by Ian Hall
1501
Royal Tutor
Given the choice between doublet and tights, and a long scholarly robe, I chose the former, deciding that the close-fitting clothing would give more scope for the addition of weaponry. I did keep my black jeans though, the pockets would be my contribution to ‘modern’ life.
I stood in Thomas’s chambers being fitted by women who studiously avoided my gaze. I assumed them to be either servants or maids. Eleanor produced a sweet sherry as another woman measured my body as I drank. Although young, she did have a hint of coquette as she tried to catch my eye. When I walked out of the room maybe three hours later, I certainly looked the ‘part’; I sported a dark blue doublet with wide, airy sleeves, my own jeans and almost knee-high boots; not as good as the ones I’d lost, but good enough, and better than barefoot. All topped off with a crappy tousled cap.
“His Royal Highness will be finished with his devotions by dinnertime,” Thomas said, constantly adjusting my clothing, constantly casting disapproving glances in my direction.
‘Devotions’. I stored the information; Roman Catholic England.
Crap. Why didn’t I pay attention in school?
“I would be privileged to have your introduction, sire.” I followed Linacre out of his chambers, leaving the throng of servants behind.
“I have no title, Master DeVere; hence no reverence need be bestowed upon me.” We moved swiftly across the courtyard, and before we entered the intended door, it opened and a young man walked out.
“Oh!” He reeled back in alarm, “Sorry, Master Linacre.”
“Ah, but well met indeed!” He bowed slightly. “Master Rhys, I present Richard DeVere, the new tutor to His Grace, the Prince. Richard, this is Gruffydd Rhys, soon to be a Knight of the Garter.”
Dark-haired, with sharp bearded features, Rhys looked an athletic man; he no doubt rode and exercised regularly. His black velvet doublet was laced with lines of gold embroidery and sparkly gems. “Welcome to Ludlow!” He formally bowed low, then advanced to shake my hand. “Here to tutor, huh? What subjects do you have in mind?”
Oh Crap. Suddenly under the spotlight, I decided vagueness to be my best policy. “I offer a broad range, Master Rhys.” I began to formulate a better, more pertinent answer when he patted me on the shoulder, cutting off the necessity.
“And that is exactly what we need, Linacre; broad strokes. The Prince has had enough of the classics; he needs a look at the world around him, an introduction to life.”
Then, as quick as he’d been introduced, he strode across the courtyard, his sword clanking behind him.
“Does Master Rhys hold much sway?”
Linacre smiled contemptuously. “He is a family friend. His father, Sir Thomas Rhys, fought with King Henry at the battle of Bosworth Field. He is from the Welsh side of the Tudor family.”
I began to firmly catalogue each factoid as it arrived at my ears.
Inside the castle, we entered yet another door, heading upwards by stone spiral staircase to the level I had become familiar with. I passed by the opening to the minstrel’s gallery, then past my first bedroom, eventually to a bare room, lined by dark crimson velvet drapes, lit by the opening of two small glass windows.
“This is the Prince’s schoolroom,” Thomas said, pointing to two desks against the inside wall. If you wait here, I will ensure that he attends shortly.”
With a swift reversal of his body, he waltzed out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
So I would be the new tutor to the Prince, King Henry’s son. I had obviously been expected, but therein lay a problem; the true tutor would probably be on his way to the castle as I stood pondering. Ignoring Linacre’s instruction, I set off at vampire speed towards the main gate.
“How many main roads are there to the castle?” I recognized Alfred from earlier.
“Just two, sire,” He pointed off to the south. “The one from London, an’ the north road that you came in on this morning.”
“Thank you.”
I set off south through the town, and once out of sight, picked up speed, stopping everyone on the road, and asking their destination and purpose. None took my questioning amiss, but I didn’t come across the tutor either. I travelled maybe a fair distance, then I did the same on the road north, although I doubted this direction of travel. Even from Ludlow, the condition of the road north left a lot to be desired. To my reckoning, I’d travelled along each road about thirty miles.
I returned to the castle, cleaned the mud from my new boots and got back to the schoolroom before the Prince’s arrival. I used my time to look at the books there, but to my astonishment, most were in either Latin or Greek. Only a few thin volumes of poetry had been written in English, and I despaired of what I would teach the young man.
Moments later, the door opened and in walked Thomas Linacre, and following, almost under the man’s arm, stood the young ‘brat’ from the night before.
“Ah, you are here.” Linacre nodded, then made a huge sweeping move with his hand. “Your Royal Highness, may I present your new tutor, Richard DeVere.”
The boy bowed his head slightly, and I did my very best Hollywood King Henry HBO dip in return. “Your Royal Highness.”
“This is Prince Arthur, Prince of Wales, and first in line of succession to King Henry, the Seventh of that name.”
Seventh? Oops, I’d got that wrong. I reeled under the new information.
Prince Arthur was a gangly young man, around fourteen years old. His pale complexion made him appear very frail; not the outdoor, horse-riding man like Rhys. His lengthy nose and the straight locks of reddish brown hair, cut low bowl style, only emphasized his long face.
He wore a one-piece frock thing, in brown and gold, belted at the waist, but something just looked out of place. Despite being Prince of Wales, the Prince did not look altogether ‘richly’ attired; his sleeves were clearly worn at the cuffs, and trails of torn material at the foot of his robe touched the stone floor at his feet. Considering his standing, the whole outfit looked very second-hand.
A small black cap, with a large broached cluster of gems sat across the top of his head.
“I shall leave you two alone to get acquainted,” Linacre said, and left, closing the door behind him.
Arthur walked to one of the desks by the window and sat down on the very basic chair. “Linacre tells me you were robbed this morning.”
“Yes…” I paused. “Your highness? I’m not sure what to address you as. I’m sorry.”
He gave a slight smile. “Highness is fine, but boring after a time. ‘Your Grace’ would suffice, since we are to converse.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” I nodded, then, rather than talk to him, I decided to try to get him to talk to me. “I am a stranger in these lands, and if it pleases you, would have you tell me what news is current.”
“Hah.” He actually broke into a small smile. “There is only one news. Now that Perkin Warbeck is finally forgotten. My betrothal.” I waited for him to continue, and in the small pause, the smile drained from his face. “In two weeks, when I am fully fifteen, she will be at last on her way to me.”
Oh crap, he’d stopped. “Does she travel far this time, Your Grace?” Constantly trying to second-guess someone certainly kept you on your toes.
“Oh, she will sail from Spain with an entourage never seen before, Master DeVere. Catherine of Aragon will be mine, betrothed since we were two years old.” But although he spoke the correct words, there seemed no passion behind them, almost as if he dreaded the whole thing.
“When did you see her last, Your Grace?”
He turned to me, and a solemn expression blanketed his face. “I have never met her.”
Oh my. Fourteen years old, walled up in a cold castle, betrothed to a girl he’d never laid eyes on.
Suddenly the door burst open, and a young girl and a younger boy raced in. Both had similar reddish hair, and I presumed they were Arthur’s siblings.
“Art
hur!” The girl set about the Prince, waving and dancing round him. “We are to go to London!”
The younger boy, while obviously a few years younger, stood almost as tall as the two children at the desk.
Arthur seemed less than enthusiastic about the announced move. “Margaret, we have had news before, but naught comes of it.”
Only when he’d spoken did the girl pay any attention to me. She stopped, and curtseyed low, spreading her skirts wide. “I did not see you, sire, please forgive me.”
I bowed, but noticed that she kept my eye. Impertinence lay inside this rather attractive young teenager, and I wondered what she’d be like in a few years.
“Princess Margaret, at your service, sire.”
“He’s Richard DeVere,” Arthur said as the younger boy gave me a short, yet well-rehearsed bow. “This is my younger brother, Henry.”
Again, I bowed to a child. “Your Grace.”
Then, without warning, Henry tapped Margaret on the side, and ran from the room, all semblance of formality gone. Margaret left the room in a statelier manner. I don’t quite know how she got through the doorway without incident, because her eyes never left mine; a true minx in the making.
“They never take anything seriously,” Arthur said with some derision. “They have no need for constant decorum, no sense of weight on their shoulders. I am Arthur Rex, the next king of England, and I can never play along the corridors. I am not even allowed to run, for goodness sake.”
“But surely, Your Grace, since you are the heir, you will have privileges?” I went to the door, my feet crunching on the grasses on the floor, and closed it.
Arthur seemed to sink further into a depression. “I have only restrictions, Master DeVere. I cannot run the corridors for fear of tripping. I cannot play outside for fear of assassination or capture for ransom. I cannot even go riding for fear of accident.” He stood and stepped to the window. “All of these things and many more are forbidden to me by my Lord, Henry the King.”
As he spoke, I suddenly realized the import of a name.
Could it be possible that Henry, the boy who’d just played tag, would be King Henry the Eighth? I mean, he had the red hair that I remembered from some painting in my mind.
But Jonathon Rhys Myers didn’t have red hair in the Tudors; damn my historical knowledge being dictated by HBO!
I followed my reasoning. If this were true, that meant that Arthur, the boy in front of me, would perish, and probably quite soon. I mean, I’d never studied English history, but apart from the mythical Knights of the Round Table, I’d never heard of a true King Arthur.
Like an episode of “Quantum Leap”, I suddenly wondered if perhaps I’d been sent as a true ‘Sam Beckett’ to save Arthur, and to save the world from the ghastly reign of King Henry the Eighth. But of course, to do that would be to change history beyond belief.
Then another penny dropped; wasn’t Catherine of Aragon, King Henry the eighth’s first wife? And yet here she was, betrothed to his older brother. Oh shit, I sat in the middle of a maelstrom of history, and I needed much more information.
“Master DeVere?”
I snapped back to reality to find the Prince staring at me.
“I’m sorry Your Grace, the robbery; perhaps it took more out of me than I’d first realized.” I shook my head slightly, and feigned a headache. “Perhaps I should lie down for a while. May I be excused?”
Arthur waved me away, and I swiftly left the room, bowing as I went.
I walked down the cold stone corridor with considerable resolve; I’d fed, but now I needed three things: Background information, a weapon, and to catch the real tutor before he set foot in the castle.
I set off to find someone who could help.
Doing another run along the roads looking for the oncoming tutor, I accosted many people, and asked each of them just one question, gathering information by the bucket load. After they’d answered my ‘stupid’ questions, I left them shaking their heads at the apparent stupidity of the crazy man.
By the evening I had a better grounding of the period…
King Henry VII was indeed forty-five years old, and rarely seen in this part of the world. He lived ostensibly in one of his many palaces around London with Queen Katherine. He’d survived various attempts at rebellion and treason, the latest by the afore-mentioned Perkin Warbeck just two years ago. Henry stood as a popular King, having brought peace and stability to the country and they wished for the best with the oncoming union of England and Spain by Arthur’s forthcoming marriage.
My head reeled as I confirmed the year as 1501, but more accurately the month was July, and unseasonably cold. No one seemed absolutely certain of the actual day’s date, but it had past the twenty-first, most knew that.
King Henry had four surviving children, and I’d met three of them, the other, Mary was only five and not allowed the freedom of the castle as yet.
Henry’s idea of getting Arthur ready for the throne seemed to be locking him away in Ludlow Castle, and hoping he ‘hardened’ up a bit.
Fiery Margaret and later Mary would be used as pawns in marriage alliances, and Henry (supposedly to become Henry the eighth) lay destined for a life in the church.
I returned to the castle as the sun set over the far wooded western horizon, feeling a little stronger in my general knowledge than I’d started the day.
Late July, 1501
Highwayman
The next morning, I rose early and set off on my roads again. I’d ‘borrowed’ a sword from the guardroom, both for my own protection, and to dispatch the forthcoming teacher. Using my vampire speed, I almost got as far as Shrewsbury to the north, then raced down the south road nearly to Hereford.
Just outside the market town, I met three men; one rather thin, gaunt individual, and two armed guards. I knew before I even reached their side and asked the question that the wiry man was my replacement; he exuded an aura of scholarliness that made the questioning almost redundant.
Before he could even blink an eye, and with little thought of the consequences, I ran the sword up through his heart, twisting the thin blade as I did so. But as I turned ready to face the two guards, the ‘strange’ began.
The world shimmered. I kid you not. Like interference on a television screen, the whole world shimmered, rippling in a kind of yellow hue. The earth seemed to shake, the ground trembling under my feet. Pains of cramp hit me in the stomach, rippling through my gut, making me slightly nauseous. When the effect stopped, maybe two, three seconds later, both horsemen were riding hard at me, swords drawn.
I slipped to one side, still partially disorientated by the ‘shimmering’, and raised my sword above my head more by instinct than design. Clash! His strike almost broke the sword from my grip, the blow shuddering up my arm to my shoulder.
As a modern vampire, part of an organized vampire group, I’d killed before, you know, back home in Hartford, Connecticut, so I had no qualms actually doing the deed, my problem today would be getting into a situation where I could regain the strategic high ground.
I turned, but the soldier proved faster. He’d obviously dismounted as he passed, and his sword was almost at my head before I knew it. I swiped it away with mine; again the rattle of swords jarred me. I needed just one avenue, and luckily I got it right away. I slipped vampire-quick to his side, past his sword arm, and our chests touching, hit him right on the temple with the handle of my weapon.
Thankfully, he crumpled to the ground.
I turned to see the second man had retained his mounted position. Sweeping down on me, his horse charged right at me. I could see no other way to end the foray; I moved to one side of his charge, and slashed my sword across the front of the horse, cutting sinew, and encountering bone. The horse toppled forward, throwing the man head-over-heels onto the road.
Suddenly, the ‘shimmering’ started again. Not as bad as before, certainly, but a definite curtain of fuzziness before my eyes. I ran to the man’s side, but he’d broken
his neck in the fall, and lay dead on the road, his head at an awkward, grotesque angle.
Bammo. More earthquake effects and ground shaking; I reckon it took a good ten seconds for this round of shimmering to clear.
I crossed to the unconscious man, and finished him off, again, my sword slipping between ribs, through his heart. I needed no witnesses to my duplicitous position in the castle.
Again! The shimmer!
And again, not as bad as when I’d dispatched the tutor, but the effect really felt disconcerting; a pale yellowness filled the air, and again the ground shook under my feet, making me feel unsteady, off balance.
Bringing myself to think of priorities, I pulled all three bodies off the road, far into the woods to the west. Once satisfied I’d not been spotted, I fed from the tutor’s neck before stripping the clothes from his body. I had to kill the horses, too, as they might have found their way back to their stables and raised an alarm.
The tutor’s books in a satchel on the horse proved useless, all in Latin, unreadable to me. But he had a pouch, not too many coins, but all small, and mostly all gold. I slipped the pouch into my pocket and left the scene. I even threw my own sword away, some miles closer to the castle, determined that none of the day’s events could be traced back to me.
I walked some of the distance in contemplation of the ‘shimmering’ effect.
Obviously linked to death in this time, I pondered the possibility that the shimmer was an announcement of time being changed; history being rewritten by me. But of course, I’d not altered time so much that my own birth had not occurred. Or so I rationalized.
I mean… I was still here. In 1501.
That left the actual scale of the ‘shimmer’. Perhaps the death of the teacher caused more of a shimmer than the soldiers, as he would have proved of more influence in history. It made sense to me at the time.
Back at the castle, I had time to explore the outer grounds for a while before heading towards the schoolroom. Between the outer wall and the inner moated part of the castle lay a large grassy area, almost like a big park. These grounds had a jousting rail, archery targets, and a set of posts, all fairly well chopped with sword blows. Built against the round outer wall, lay stables, and the barracks and guard house flanked the main door to the town.
