August 1497

Harry finds out a magical secret about his mother and her family.

August 1497

Sheen Palace, London

 

            “Majesty,” my mother’s voice drifted from her bedchamber where her and my father were speaking in low tones. Margaret, I, and Mary were all playing on the floor of her prescience chamber when my father entered. He greeted us all with a smile, remarked on our health and happiness, and asked my mother for a private word. She humbly accepted and when they entered her bedchamber, Margaret and I began our game. Only the nanny sat by as a she helped Mary to walk and play. I, with a smile from Margaret, move toward the door and pretend to be playing with my small soldier figurines. It is here that I listen and glean what information I can from their muffled conversation.

            “My wife,” my father says. “I have some disturbing news and an even more disturbing question to pose to you.”

            “I have heard the rumor,” she replies softly and I can hear the worry in her voice. “What is the news, husband?”

            “A man, by the name of Perkin Warbeck, is planning to sail from Flanders to England and proclaim himself king in the guise of your youngest brother Richard, Duke of York.”

            “And your question?” she asked, her voice hard.

            “Is there any way that it is truly him, your brother?” There was a long silence and then I heard my father sigh. “Then, would you rob your own children of their inheritance?”

            “Never,” she quickly replied. “But I can neither confirm nor deny that he is my brother Richard.”

            “I will search the tower again,” he replied in a rush, his boots echoing on the chamber floor as he paced. “I will find the truth.”

            “Husband,” my mother said, her voice soft and kind. “My king, you are secure in your throne now, after this latest rebellion. If this man, Warbeck, is able to summon an army we will once again be in grave danger. Is it not wise to parley, perhaps pay him to go away?”

            “And reward usurpers?!”

            “Hush,” she reminded, her voice becoming more quiet. “Would you ride out to battle, yet again?”

            “If I must,” he hissed. “How else can I secure Arthur’s inheritance. He is safe in his estate in Wales but even though he is only 11 he is slight, sickly. We must take careful steps to assure he has a good marriage and an heir. I am thinking of rekindling our alliance with Spain.”

            “That would serve us well,” my mother commented. “But what about Warbeck? We should approach him before he stirs more trouble.”

            “Would you be able to tell if it were your brother, Richard?”

            “I have not seen him since he was a boy of seven,” she replies and her voice trembles. There is another pause and then her voice is more steady. “But I think I would know him anywhere. You never forget those unjustly lost.”

            “Good,” was all he said and I managed to scoot away from the door just in time as it swung open again, my father emerging with a smile on his face. “It is settled. We shall all dine together tonight.” He walks over to Margaret, kneels down, and grins at her. “Would you like that, my princess?”

            “More than anything my lord father,” she nods, kissing his cheek.

            Only two weeks later my father summoned my mother, from our nursery, to his chambers for a private meeting. I remember her sending a lady of her household back to us only an hour later to inform the nanny that she would come back to put us to bed but had pressing issues to deal with. I had told my sister Margaret all I heard and she, in true inheritance of my grandmother, scoffed at the idea of York lord usurping her, and my rights, as crowned monarchs. It was when the nanny informed us that I pulled Margaret aside, from her intricate needle work, to speak to her.

            “Do you think this has anything to do with him?” I whispered, offering her the chair opposite me. We were sitting in the corner of the room, the small and the glimmering summer light coming through the window.

            “Most likely,” she replied, pretending to focus on her needlework again. “Grandmother has been on edge for the past few days. Apparently the usurper has landed and is marching with a small army of rebels.”

            “When were you told this?” I asked indignantly, my eyes wide.

            “Just the other day when I had my lesson with grandmother,” she nodded smugly. “She thought I ought to know.”

            “Yet no one speaks to me,” I grumbled, looking out the window. “I am the prince, Duke of York and no one has told me.”

            “Oh, you’re making a fuss,” she teases, a smirk on her smug face. “Father has it well under control. That is probably why he summoned mother, to reassure her and to announce t.”

            “I think she plays a key role in father’s plan,” I offered, my eyes going back to her. “I think that this pretender is her most pressing issue. I think father needs her to-”

            “And you base this on what?” she interrupted with an annoyed tone. “Surely father has more dispensable servants to deal with such a rabble.”

            “Mother knows what her brother looks like,” I snapped a little too loudly. This made the nanny look over at us briefly before going back to playing with Mary.

            “You just don’t understand,” Margaret coos, grinning at my little outburst. “If father were to parlay with this usurper or give any confirmation of weakness or doubt than he will have already lost. He cannot, under any circumstances, allow this pretender to spew lies or gain momentum. He must, as grandmother says, crush any doubt the people of England may have as to who their true and noble king is.”

            “But father asked mother if she would know her brother’s face,” I hissed back, the color rising in my cheeks. “Don’t you see that over your long nose? I think mother will meet this pretender.”

            “Absurd,” she spat. “You’re so childish. She will not waste breath or effort on this idiotic commoner from the continent. She is too important of a lady and we, being royal children, are above it all. It is not our duty to fuss over the squabbles of the commoners. If this Warbeck comes anywhere near our family father will simply chop off his head.”

            “You’re the child,” I retorted, spitefully trying to have the last say. “You have no idea the duties we must fulfill nor the will of God who has put us Tudors on England’s throne. Perhaps grandmother should reeducate you on our history.”

            “Just go back to your books Harry,” she sneered, standing up gracefully. “Mother will not meet with a pretender nor know what her brother looks like now. Just stop fussing about it.” And with a slight nod she moved away toward the soft and plush couch near the small fireplace to concentrate on her needlework. I knew better though; she was fantasizing over her royal destiny, being betrothed to a king like James of Scotland or Louis of France. She was a silly vain girl.

 

            That night mother came to my bedchamber last, first tending to little Mary and scolding Margaret for her manners toward the young Duke of Buckingham. She sat in my room for near an hour and the conversation was enough to raise my suspicion. It was when she was done telling me of my favorite story, the story of her childhood of knights and battles, that she began to tuck the warm fur and linen around me.

            “Before you leave,” I said, smiling up at her. She was so beautiful, fair haired and round faced. She was a true queen. “What news of the usurper, the one named Warbeck?”

            She paused only briefly, straightening on the edge of my bed and smiling softly down at me. “What has Margaret told you?”

            “That he claims to be your brother, Richard Duke of York and claims to be king. He has landed here in England and has a small force with him. Are we going to have to go back to The Tower? What about father? Will he have to fight again? And what about us if father doesn’t win?”

            “Henry,” she smiled, placing her hand on my shoulder and pressing me to my pillow. In my fervor my mind had raced and I’d come up out of my covers and off my pillow again. “Listen, this pretender is not my brother, the rabble is smaller than the Cornish rebellion, and your father is a firm commander. We are in good hands.”

            “You’re sure? Our lady grandmother has assured us that it is God’s will that we Tudors are on the throne. Is it true mother?”

            “Calm yourself,” she reassures and starts tucking me back under the warm linens. “We are fine, we will stay right here, together, and wait for news for your father’s victory.” She stands up now, a definitive strength in her eyes and in her poster as if to warn me to get up again. I sighed now, accepting defeat and she just smiled, blowing out the candle on the bedside and turning from the room.

            The second the outer door of my prescience chamber thudded shut I moved from my bed, grabbed a small fur throw, and crept toward the door of the room. For only age six I was quite sneaky and could often maneuver down the elaborate and shaded halls and galleries during the night without detection. I pulled on the simple leather slippers near my trunk and opened the door with a soft creak. I quickly padded down the hall after my mother’s clacking heels and saw her, as I hid around a corner, enter the gallery leading to her own wing. I knew the way well and crept behind her, always in shadow and always undetected. When she turned into the smaller chapel adjacent to she and my father’s shared bedchamber I paused, wondering if she was worried.

            Mother wasn’t particularly religious but gracious and kind. She normally never attended sermons and mass unless it was expected of her. I quickly followed as she closed the door behind her and decided to slip into the chamber next to the small chapel that was used for shelving and storage. There were several wines stored here as part of father’s private stock as well as his and mother’s everyday goods such as extra linens, pillows, dishes, and the like. I knew of a hole in the wall, just large enough between the large bricks and through the plaster into the chapel.

            I snuck behind the shelf and the stacks of baskets to hear my mother’s voice echoing through the small hole in the corner. I huddled up to it and diligently tried to imprint everything in my memory.

            “Thank you Sir McNeil,” her voice softly rang. She was carefully speaking quiet and I couldn’t understand who was in the room with her. “My brother,” she says even more softly and my mind starts racing. “I had not thought to ever see you again. The last time I did was when mother died. You said you needed to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to seek God’s will. You said you were lost in this world and didn’t know what to do. Why, in the name of God, did you come back to England? Why now?”

            “Sister please,” he begged, his voice breaking with emotion but strong and deep. “I have traveled a long way, seen both The Holy Land and Rome and I tell you, it is time to take England. I have had a vision.”

            There was a long silence and then, as if her breath had been stolen, she whispered back to him. “Like mother? Like our ancestors?”

            “You know of what I speak,” he replied certainly. “It is my job to assure England’s obedience to God before profit or glory.”

            “You sound like my mother-in-law,” she hissed, her heal clacking on the stone floor. “God’s plans, great plans, well what about my plans? What about my children?”

            “You know that I will not harm them, sister,” he replied quickly and she sighed. There was a prolonged silence and then I heard my mother sob, her voice shaken as she cried.

            “Why have you come now? Why not sooner?” she cried. “I cannot put my children’s future’s in the balance as mother did. I cannot endanger my husband.” She sobbed harder and then, in her softest voice I heard to whisper to him in a gasp. “I love him.”

            “Sister, I am not here to endanger your children,” he whispered back, his voice firm. “I am here to see you, to express my love, and to try, if it is God’s will, to win back my brother’s throne.”

            “You gamble with lives!” she hissed back, her voice burning with anger. “How can you do this? How can you claim that the slaughter of civil war is God’s plan?”

            “My sister,” he replied. “Like our ancestors before, I am blessed with the vision of the mother goddess and it is my wish to bring peace and prosperity back to our once great land. To fulfill God’s vision for our family, for me.”

            The silence was long, heavy, and it seemed as if I could see my mother contemplating his words. At first I was frightened but I saw her eyes were dark and deep, considering every word, every outcome. It was as if I were in the room and I could almost feel the heavy weight of the decision she had to make.

            “Sister, I ask for no favor only your prescience and love,” my uncle Richard assured, his hands holding hers. “I just wanted to speak to you, tell you why I was doing all of this. Other than that, I just want to see the loving face of my older, beautiful, sister.”

            “You scoundrel,” she whispered back, playfully yet with reproachful undertones. “I haven’t seen you in over ten years. How fair your travels? And what of this vision?”

            At that moment the vision I was having went dark and I swore that my mother had looked straight at me through the wall of stone and plaster. I then heard my uncle speak again. “I have seen the sunset over Jerusalem, the sparkle of the Mediterranean Sea, the hills of the Romagna and the holy city of Rome. It took my breath away.”

            “And this vision? Where did you see it? What was it?” my mother urgently pressed. “Please, I haven’t time. My ladies will be back soon and I can’t risk anyone seeing you.”

            “Oh sister, it was prophetic,” he whispered quickly. “I was upon the hill and as I sat there, looking upon the sunset a light flashed in the sky. Before my eyes, as if through a window, I could see a great pilgrimage in England, for faith and God. I saw a great leader upon his throne but his face was slack and darkened on one side. He was horrifying, dangerously powerful and ominous. And then I saw the rise of a golden haired angel, ravishing red and stunning. I knew it was a sign from God but also knew that the ways of the mother brought it to me.”

            “You’ve been blessed,” my mother breathed, “Like our ancestors and I. I believe my children have it as well. Young Arthur has always been plagued by dreams and my girls are so instinctive. Henry though, he is something different altogether.”

            “He is blessed?”

            “I believe so,” she replied, her voice soft. “He has visions, I know it. He sometimes drifts away and when I drew cards for him, it showed a great destiny. He also has a fiery personality, like our father and our ancestors before. I also believe he is a seer for he has a knack for avoiding trouble and has a mind for the wisdom of the world.”

            “He may be our line’s last hope,” uncle Richard replied. “Our sisters, your sisters, never inherited such gifts. Slight gifts but you were always the true inheritor of our line. I hear rumors, sister, that Arthur has always been sickly and slight. What have you seen?”

            “I will not speak of it,” she replied quickly. “Nothing of it. I love you brother and I do wish you to stay alive and escape should you fail. However, if you do not I will try all I can to council Henry on restraint.”

            I could feel my heart pounding now as their voices trailed off. Mother promised him she would always love him and he promised her he would always be on her side. I sat there, huddled in the corner for almost a half hour pondering this conversation. Mother had left the room first, darting into her own chamber and then the knight and my uncle left, hooded no doubt, down the side passage and stair into the chambers below. I sat there contemplating the position my mother was in and what she meant, exactly, by the gifts of her ancestors. And how, all this time, I did not know that my mother had such gifts. 

Author's Note

I wonder if this is too much information at one time. Also, is the story engaging still? Does it make you wonder and want to keep reading?