February 21, 1497

Six year old Henry speaks with his grandmother and learns an important life lesson.

February 21, 1497

Eltham Palace, Greenwich England

 

            I remember the cold winter day, the frost on the windows and thick dunes of snow and ice in the expansive yard and garden outside the window. I was sitting in my chair, practicing my Latin when there was a small rap on the wooden door leading into my prescience chamber.

            “Come,” I bid, setting the book on the table and turning to the door.

            “Your highness,” came the voice of my familiar household servant as he entered, the boy only five years older than I. I, being merely 5, still commanded my own household and lived under the protection of my father, Henry VII of England. He crossed the room, bowed low, and handed me a letter. “You have a visitor your highness.”

            “Who?” I asked, eyeing the seal on the folded letter. It was from my mother.

            “Your lady grandmother, Margaret Stanley,” he replied, standing at attention.

            “Well don’t stand there,” I snapped, setting the letter down and standing quickly with a soft thud.

            “She has just arrived,” he admitted, bowing again. “I will escort her to you.”

            I nodded, waving my hand and he left the room quickly, shutting the door behind him. I turned to the letter on the desk now and broke the seal. Luckily, it was a short letter for I could not imagine my grandmother standing idly by while I read.

My dearest Harry,

            I am pleased to tell you that after this long winter, your father has agreed that I and my household will be journeying to you next month to stay the spring at the royal nursery. I have missed you so much, my little rose, that I long to hug you and hold you. I do hope you and Margaret are getting along and I long to have you all in my arms. I will see you in a few short weeks my loving boy.

Your lady mother,

Elizabeth R.

 

I read over the letter once more before I heard footsteps in the hall outside my chamber. I quickly folded the letter, set it down on my desk and began to straighten my tunic and sleeves. There was a knock at the door and I stood to attention, beckoning for them to enter. The page boy came back in, bowed low, and announced my grandmother’s prescience.

“The Queen Mother, Lady Margaret Stanley,” he announced and stepped aside. She strode into the room, much as she as always done, with a sense of ownership and regality that she was known for. She curtseyed slightly, lowered her head, and I strode to her, kneeling for her blessing.

“Lady grandmother,” I whispered, feeling her wrinkling and delicate hands on my soft copper hair. “I ask for your blessing.”

“And I give it freely, my holy prince,” she replies, her voice somewhat shrill but commanding.

I stood now, taking her hand in mine and offering her a seat on the plush bench before the small rounded table. She nodded and in one elegant movement she sat down, looking at my face intently.

“Henry,” she started and I knew right away this was to be a serious talk. You could always tell with grandmother. She began with our names and that stern but seemingly understanding voice. This used to reassure me but over time I had grown to understand that there was only one way; hers. “I must speak to you of your duty, or your future. Please, I bid you sit.”

I only nodded and moved to perch on the cushion next to her. She smiled softly, her wrinkles more pronounced. Her hand gently went to my short straight hair and she brushed it over my forehead, still grinning. “You look so much like your father,” she nods, her eyes becoming somewhat misted. “I never got to raise him, did you know that?”

“I do,” I nod. “He was raised by his uncle Jasper Tudor in Wales and Brittany.”

“Yes my darling,” she sighed, her fingers lightly playing with my bangs. “You remind me of him in so many ways.”

“I hope to mirror his example,” I nod, touching her other hand that is on her lap. “I strive to do God’s work.”

“You’re a blessing,” she cooed, kissing my forehead and taking my hands in hers. “And that work is exactly why I come here my boy.” She gently squeezes my hands. “Firstly, are you aware of your duty as the Duke of York, brother to the future king?”

“I am to support my brother with my lands and holdings and to take up the robes of Holy Mother Church to become Archbishop of Canterbury in order to help stabilize the Tudor dynasty,” I replied automatically, having rehearsed it since I was old enough to read, which was just before my fourth birthday.

“Exactly, so you know the importance of your role in this kingdom, your kingdom?” she asks, her eyes searching my face diligently.

“I understand that the two most powerful men in the kingdom are the King and the Archbishop. If both were a Tudor,” I pause, unsure how to word it. “Power would remain in our family.”

“In a word,” she nods. “But it is much more than that. God had called me to birth the king and he blessed our family with the monarchy of England. It is because of him that we are here, in this position of great power.” She looks about. “Page,” she says to the boy who stands next to the door. “Bring us some warm wine.” The page simply bows and leaves the room quickly. My grandmother looks down at me now and in a low voice continues.

“You must always honor God, in all your duties for if you do not, he may revoke his blessing and favor,” she whispers. “Power is a fragile thing. Your father knows this and has taught Arthur but you must understand as well. It is not always guaranteed.” She lets go of my hands and looks somewhat downcast. “There has been a horrible uprising in Florence that has left the ruling family scattered and the city under siege. This current predicament, no matter how blasphemous and sinful, is a lesson. The zealots are led by a Franciscan friar named Savonarola who, as of only a few weeks ago, gathered all the fine arts, holy books, and so-called vanities to be burned in the city square. The pyre raged for hours and so many people have been bullied into silent obedience by this unholy man.”

My eyes were wide as she continued, the horror setting in. How these obscure and crazed heretics could burn beautiful paintings, holy books, precious literature, and scientific research as well as call the Pope a tyrannical devil and not answer for it. They’d called him a messenger of Satan and every other vile thing. My grandmother only whispered these things hesitantly and at one point was so enraged the color in her sallow gray cheeks bloomed.

“Understand, Henry, that you must always keep a fair balance with God and his herd for if you are not a dutiful shepherd, horror can befall the kingdom,” she whispered as footsteps echoed in the hall outside. The page came back in with a tray, two goblets, a pitcher, and a tray of warm pastries that steamed in the cool room. He set them down on the table before us, poured our drinks, bowed, and left the room again.

“I feel torn,” I admit, taking a soft warm pastry in my hand. “He speaks against the Pope and overthrows his sovereign which is a grave sin but is it not equal to burn such important discoveries and works of art? Is it not just as blasphemous?”

“No, my boy,” she says, lifting the steaming goblet to her thin lips. She sips it and looks down at me. “His unholy defiance of Rome and the overthrowing of the Medici has spurred instability and chaos. The burning of such trinkets as paintings and books is nothing in the eyes of God. Some of it was, no doubt, sinful anyway.”

“I disagree,” I reply quickly, setting down the remaining pastry and taking a sip of the wine. It made my nose wrinkle but at least it was warm. “Such discoveries, such beautiful works, are surely given to us by God. Everything on this earth is given by God so such destruction is certainly displeasing to him.”

“Perhaps,” she drawls, her lips touching the rim of the cup again. She takes a drink and sets it down. “But God is certainly more offended by this friar’s attack on his holy church.”

“So, the lesson is that you must always strive to please God by keeping faith with his flock?” I asked, unsure what my grandmother wanted me to take away from this lesson.

“You’ve only barely missed the mark,” she corrects, looking to the frosty window. “Your role as the Archbishop is to keep your brother in charge of his flock by interpreting and performing God’s will. You must always guide the people of England in their devotion to holy church.”

“How is one man to attend to the entirety of England?” I asked, awed by the size of such a job.

“You will learn,” she assures me, looking at the low burning fireplace. “It is a burden you must bear in the name of the royal house of Tudor. You, my child of plenty, did not see the brutality of the cousin’s war. You did not know the fear of uncertainty. We will not plunge this realm back into such unholy madness.”

“Father refuses to speak to me of the wars,” I say, looking out the window now. “He never tells me anything.”

“Do not sulk,” she snaps, looking up at me. “You understand your position. Your brother is the heir and you are the spare, second born and destined for holy office. The king must personally oversee his heir’s education and upbringing. Your smart and understand this all too well.”

“Yes lady grandmother,” I reply, looking back at the fire. I suddenly felt cold and my grandmother noticed, standing and lifting a fur robe from the opposite chair.

“Page!” she called and the door creaked open. “Stoke the fire and light some more candles. Tell my steward to ready my chamber with a fire and a warm stone for my bed. I will take mass with my grandson and retire for the night.”

He simply bowed and went to his duties. She turned to me again and offered her hand. “Come, put on your cloak and we shall go to the chapel and pray for the people of Florence, our family, and of course for God’s humble mercy.”

 

            That night, as the wind whistled through the frosted panes, I lie awake staring at the canopied bed of my chamber. I couldn’t get the vision of a burning flame and unholy shadows out of my mind. I could not sleep for the longest time and as the clouds roamed over the pale moon, I could not thing of a more tragic waste of humanity. It pricked at my core and in my sleepless stupor I saw a flash of a drowning man, his head topped with a tight golden crown that seemed to weight him beneath the surface of the dark water.

            He flailed and reached above the surface but no matter how he tried, he could not breech the dark waves. It was then that I lost consciousness, trapped somewhere between the darkness of sleep and the shadows of that flame. It disturbed me, the way the flames licked and scorched the beautiful paintings and pages upon pages of research and literature. The way a deformed and frightening shadow flickered across the flame with a menacing smoothness caused a sense of foreboding that woke me more than once that dreadful night.

Author's Note

Is this an interesting subject, a thoughtful first chapter? What about the character? Is he interesting?