted as Mary Elizabeth approached. “But no longer a child, I see. Yes, you look like her. Perhaps you are her daughter.” He reached out his hand. “Give me the letters, then. Let’s see what she has to say about all this.” He eyes took in the people standing behind Mary Elizabeth. “And who are all these other people who have invaded my quiet time?”
“More cousins, your Lordship.”
“Humph! Just what I need! More cousins! And they all want something from me.” Mary Elizabeth handed him the top letter. He hesitated briefly, expecting her to pass over the lot all at once. When she didn’t, he took the one offered and studied the seal intently, his eyes squinting in the process. Nodded with satisfaction. “It is hers.” He slipped a knife under the seal and broke it, opening the parchment paper. He sat quietly as he read.
He reached out his hand. “The others,” he demanded.
Mary Elizabeth paused. “But what does it say, your Lordship?”
“For my eyes only.” He snapped his fingers, impatience evident. “The others. Now. I might have something to share after I have read them all.”
Mary Elizabeth reluctantly handed them over. He repeated the process: studied the seal, nodded with satisfaction, slipped the knife under the seal to break it, opened the paper and quietly read. Each one in turn, starting with the one on the top and making his way to the bottom. There were six letters in all. Henry and the others remained standing at the far end of the room. No one spoke. The room was eerily quiet, except for the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. Even those embers were slowly dissipating as the fire burned out.
Finally, with a deep sigh, the aging cardinal re-folded the last letter and placed it on top of the others which now sat on his side table. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to penetrate deeper. It was a shock when he finally did speak. “There are evil forces at play.” He sounded like he was giving a homily from the pulpit to a dedicated following of churchgoers. He allowed his eyes to roam around the room, studying each person with analytical precision. “Come closer and sit,” he motioned with his hands.
Henry led the way. Edward and Cecil followed. Mary Elizabeth introduced each one as they made their display of respect, kneeling and kissing his ring. The group made themselves as comfortable as possible, Mary Elizabeth, Henry and Cecil pulling up chairs and Edward sitting cross-legged on the floor. They sat in silence, allowing the cardinal to take the lead in the conversation.
“We have much to discuss.”
Finally, “And who did you say this lad was?”
Mary Elizabeth explained, in greater detail than she had in her introductions, the family tree which lead to Edward’s position as prince of Scotland, obviously deciding right on the spot to provide full disclosure. “I did say they were all cousins, your Lordship. And they are. Cousins from the future.” She raised a hand towards Henry. “This is my many great-grandson, King Henry I of Scotland, in the year of our Lord, 1877. The boy is his son, Prince Edward, heir to the throne of Scotland. And this,” she motioned towards Cecil, “is another many, many great grandson, Cecil Stuart, from the year of our Lord 2445.”
Louis quickly crossed himself. “Oh my!” He whispered something which sounded like a Latin prayer and crossed himself again. “We do have evil forces in our presence.” He sat forward as if he were to call out for help, but Mary Elizabeth stopped him.
“Hear us out first, Cousin. Calling your guards will not stop what is already happening. Yes, we are time travelers, a magic from the twenty-fifth century that is plaguing our history even as we speak. And we must stop it!” She paused, watching her cousin intently. When he settled back with a nod, she continued. “We are not the evil forces, but there are evil forces which have managed to steal this ability to jump through time and they are the ones we should fear.” The cardinal nodded again and waved a hand for her to continue. “My grandmother, Marie de Guise, your father’s sister, is a time traveler. It was she who rescued me from death at birth and took me to the future where they could save me. She brought me up in the twenty-first century and it was only recently I discovered my ability to jump through time. My purpose was, or I should say is, to save Scotland from being amalgamated to England when Elizabeth dies and leaves the throne to my brother, King James VI.” She paused again and studied her cousin intently. “I will succeed, Cousin. My descendants here are living proof that I do succeed. But there are forces threatening Scottish independence throughout the centuries following my rule. It must be stopped, in the future, in the present and in the past. I have seen these evil forces. So, have the others here.”
“What is you need from me? All my niece
advises is to help you. But how can I help something I don’t even understand?” He shook his head, obviously befuddled. “I can offer you blessings and prayers, but somehow I think it won’t help much with the evil you describe.”
All Mary Elizabeth could do was smile. It was Henry who answered. “We have reason to believe you have something which will help us in the battle we are now facing. Something my many great grandmother, Marie de Guise, gave to her brother and was hopefully passed down to you.”
Louis sat quietly for a few minutes, pondering, his eyes downcast as if he were studying his hands. “The sword perhaps?” He caught Henry’s eyes with his.
“Excalibur?” Henry didn’t believe in the myths, but King Arthur’s sword was legendary, even in Scotland.
“Not quite.” The cardinal didn’t hide his smile, though it appeared more like a grimace than a smile. “Scotland, I believe you must know, has its own legends, myths and magic.” Henry nodded. “The sword I speak of is the sword of King Robert the Bruce, your first Scottish king who fought for independence from the English.”
“King Robert’s sword?” Henry quirked his eyebrows to emphasize his query. “But I thought it was in safe keeping at Clackmannan Tower.” This was a five-storey tall tower at the top of King’s Seat Hill in Clackmannan, not far from Stirling. Built in the fourteenth century, the tower symbolized Scottish independence due to its close association with Robert Bruce who purchased it from his cousin, the then King David II of Scotland. So much Scottish history. So much myth and legends. King Robert’s sword was significant, believed to have magical powers attached to it and to whomever held it in battle. Henry wasn’t convinced he believed any of this magic stuff. Then again, who was he to talk? He was merely a time traveler, living the life upon which legends and myths were built.
“My aunt, Marie de Guise, had it hidden here at the same time she sent her daughter, an infant, to the court of France. It has been in my family’s safekeeping ever since. No one has asked for it. No one seems to realize it’s missing.”
The cardinal rose from his seat and moved slowly towards the fireplace. He reached just above the hearth and pulled out a stone. An entire row of stones pivoted outwards, revealing a long, narrow hidden compartment. He reached in with both hands and pulled out a long object. The sword. Turning carefully, he presented the sword to Henry.
“I believe this was meant for you, Your Majesty.” He dipped his head in obeisance, recognizing Henry’s noble rank. Henry did likewise, accepting the sword with care and respect.
He took time to study it closely, holding it reverently in his hands. Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, was a famous warrior in Scottish history, one of the first to successfully rout the English from their land and maintain his realm. His sword, the one Henry now held, was a symbol of his success as well as a symbol of the power of Scotland as an independent realm. Some even suggested it had such magnificent powers and the person who wielded the sword would be unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with no matter what weapons were used against him, past, present or future. It was an heroic sword. Forged of the strongest metals available in the fourteenth century, the sword was a marvel of both craftsmanship and artistry. The pommel was beautiful with the Cross of St. Andrew, patron saint of Scotland, emblazoned for all to see and for the bearer to feel the ethereal power of the saint, as he wrapped his hand firmly around the soft, black leather-bound grip held in place by a corded silver chain. The Lion of Scotland, plated in silver, marked the throat of the black leather scabbard with a rounded silver shoe at the scabbard’s tip. A wide belt, the leather hardened with age and sorely in need of some oil to soften it, remained attached ready and waiting for a warrior to lay claim to its powers. Was Henry the warrior of whom legend spoke?
Henry wrapped the belt around his waist, feeling a surge of energy and power as he did so. He slowly unsheathed the sword and held it high for the others to see. He ran a finger gingerly along its length, marveling the blade, unused for centuries, still sharp enough to do considerable damage. It even glistened in the flickering light from the fire in the hearth. The sword glistened with an electrical surge rippling from the tip to the pommel and sizzling along the king’s arm.
His eyes lit up. “I am ready. For Scotland. To defend my realm.”
Mary Elizabeth added the rallying battle cry of Scotland, the one she had initiated during her reign. “For now and forever.”
Henry, Edward and Cecil echoed her sentiments. “For now and forever.”
Thirty-Five
Toronto, Summer, Year of Our Lord 2030
It was starting to feel like another home away from home. This twenty-first century mansion, as Grandmother Marie called it, was filled with marvels unheard of in the late nineteenth century. Although he never had to carry clean water to his chambers for cleaning or remove the filled containers of human waste, others took care of the task for him, it was fascinating to watch the water flow freely from a tap and to press a nob on a white enameled chair, of sorts, and watch his human waste flush away to oblivion. He had no idea where it all went, but it vanished in an instant.
Turning on a room full of lights by flicking a switch. Listening to music from a small device his son called an iPad. Watching a huge wall project images of events around the world, not all good. Edward called this magic a wide-screened TV.
He still walked around the house in a daze whenever he visited. Too much to take in with 150 years of progress and technological advances.
“Father.” Henry was startled by the sound of his son’s voice from behind him. It earned him a chuckle. Edward couldn’t help but notice his father’s unease in such a clearly foreign setting as this. The TV was on. Loud. Edward had to shout to be heard.
“How do I turn this thing down?” Henry asked, fiddling with the little black box he was sure his son had called a remote. Remote from what, he didn’t know. He kept pressing buttons and the sound projecting from the screen continued to increase substantially.
“Here.” Edward took the remote from his father and showed him which button to press. “Follow the arrow. The one pointing left lowers the sound. The one pointing right increases it. And this,” he pointed with his thumb, “is the on-off button.” He flicked it off.
“Now may we talk?” The boy placed the remote on the table underneath the TV. They had made a jump from the France of the past to the Toronto of the future, a future well beyond Henry’s lifetime. They had to regroup and make strategic plans. This was the first opportunity father and son had to talk, just the two of them.
Henry nodded and took a seat. Edward sat opposite him. “I want to see my mother.” He came straight to the point. “I want to meet her. Before she dies. Before I die.” Edward’s mother, Isabel, had died of mysterious circumstances about a year after her incarceration at Loch Leven. It left Henry free to remarry, but he had not shown any indication or interest in sharing a throne or a bed with another woman. Trust was a big issue. Isabel had destroyed it for him. Besides, there was too much turmoil in Scotland. It wasn’t a good time to start a new marriage.
Sensing his father’s hesitation, Edward pushed forward to defend his request. “I understand what she did, Father. But she is still my mother.”
Henry didn’t say anything. He sat, studying his son intently. It was Grandmother Mary Elizabeth who broke the silence. She had entered the room and was standing by the doorway. “He has a right to visit his mother, Henry.”
Henry nodded. The thought of his late wife saddened him on so many levels. “Very well. But why now? And why the comment, before you die?”
“I won’t survive this battle, Father,” Edward spoke with an intensity and maturity far beyond his twelve years. “I’m a hemophiliac.”
“You’re a what? And why was I never informed?”
Grandmother Mary Elizabeth walked over to the boy and put an arm around his shoulders. “He’s right, Henry. He won’t survive. You need to take another wife. Produce another heir. A Scottish lass and a true
-blooded Scottish heir this time. The hemophiliac gene came from his mother. Your cousin, Leopold, was a hemophiliac. And he died young. Others in the English royal family have been plagued with this ailment as well.”
“He’s in his twenties. Not that young. And, Leopold hasn’t died.” Henry insisted. He had forgotten about his cousin’s ailment. Prince Leopold, Queen Victoria’s youngest son, was a hemophiliac. He had come close to death many times, but, as far as Henry knew, Leopold was still alive. In his early twenties. Surely his son could live into his twenties and even longer.
“Right.” Grandmother Marie corrected herself. “This time traveling sometimes mixes up my grasp of the timeline. He will die young, though.”
“But there must be treatments in the future?” Henry argued, the pain and the reality of the situation sinking in. “And why didn’t you tell me?”
“There wasn’t time,” Grandmother Mary Elizabeth spoke slowly and carefully. “And, yes there are treatments and he has been receiving them. He was always so well when you visited, we didn’t want to spoil the visit. But these treatments, clotting factor replacement therapy, where a clotting factor concentrate is infused into the blood, is not a guarantee. The disease fights back sometimes, with inhibitors. And, for Edward, the prognosis isn’t good. Plus, with all these injections, he’s contracted HIV.”
“HIV? What’s that?”
“A disease of the twentieth-century which continues to plague the human race in the twenty-fifth century.” Cecil marched into the room, obviously having heard the last part of the conversation and realising a need to contribute his medical knowledge. “HIV is an acronym for human immunodeficiency virus. It’s a virus which causes AIDS and it damages the person’s immune system, making it easier to get sick. There’s no cure. Not really. And with Edward’s system already compromised with the hemophiliac condition, it’s only a matter of time.”
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