“Yes, I have them both.” The queen nodded. “I have not read much; too much happening to allow me the luxury of reading.”
“There will be time for that.” Jamie nodded in understanding. “Once you have dealt with your brother and secured your kingdom, there will be time to read those journals. And mine as well. I shall leave it with you.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a thin, leather-bound journal, neatly tied with a leather strap. Noticing her surprise, he quickly added, “I was not as thorough as your grandmother, but I did make note of important dates, times, and time travel experiences. It may come in handy or it may not, but it will tell you when you can expect to see me again. However–” He held up a hand to stop her urge to question him before he had finished, “–when you see me again, you may or may not recognise me, as some of my visits were long before we even met. My first jump in time was when I was a lad of six. That was the time I saw my glorious death, an event I saw on a few other occasions as well.”
“I suppose I should start a journal as well,” Mary Elizabeth pondered aloud.
“It might be a good idea,” Jamie agreed. “However, you may be the last of the time travellers, so who knows what impact your journal and these others will have on the people of the future? It might be an idea to find a safe place to keep the journals, away from prying, suspicious eyes. And it might also be an idea to destroy all of them before you die, unless you find a kindred spirit, another time traveller whom you would trust with your life, and your life’s story. Let the future take care of itself.”
“You say you have seen this new future,” Mary Elizabeth had to ask. “Is it better for Scotland than the future that I grew up in?”
“Yes, it is.” Jamie said. “You must jump ahead sometime and see for yourself. But get things in order here first, including making a wiser choice in marriage partner. For you, my love, will marry and have fine, strong heirs for this kingdom. And you are quite right to avoid foreign royalty, as the frequent royal inbreeding has weakened the heirs.”
Mary Elizabeth blinked rapidly to stem the flow of tears. “But who?”
“Thomas,” he said, a weak smile playing on his face. “He is quite smitten with you, you know. And, not being a Scottish clan chief or a Scottish lord, he will make the perfect choice. An alliance with the Northumberlands will ensure peaceful relations with the other northern English lords. None of those English lords have a male heir old enough, so Thomas would be the perfect choice. No one will feel slighted and you will have a good, healthy man in your bed and a noble ally at your side.”
“For now, and forever.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes again.
“Yes. For now, and forever.” He traced a finger down the streak her tears had made until he reached under her chin. He pulled it up, gently, and placed a chaste kiss on her lips. “And our love will also be for now and forever.”
Chapter Forty-One
HADRIAN’S WALL, OCTOBER NINTH, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1603
The king paced the confines of the royal tent. It was more spacious than the others, complete with some home comforts like thick carpets on the earthen floor to keep some of the chill out. A fire burning in the cauldron emitted some heat, but it was bitterly cold and the wind whipped through the tent covers, rattling the fabric as well as everything inside, including his bones. It was late fall; it was expected to be cold. It had been cold when they left London just over a week ago. It had been cold on the long march north. But this was brutally cold. It was the type of cold he hated about Scotland, the cold that ate deep into the bones, blotted out the sunshine on an almost daily basis with thick covers of fog. A cold that sought to sear through both body and soul as it was thrown around by vicious winds from even further north.
He tugged his robe more tightly around his body and rubbed his hands together, all in a vain attempt to garner more warmth. It didn’t help. He was chilled to the bone and believed, as he often had during his life in the drafty Scottish castles, that he would never thaw.
He stomped his feet, more from frustration than from the growing cold that seeped through the thick carpet floor. She had managed to do the impossible, it seemed. Again. She had raised another huge army, which had camped on the other side of the rise that once was the great wall built by the Roman leader, Hadrian. She had a fleet of ships descending on Whitby harbor, all within sight of his land-based spies, ready and armed to fight an armada if need be. He hadn’t thought to order his ships north. He had argued with his advisors, claiming she wouldn’t have ships armed and ready in such a short time. But she had. And her force, both on land and at sea, was one to be reckoned with.
He shuddered from the cold and from what awaited at dawn —the final reckoning that would define his domain for now and forever.
The king shook his head in frustration. Even he was starting to use the new Scottish battle cry. She was making her mark on everyone, not just her, or rather his, countrymen.
“It does not get any warmer, does it brother?”
The king started, but resumed control before facing his sister. He knew her voice now, knew it quite well, in fact. Too well. “And what do you demand now?” he challenged, his voice gripped with forcibly controlled venom.
He watched with distaste as she took a step toward him. He could tell that she was relishing in the fact that, once again, she had made him feel uncomfortable. He hated her, hated what she was doing to his dream of ruling a large, amalgamated country.
“I have your son, James.” She flashed him her brightest smile. “I have Prince Charles with me. It was so kind of you to leave him behind in Scotland so I could meet one of my nephews. He is a fine lad and he will have a great future, in spite of his weak health. I was weak as a child, too, but I am strong now and I am, and will be, a great queen, just as Charles will be a strong king, if not a little misguided.”
“What do you mean, Charles will be king?” James placed his hands on his hips and adopted a stance to try and stare her down. “My older son, Henry, is Prince of Wales. Henry will be king after I die.”
“But he will not live long enough,” Mary Elizabeth pointed out. “Sad, but true. A fine lad he is, too, I am sure. I understand he is becoming quite popular amongst the people of the English court. Popularity does not guarantee long life, unfortunately, and his end will come before he reaches the age of twenty. That leaves your second son, Charles.”
“No! It cannot be true!” The king waved an angry finger at his sister. “You are a witch. You have cursed us all.”
“I am no witch, brother.” Mary Elizabeth pondered his angry outburst with patience. “I just know things. I know that your son, as King Charles I, will not be popular. He will sway toward Catholicism; he will marry a Roman Catholic and he will continually believe in the Divine Right of Kings and rule with an iron fist. It will be his downfall. So the curse of the Stuart kings and queens will find another royal to execute, just as our mother was executed.”
“No!”
“You know, James,” Mary Elizabeth continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her, “I do not understand something. Perhaps you can help me make sense of it. This thing about religion. You see, the crazy thing is, brother, five hundred years from now, the human race will still be killing each other over this concept of religion —religious beliefs or non-beliefs and the way one chooses to worship or chooses not to worship. It just does not make any sense. Especially when the majority rules there is only one God.” She shook her head sadly to emphasise her argument.
“I want what is best for Scotland.” She changed her direction of conversation. “I think that deep down in your heart, you want what is best for Scotland, too. My belief is that Scotland, my Scotland, will always be an independent, free-thinking country, open to all manner of religious beliefs, without persecution. Remember, we only have one God. So why make such a big issue over multiple religious beliefs? As long as we all believe in the ultimate good of our society and we work toward that, then the matter of religion should be left in
its place, in the privacy of one’s own conscience, where it belongs.”
“And what do you propose, sister? And what of my son?”
“I believe it is in everyone’s best interests to keep Prince Charles at the Scottish court.” She held up her hand to ward off the pending protest from her brother. “He will be well cared for and properly educated. We shall find a suitable wife for him when the time comes. Not one of your precious royal pawns from overseas, the ones that continually breed bad, sickly, and often mad offspring. No, his mate should be, and will be, a good, strong Scottish lass who will bear him good, strong sons and daughters, so that when he comes to the throne of England, he will be ready to make a good monarch.”
“Ha!” The king coughed in disbelief. “Did you not just tell me he would marry a Catholic princess? How many Catholic princesses do you know that are also strong Scottish lasses?”
“Hmm.” Mary Elizabeth tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That was the prophesy, but prophesies can be changed. We shall see.”
“And what if I rescue the lad? What if he manages to escape and venture south to the royal court where he does belong?” The king quirked an eyebrow that punctuated his questions. “What then, sister?” He spat out the last word, still finding the thought of this woman as his sister distasteful and, quite frankly, not possible.
The queen raised one eyebrow in reflection. “We shall see. Some things in the future are cast in stone, I suppose, and cannot be changed. However, I highly doubt that young Charlie–”
“Charlie?” the king interrupted. “He hates being called Charlie.”
“Oh, but I call him Charlie all the time.” Mary Elizabeth studied her brother intently. “We have bonded, the two of us. I think he quite likes his aunt, perhaps even to the point of adoration.”
“No, it cannot be.”
“As I was saying, since we are so close, your son and I, it is highly improbable he would escape, as you call it, my hospitality. He loves me. He loves Scotland. And he is quite content where he is.” The king shuffled uncomfortably, obviously not happy to hear of his son’s acceptance of this woman as his aunt. “And when it is time for him to come south as king, he will do so.”
“But Prince Henry…” James sputtered. “Do you plan to de-throne him as well?” He raised his hand to silence her as he started once again to pace the confines of his royal tent. “Ah yes! You have already suggested that the Prince of Wales will die before he is crowned king. And now you are telling me that my second son, who will become King of England one day, is to be raised in the Scottish royal court. Your court!”
“Aye, brother. It is for the best.”
“No!” He stopped just paces in front of Mary Elizabeth and glared at her. “I will not have it! My son must be returned to my care. Immediately!”
He spat the last word at her, saliva splattering her face. She chose to ignore it, to ignore the impulse to wipe it off. She pasted a sad smile on her face, but it was a smile nonetheless. “I do not think you are in a position to barter, brother.” She started to fade away. “Come morning, you and I will meet at the great Roman Wall, and the fate of England and Scotland will be decided once and for all.” As she shimmered into a mere ghost of herself, she added, her smile broadening mischievously, “For now and forever.”
“NO!” King James voice could be heard throughout the camp and across the moors that stretched toward Hadrian’s Wall. There were some in the Scottish camp, just on the other side of the wall, who claimed to have heard him as well.
Chapter Forty-Two
TORONTO, OCTOBER TENTH, 2011
Why this day? Why 2011? It had been a good day for Mary Elizabeth, as she recalled. She had just landed her first job after graduating with Honors History and English at the University of Toronto back in the spring. This Thanksgiving Day was meaningful to her, as she had so much to be thankful for. There was Gran, of course. There was always Gran. And there was her success at school —top honors. And now this job. She was at the bottom of the totem pole, so to speak. There was still a way to go before she made top dollar, but she was doing what she loved to do —read, edit, review, and learn as much as she could. She was only twenty-three. She had a lifetime ahead of her and so much to appreciate.
Gran had been under the weather for several months. The fall of 2011 had been miserable: lots of rain, cold, damp. Not at all good for the elderly and, as much as Mary Elizabeth hated to admit it, Gran was getting elderly. Though she was so full of energy, most of the time, and was always enthusiastic about Mary Elizabeth’s accomplishments. From the time she was a child, first learning how to ride a pony, to the first time she held a sword in her hand and managed to knock the instructor’s protective helmet off before he even had a chance to secure it and give the initial instructions, Gran had always been there cheering her on. There had been many events to cherish and celebrate. This was just one more. But it was an important one, not just because October tenth, Thanksgiving Day in Canada, fell on a Monday in 2011, but also because October tenth, 1603, also fell on a Monday, and that would be her day of triumph over England’s dominance of Scotland.
Everything in time was relevant. And making this jump, on this day, to celebrate yet again a past event in the future, was important to Mary Elizabeth. Even if it was just a puddle jump after facing her brother in his royal tent just south of Hadrian’s Wall. She had visited another time and place in the future enroute to his tent, and now here she was, again in the future, ready to celebrate another auspicious event.
“You came.” Gran beamed as she carried the roasted turkey on its platter into the dining room. “I knew you would. It is a big day for you, in so many ways and so many times.”
“Has history changed much?” Mary Elizabeth had to ask.
“Some.” Gran placed the turkey platter on the table. “You still have some work to do. Did you see your brother?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He called me a witch, again.” Mary Elizabeth appeared grim, shrugging her shoulders as if in resignation to the fact that her brother would never accept her for who she was. “And he demanded both his kingdom and the return of his son.”
“Not surprised.” Gran wiped her hands on her apron and then walked around the table to wrap her granddaughter in a reassuring hug. “He has called me a witch on several occasions as well.”
“You have seen him?” Mary Elizabeth couldn’t mask the surprise in her voice.
“Aye. He is my grandson. I had to see him.” Gran stepped back, but kept her arms on Mary Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Jamie has visited him as well. He will not listen to reason. All this Divine Right of Kings nonsense will be the downfall of the Royal House of Stuart, at least in England, regardless of what you manage to do for Scotland.”
“I cannot believe he would call his own grandmother a witch.”
“I have been called worse.” Gran patted her shoulder fondly. “Keep Prince Charles, at least for now. He will find his own way to London in his own time.”
A voice called from the stairs. “Coming, Gran.” Footsteps approached.
“And here you are,” Gran beamed. “Two of you, all grown up, in the same room. What more could a grandmother ask for?”
“Here, let me help.” She rushed into the room, stopping abruptly before she ran into Mary Elizabeth. “Oh!” the surprised voice of a younger version of the queen gasped in surprise. “I didn’t know we had company, Gran.”
Gran was always up to the challenge that each task presented. “Your cousin just arrived unannounced from Scotland.” Gran reached across the table to move the turkey platter so that it would be easier to reach for carving. “And, as it would happen, she shares your name, Mary Elizabeth.” Looking from one young lady to the other, she chuckled softly. “So perhaps we should just call your cousin Mary, to save confusion. Now, ladies, let us fetch some vegetables and then we shall sit down and give thanks for family, friends and —” Winking at the younger Mary Elizab
eth, “—good jobs.”
Mary Elizabeth pondered her memories. She had forgotten the unexpected guest at their Thanksgiving feast that year. Gran had claimed she was a distant cousin from Scotland. Cheeky of Gran to add that little morsel about Scotland.
She followed the others into the kitchen and picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes to take to the table. It smelled so good, so homey, so warm and welcoming. It smelled just as Gran always made things smell, comforting.
Dinner was good, conversation at times stilted, especially when the younger Mary Elizabeth asked the older one, the queen, what she did for a living. The queen just said, “I help people. I like people and I like to work with people.”
“Oh, I much prefer my books,” the younger version admitted. “I can get lost in a book so easily.”
“I hear you have just landed your dream job.” The queen gazed across the table at herself. “Congratulations.”
“Yes.” The younger version of her beamed with excitement. “I plan to work my way up in the publishing world. I know I’m just a lowly editor for now, but I plan to work hard and make my mark.”
“In more ways than you can possibly imagine,” Mary Elizabeth couldn’t help but add. She felt Gran nudging her under the table and refrained from saying more. The younger her would soon learn the true purpose of her life. After all, wasn’t she living proof of that?
The conversation whirled around random topics after that. Supper was cleared away. The queen excused herself and found her way to Gran’s secret room. She extricated the corner that revealed the steps to the past and walked back to her real time, the time where she knew she belonged, where she knew she had a purpose.
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