Christmas 1497

A tragedy strikes the Tudor family and leaves young Harry questioning the world around him.

December 23, 1497

Sheen Palace, London

 

            The rushes were spread, the mistletoe hung, and the grand decoration of the many halls, chambers, and gardens was done almost two weeks ago. Each room smelled of spruce, sage, and roses and the grand fireplaces of the great hall were continuously lit, merriment every day during the twelve days of Christmas tide. We feasted, danced, drank, and enjoyed Christmas plays and music all in the lit hall and grand galleries. Mother and father were both merry, generously handing out gifts and favors, excitement all around the court.

            Mother, the night before last, had abstained from the merriment and even though father said she was spending the night in her chambers, I knew she was not there. Somehow, I knew he was lying. My suspicions were confirmed when I asked to bid her goodnight and was denied. She never denied an audience with me; not ever. However, tonight she was merry and full of life, dancing with father and other nobles, making sure to show off Mary, Margaret, and myself in our Yule Tide best.

            I had enjoyed many grand presents, accepting them as grandmother taught me; with dignity and humility. Tonight was a spectacular night, only to be topped by Christmas eve and the Christmas mass at Westminster. But tonight I danced the newest dances with Margaret, drank my first cup of wine with father, and enjoyed a beautiful carol by the royal choir. When the clocks rang eleven and the great lords were deep into their cups, my mother escorted our nanny and maids to put us all in bed. Midnight mass was an important staple during the Christmas season and grandmother assured that neither mother, nor father, missed it.

            “Will we be able to attend mass tomorrow?” I asked, Margaret turning from her gossip about the appearance of the Duke of Somerset’s son to glare at me. Surely she didn’t want to waste her night in prayer.

            “If you wish,” my mother grinned, fixing my grand feathered hat. “It is Christmas eve after all.”

            “I do not want to attend, I would much rather stay up dancing,” Margaret reassures, a desperate plea in her eye. “After all, I am the eldest daughter of the king of England. The whole court should see me merry and healthy. After all, any husband I may have will expect as much.”

            “You’re too smart for your own good Margaret,” my mother replied, turning down the hall toward Margaret’s rooms. “Would you like me to tuck you in?”

            “I can manage mother,” she giggled, nodding for the maid to follow her before kissing mother gently on the cheeks. “Goodnight,” she said moving swiftly toward her door.

            “How about you Henry? Would you like me to tuck you in?”

            “I think I can manage as well mother,” I whispered, smiling up at her. “I am very sleepy and my first experience with wine has increased my need for rest.”

            “Go my little prince,” she smiled down at me, taking Mary from her nanny. “I will come to you in the morning after mass.”

            I simply nodded, bowing to her before turning down the gallery toward my rooms. I could see the adjacent hall where mother and father’s rooms were and I could see that the candles had already been lit in their private chapel. I opened my door and stepped in to find my page finishing up my own candles, a fresh warm bowl of water on my table. I waved for him to fetch me something to drink and my night shirt and then began to peel off my hat, jewels, and shoes. I also pulled off the fine ermine vest and the handsome golden silk jacket before turning to the bowl of warm water. I washed my face, arms, hands, and rinsed my hair before throwing off the fine linen undershirt to run a warm wet rag over my chest.

            I had read, in a text written by an Arab man, that washing the body with warm water and doing some mild exercises before bed could improve health. When my page came in ten minutes later with a pitcher of cool water, some small meat pies, and a rare fruit imported from Spain called the pomegranate, I was doing some pushups. Having just finished running in place and stretching my arms and legs, I felt it necessary to finish with some strain and sweat.

            “May I do anything else for you, highness?” the page asked, offering me a cup of the water. I got up from the floor, took the cup, and shook my head.

            “Just stoke my fire for the night and get some sleep,” I said, drinking the cup in one gulp and then taking a pastry from the tray. The page nodded and started stoking the fire with the dry wood in the basket next to it.

            I sat down now, eating a couple of pastries, finishing another glass of water, and taking the pomegranate with me into bed as my page slipped the night shirt over my head. I dismissed him, crawled into bed, and enjoyed the delicious fruit on the lush pillows and feather downs. It was when I was slipping into sleep that I smelt it. It was distinguishable and I immediately looked about, my eyes searching the room. It was when I heard the bustle in the hall that I knew something was happening.

            I jumped out of bed, pulled on my warm fur robe, and strapped on my leather boots before pushing my door open. Outside there was the distinct smell of burning fur and the smoke was drifting down the hall in a slow but frightening crawl along the ceiling. The light was bright and I could tell immediately that the blaze was coming from my mother and father’s royal apartments. I ran toward the blazing light only to feel a heavy and rough hand on my shoulder. It was none other than my father. His eyes were wide as he scooped me under his arm and began quickly running down the opposite way.

            “Father!” I shouted, struggling in his arm. “Where is mother? Margaret?! Mary!”

            “They are ahead of us,” he said gruffly, bounding toward the stair with long strides, the smoke following behind us. As we reached the great stair I could hear my mother and sisters at the bottom, yelling to hurry. Father nearly fell twice as the blaze spread above us, engulfing the tapestries, long curtains, and wooden carvings all about the gallery. I nearly screamed out when the flames licked at our backs, the roof creaking and cracking above us. We barely skirted through the lintel of the foyer when we heard a great crack, the beam above the gallery collapsing and breaking the stair we had just descended. I screamed out but father’s grip tightened and like we were flying he leapt over the toppled tables and benches, through the archway and into the side yard where dozens of servants rushed forward to help us.

            My mother was in the arms of one of her maids, holding baby Mary tight to her as Margaret sobbed at her side. My grandmother, who was standing next to them spotted us and immediately rushed forward, wrapping my father and I in a loving embrace. My father immediately moved us away from the burning palace, the towers alight with flame and the windows ablaze with fire and smoke. It was horrifying and as the servants tried to save any of the goods within, we rushed away toward the river, the barge lying in wait for our escape.

            “Darling,” my father said when we reached my mother, holding me close and embracing her with his free arm. My grandmother took Margaret’s hand and lead us all down the cobblestone street, toward the inside gate. My father had one hand around my mother’s waist guiding her, the other clutching me to his side so securely that I thought for sure we would meld as one. As we rushed down the sloping cobblestones, toward the river gate, I could hear the cracking and screaming of the servants behind us. I turned in my father’s arms to see the horrifying site.

            The roof was aflame, the golden orange, yellow, and red engulfing the high rafters and tiles of the great palace. Servants were shouting, some pulling out limp bodies from burning doorways, their own hair or clothing ablaze. I watched in horror as a man desperately tried to move the fallen smoldering beams from the doorway and saw that within were the flailing and pleading hands of those trapped inside. I could hear their burning screams from across the courtyard and their pleas for mercy. For a moment in our quick exodus I spotted a figure among the flames of the collapsing roof. A dark form dancing in the red and orange light, my eyes following the figure which to me was clearly female. I watched in horror at the wings smoldering with hot flame and churning with smoke rise into the air, the face of the frightening beauty looking down at us. I swear it was the angel of death and that we, the Tudor family, had narrowly escaped her fiery judgement.

            “Father!” I called, my eyes never leaving the horrible site within the flame. “Father, it’s her. The angel of death… father…”

            “Quiet Henry,” my mother said, her free hand reaching up to wipe away the tears that I had shed unconsciously. Her eyes met mine and I knew why she had silenced me, why her gray-blue eyes warned me to remain silent; it was for my own good.

            “All will be well,” my father assured as we came to the gateway that lead down to the water steps. He released his grip on me slightly and I turned to see our royal barge, surrounded by guards, some coming up to bow and greet my father. “Come, aboard the barge. We will travel to Windsor and to safety. Tell the servants and my council that tomorrow at noon we will hold a mass to give thanks for our safe deliverance from sure destruction.”

            “Come,” my grandmother insisted, looking about quickly. She had a keen suspicion of the people of London and it wasn’t until much later that I discovered why. We all were loaded onto the barge, bundled under what furs and linens that were saved, and rowed from the now brightly burning palace of Sheen to Windsor, the royal residence of many monarchs of the past.

            As the rowers plunged their ores into the water, I could hear grandmother softly praying under her breath. My father sat next to my mother, her head on his shoulder and Mary snugly nestled in their laps, her eyes heavy with sleep. Margaret sat between my grandmother and father, her eyes darting about in panic. I sat wrapped in my warm fur robe, another blanket thrown over me to keep me from the icy winter river. I heard my parents whispering to one another and then, when my grandmother had done muttering her prayers, she turned to my father.

            “What happened?” she questioned, her eyes narrowing on him.

            “The fire began in our apartments,” my father whispered, his arm still around my mother. “While we were still downstairs, doing the rounds and wishing everyone a good night, a page came rushing downstairs to tell us what happened and the lords and ladies panicked, all clamoring for the doors. Cowards.”

            “That is expected,” my grandmother assured, the distain in her voice evident. “They are vultures, living in lavish vanity by our leave. How did the fire start? Why did no one wake the children?”

            “They thought it could be managed, a small linen fire,” my father replied, smiling when my mother rested her weary head on his shoulder. “But the flames soon spread out of control and the few servants who were managing panicked and ran to warn us all.”

            “They should be flogged,” my grandmother hissed, my mother’s brow furrowing.

            “They didn’t have time to think it through,” my father said, his voice wavering as the cool breeze whipped over the barge. “And all is well now. We are alive, safe, by the grace of God.”

            “And we will thank him,” my grandmother assured, her voice alive in the night air. “For our clean escape. The fire itself is a sign from God; of that I have no doubt.”

            “Your prophecies and signs are legendary,” my father sighs softly, looking over at his mother wearily. “And I agree that God has blessed us and shown us his will by allowing us all to escape with our lives. We will give thanks.”

            “My son,” my grandmother whispered, seeing the three women surrounding the king silently sleeping. “This is truly a sign from God. Do you not remember? Sheen was gifted, for life, to Elizabeth Woodville by her husband, the father of your wife. Do you not think it is divine providence that we Tudors, who were occupying it, escaped the blaze of its destruction? This is truly a sign that the Yorks, and that era of civil war and uncertainty, are defeated.”

            “Hush mother,” my father says, his eyes drifting between the sleeping women beside him and me, who was lulling at the sway of the river and the splashing of ores.

            “Henry understands,” my grandmother assures, smiling at my sleepy face. “Surely you can see that Henry and God have a special connection. Our bright young prince will one day serve him in the greatest of ways.”

            “Still,” my father sighed, shaking his head. “Henry is too young and tonight has been too eventful.”

            “He will understand one day,” my grandmother’s voice offered, fading as I felt my head lull to the side against the nanny’s firm but warm shoulder. I saw a smile spread over my father’s face as he looked at me, his image fading with the warmth of the furs.

 

            After a long midday mass, a solemn moment of silence for the servants and courtiers still trapped inside the rubble, and a small feast, Christmas eve passed with mother and father blessing the court and retiring to bed. Of course, they both came straight to our nursery that night. Mother immediately started playing with Mary while Margaret spoke to her of what would happen to Sheen. She was pressing the issue because of her now buried and probably burned collection of gowns, robes, and furs. She didn’t care about the palace or the history of the place itself, she only cared for her precious gems and gowns.

            My father, who simply smiled at Margaret’s questions and concerns, sat down across from me, spotting the book in my hand. “Ah,” he says, reaching out to point at the book. “I have read this book before my son. Chaucer is a true English work of literature. Did you know that your grandmother Margaret’s grandfather John Beaufort was nephew to Geoffrey Chaucer?”

            I looked up at him with utter fascination. I couldn’t help it thought; literature, poems, and writing were my passion and Chaucer was always a favorite. “Truly father? Do you mean to say that you and I are related to the great man?”

            “Not by blood,” he says, trying to let me down easily. “You see, John Gaunt, who was the son of Edward III and great-grandfather to your grandmother Margaret, was a patron of Chaucer. He was always close with him and it is even rumored that the Book of the Duchess is about his first wife, Blanche Lancaster.”

I gasped, making him pause with a soft smile. Chaucer’s tale was a beautiful picture of a weeping knight who’d lost his lady love, the poem pulling out the deepest of emotions for every reader. The fact that the great black knight and the beautiful lost maiden were my own ancestors truly beguiled me. All I could think was how grand it would be if I, like my ancestor, could find a love as strong as that.

“Well, John Gaunt married a third wife after the loss of his love and that lady’s sister was already married to Chaucer,” my father said, motioning for the maid to bring him a cup of wine. She rushed over and offered it to him, a smile on his face. He then looked back at me, sipping on his cup. “The sister who married John was Katherine Swynford and this is where your grandmother and I trace our lineage. All the way back to the great Edward III. Of course, Chaucer was always a welcomed guest at the Plantagenet royal court. He was even freed from capture during the great 100-year-war by Edward III himself.”

“How do you know all this father?” I asked, my eyes wide.

“Your grandmother and my uncle Jasper, God rest his soul,” he replied with a solemn but kind smile.

“I do enjoy the tales about knights, ladies, battles, and ballads,” I said, looking down at the open book in my lap. “Tell me, father, what was it like as a young man in Brittany? What was battle like?”

“Brutal,” he answers abruptly, his eyes somewhat dark as he stared into the fire. “Bloody, loud, confusing, and utterly horrifying.”

“But you won,” I whispered, looking about so that mother and the girls didn’t hear me. “You won and became king. Surely you were happy? Surely you knew that God was on your side?”

“Afterward I was relieved to have survived such slaughter,” he replied, his voice low and measured. “But during, I felt no God, saw no hope, and could not even hear my own thoughts. War is a horrible thing Henry, you must learn that now, while you are still young enough to accept tutelage. It is not always going to be a guaranteed win. I was sure at several times during our charge, retreat, and routings that I would be impaled or cut down. The only reason I won was because one man decided to finally fight for his rightful king. If he had turned on me, you would not be here.”

The silence between us was long, father leaning back again in the plush chair to finish his goblet of wine. He looked like he was contemplating something, his eyes intense with the flickering fire reflected in them. Then he looked at me again and for the first time I saw pain in his eyes. He leaned forward, placed a hand on my small shoulder, and whispered so that only he, I, and God could hear.

“Harry,” he smiled. “You will learn a great many things over the course of your life. If there is one thing you remember of me, let it be this: the monarchy is a tree, vast and reaching back hundreds of years. It occasionally needs pruned and when seeds try and drop from it to start their own little sapling, you must pluck it out root and stem. Never, under any circumstances, leave such malicious intent unhindered, do you understand?”

His dark eyes were intense and I couldn’t help but stare into them. It was as if they were swimming with memories. These memories I could see reflected in his wide eyes as the voices and cries of battles past stunned me to silence. He moved to the edge of the chair now, taking my small hands in his and nodding with a smile, a smile that I just couldn’t understand. I was unsure if it was one of pity, love, pride, or contentment. This smile, I knew, was meant to tell me something and for the longest time, I never understood what.

“What are you two conspiring?” my mother’s voice came from above us and like a mirror of one another, both my father and I looked up at her, grins on our faces. She smiled back with a raised thin eyebrow but said no more, placing a kiss on my cheeks before turning to take a goblet offered by the maid.

After a few moments of the three of us just enjoying the fire, Margaret came over, looing between us jealously. “It is almost time for mass, mother,” she whispered, glancing at the small woodwork clock on our wall. “Grandmother is expecting all of us to meet and ride as a family to Westminster in the carriage.”

“I will not bring little Mary,” mother whispered, her eyes glancing over at the now sleeping toddler in her bed. “But we must all dress. Come Margaret, the maid will take you to your rooms to change.” Margaret only bowed and followed, not fighting the need for such a late mass this time. Mother then turned back to father and smiled. “Will you not ready yourself, husband?”

He only smiled up at her, nodding before standing up to kiss her cheeks. “I shall see you both shortly,” he said, turning and striding from the room with his page following down the gallery.

“Harry,” my mother whispered, moving to sit across from me now. “Tell me, my son, what did you see last night?”

This question was so out of nowhere that I sat there dumbfounded, the sight of that horrifying creature in the flames coming back to me quickly. Mother could tell because I had gone pale and her hands immediately took mine.

“Harry,” she whispered again, kissing my forehead. “Tell me, what was it?”

“A woman,” I whispered, looking at the maid who was putting away our toys and belongings across the room. “A horrible angel of death with burning wings and fiery eyes. We narrowly escaped, she was going to kill us all…”

“Hush,” my mother said, pulling me into her arms and kissing the top of my head. “No more.”

“Was it a vision?” I asked weakly, knowing that she would understand.

“Yes,” she replied, her lips brushing my hair. “You saw the manifestation of malice and horror. You saw the wrath of our lady goddess.”

“Why did she come after us? Why was she so angry?”

“A curse,” my mother replied, this time with a trembling voice. “A curse carelessly cast against an unknown foe.” I could feel hot tears on my brow now. “Oh, my Harry, please do not be frightened. The mother goddess would never hurt one of her own and this punishment was not meant for us. She watched over us all last night and that is why we escaped. Please, my son, fear no more.”

“This mother goddess is a witch, a demon against God almighty,” I replied, clutching her sleeves. “I will not allow her into my heart, or mind, ever again. She is not my mother.”

“Never say such things,” my mother snapped, her eyes narrowed on me. “Never. You are the descendant of the mother goddess and her priestesses here on earth. You, like myself, my mother, and her mother before her all share her mortal blood. We cannot control what we see my son and you, I am afraid, have been chosen by fate.”

“I don’t want it!” I said loudly, making the maid turn and Mary fuss in her bed.

“Listen to me,” mother replied, taking my face in her hands. “The mother goddess is not always vengeful and frightening. She has always been, until now, a beautiful guide and a loyal companion. She brought me your father and before that my mother her king. You can feel her prescience; I know you can. That is why I am telling you this now my son; do not be frightened by the gift that was given you, the last surviving male heir of our ancient house of magic.”

I sat there, staring into my mother’s blue-gray eyes hoping that this was all a joke, some sort of horrible prank played on the son destined for the church but to my horror it was not. I could feel her alright, as if she were sitting in the room with us, watching and patiently waiting for my answer to her call. I couldn’t understand how my beautiful and kind mother hid such a dark and unholy heritage.

“Harry,” she said, snapping me out of my daze. “You listen to me and you listen well. The magic of nature and of the water that we possess is not evil, it is not a sin. It is the way of the ancient world and the way we pass on our knowledge to the future generations. I will, this spring and summer, teach you the ways of herbs, medicines, tinctures, and ointments. I will teach you how to scry and how to bless. You will learn, in time, that this art passed down through generations will help you in every stage of life.”

“What if grandmother finds out?” I ask, looking toward the maid who is rocking Mary back to sleep.

“She will not,” my mother says with a smile. “I was not able to teach Arthur and Margaret and Mary don’t even have half of your power. The mother goddess has chosen you, my Harry, to be her champion and I believe she’s chosen well.” My mother now stood up, offering her hand. “Come, let us go to your chamber. We must put on your fine furs and I must put on the royal costume for mass.”

I couldn’t help but smile and giggle at the silly face she made when she said costume. She always hated the official robes and dresses but knew it to be important. That was my mother though. She could be serious, mysterious, and humorous all in the same conversation. She was unique in every way and that silly smile and excited twinkle in her eye made me forget all about the burden I was gifted. 

Author's Note

How does this read? Too rushed? I was just wondering because there is a bit more action and a hint of magic so I wanted to know if it was too much, not enough, or maybe another suggestion for this chapter?