King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  King Henry’s Choice

  Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  King Henry’s Choice

  by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Published by Clean Reads

  www.cleanreads.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  KING HENRY’S CHOICE

  Copyright © 2019 EMILY-JANE HILLS ORFORD

  ISBN 978-1-62135-842-8

  Cover Art Designed by CORA GRAPHICS

  Contents

  PRAISE FOR QUEEN MARY’S DAUGHTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  About the Author

  Untitled

  PRAISE FOR QUEEN MARY’S DAUGHTER

  This novel is a masterpiece, written by a great storyteller, one who leads readers into the workings of the hearts of her characters and allows them to explore the conflicts inherent to human nature.

  … Romuald Dzemo, Readers' Favorite, readersfavorite.com

  a highly original, fast-paced, skillfully written alternate history set in the sixteenth, seventeenth and twenty-first centuries.

  … Ruth Latta, author of “Grace in Love”

  Emily-Jane Hills Orford has the amazing capacity to weave a tale of intrigue, history and war that keeps the reader involved, entertained and absorbed.

  ... Phyllis Bohonis, author of “The Track”

  To Gran

  Margaret Murray Dickson Downer

  (1902-1995)

  a woman with a true Scottish heart

  and a passion for what might have been

  my mentor, my friend, my beloved grandmother

  a woman who would truly appreciate my what if scenarios

  One

  Holyrood House, Edinburgh, Scotland, March 1st, Year of Our Lord 1649

  “You’re exhausted, Grandmother. You must rest.”

  “Rest is for those who lie six feet under, Henry. As soon I will be.”

  He reached across the table and gently took her hand in his, stroking the back with his thumbs. The room was dim; the glow from the hearth next to the table dwindled along with the flames. The morning light was barely filtering through the led-pained windows behind him. His eyes searched hers for answers she could not give, truths she could not know. He had to tell her. He knew he did. Would she believe him? Would it make any difference if she did believe him? Where does this truth lead him now? So many questions. So few answers.

  The biggest question. Always. Why?

  Why him?

  Why this many great grandmother of his?

  Why now?

  Why later?

  Why any time?

  Time was irrelevant.

  Time was obscure.

  Time was of the essence.

  But was time real?

  And, if time was or wasn’t real, why now?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  “You know our days are numbered.” Her voice pulled him out of his endless list of questions. Her smile soothed his soul. It didn’t erase his questions though. It just soothed as a grandmother’s smile often did. Warm and welcoming. Encouraging and full of love. She was his grandmother, many greats removed. A grandmother full of love.

  “I am just about finished writing my story and I will place all of these journals in the secret compartment behind the stone over there.” She pointed just beyond the hearth to the encasing of large grey stones collected from the rocky terrain that stretched across much of the Scottish landscape.

  The task complete, the scratching of the quill against paper ceased. She closed the book and closed her eyes, whispering the concluding words by heart. Her mother’s prayer. The words of the fated woman known as Mary Queen of Scots. “Keep us, Oh God, from pettiness; let us be large in thought, in word, in deed. Let us be done with fault-finding and leave off self-seeking. May we put away all pretense and meet each other, face to face, without self-pity and without prejudice. May we never be hasty in judgement and always generous. Let us take time for all things; make us to grow calm, serene, gentle. Teach us to put in action our better impulses: straight forward and unafraid. Granted, we may realize it is the little things of life which create difficulties and it is in these big things of life we are as one. Oh, Lord, let us not forget to be kind.”

  Silence followed. He broke it. In a firm, but soft voice, he uttered the battle cry of his country, the battle cry which had started with this great grandmother (many times removed).

  “For now and forever.” He paused and breathed deeply. “Grandmother.” It was now or never. He had to tell her. She deserved to know the truth. “I have been to the future – way into the future. I have met them.”

  “Who, Henry? Met who?” Her voice was weakening.

  “We have been used as guinea pigs, Grandmother. Lab rats.” He wasn’t reaching her. His voice was falling on deaf ears. He could tell. She was fading. Fast. It was obvious she didn’t understand what he was talking about. He wanted her to know, though. He wanted to share with her what he had learned. He spoke quickly, hoping his words would reach her before it was too late. But what did it matter now? This knowledge he carried wouldn’t follow her beyond the grave.

  “Scientists in the twenty-fifth century have traveled through time and implanted tracing devices in our heads, like the microchips they started implanting in pets in the late twentieth century. We were the chosen. We were studied intently. We have been followed, stalked through time.”

  Noticing her eyes seeking something behind him, he shifted in his chair to look towards the window. Shadows of figures glimmered, slowly taking shape. There were three. They were all smiling at him and beckoning to his grandmother. When his eyes faced her again, she was slumped over. He felt for a pulse. There was none.

  “For now and forever,” he murmured as he allowed the tears to streak down his cheeks unchecked. “I will see you in the future, Grandmother. Nemo me impune lacessit. For now and forever.”

  Two

  Sometime in the Future, Somewhere Unrecognizable

  He opened his eyes slowly. The glare of the overhead li
ght struck mercilessly into his irises. He blinked rapidly and tried to raise one arm in order to cover his eyes. To protect them from the glare. He couldn’t. Something was stopping his movement. He tried to move his legs. They were restrained as well.

  He tried to lift his head, to turn his head, to look.

  Nothing.

  All he could do is look up.

  At the light.

  It glared unforgivingly into his eyes.

  He opened his mouth to speak, to yell, to make some noise. His mouth seemed to open, but no sound came out.

  A shadow approached.

  “Ah!” A man in a white lab coat hovered over him, his magnifying goggles sliding down his nose, a stethoscope wrapped around his neck. “You’re awake. Good. Now you must rest.”

  Strapped to a bed, with no voice, he valiantly tried again to speak. Nothing.

  The man held up his hand. “No. You can’t speak and you can’t move, Your Majesty. For your own protection. You’ve just had another implant inserted. You won’t remember. You’re not supposed to remember. We hope this implant will help you forget better than the previous two.”

  Your Majesty. The man had offered him appropriate consideration. For what? He was confused. His name was Henry. It was starting to come back. The mind fog was lifting. King Henry I of Scotland. Yes. He was King Henry I. What was he doing here? In this medical-like facility with what appeared to be a doctor hovering over him? Why was he chained to the bed? Something to do with an implant. Another one? They hoped it would help him forget? Forget what?

  “Why?” He managed to take control of his voice. It was more of a croak than the sound he was accustomed to hearing.

  “You’re in the year 2445, Your Majesty. Well into the future and a long way from your time. There are powers at play you just can’t begin to understand, sir.”

  “Where?” All he could do was sputter.

  “Holyrood House, Your Majesty. Your home.”

  “What is this implant? What is it?”

  No answer.

  “Answer me.” He was becoming agitated. He was used to getting what he wanted. He was in charge. He was the king.

  No answer.

  “Why? Why? Why?” The recurring question. He had jumped around through time since he was a young boy and he had found himself in some rather interesting, and dangerous situations. But this was by far the most bizarre. 2445. It was well into the future. He couldn’t remember a similar jump this far ahead in time. What did it all mean? Implants. Forgetting. He didn’t want to forget. He wanted to remember. Everything.

  No answer.

  He felt a prick. Something sharp went into his arm and everything faded away.

  Three

  Holyrood House, Edinburgh, May 1st, Year of Our Lord 1875

  He awoke covered in sweat, his bedclothes and sheets tangled in a mess which had him somewhat pinned to the bed. Coming to full consciousness, he sat up with a start and took in his surroundings.

  His bed. Draped with finely embroidered canopies and covered with soft wool blankets.

  His room. Large, spacious, comfortable, with all his chosen furnishings in their correct place.

  His window, complete with the aging leaded panes, left open slightly the way he liked it, a gentle breeze blowing in the scent of the heather bushes growing in the garden below.

  “It must have been a dream,” he muttered to himself. He brushed his hand over the crumpled mess of sheets; blankets and pillows surrounded him. As he shuffled the pillows back into position, he stopped. There was blood on the pillow.

  “What’s this?” He took a closer look. There was no one else in the room. He slept alone. His attendants were just outside the door. All he had to do was call and they’d come rushing to his aid.

  Isobel, his wife was in another room, down the hall, still recovering from childbirth. Or so she claimed. Months ago. His son, Edward, now three months old, was in the royal nursery, carefully tended by a nursemaid. He would check on him later. He always did. It was part of his morning routine.

  But this? He touched the disfigured contorted blob of red with a finger. “Still wet,” he whispered, not wanting anyone to hear, even though there was no one close enough to hear unless he yelled.

  “It must have been a dream,” he repeated, a little loud in an attempt to reassure himself. It didn’t work. The experience had been all too real. The blood was real.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. They felt raw, as if something had been shining brightly into his pupils for long periods of time. He ran one hand through his hair and down the back of his head. It felt tender. He could feel a scab, slightly raised. It was extremely tender to touch. He brought his hand back to the front and studied his fingers, the ones touching the scar, or whatever it was. The fingers were damp with red. Blood. He was bleeding. Not significantly, but the scab was oozing. It must be recent.

  He couldn’t remember the injury. Too many questions. All rather unsettling.

  A knock on the door disrupted his ponderings. He flipped the pillow over to hide the evidence. He didn’t want questions. Not now. He didn’t have any answers. Even if he did, would anyone believe him?

  He stood, allowing his nightdress to fall to his ankles as he slid his feet into the slippers which always sat next to the bed. He pulled the plaid robe off the bedpost and wrapped it around him, tying it with a sash. Satisfied he was presentable, he bellowed, “Enter.”

  His private secretary, distant cousin and best friend, Lord George Bothwell, entered. “Sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty.” Closing the door behind him, he left the formalities in the hall. “Henry. Are you all right? You slept awfully late. You’re such an early riser. I had to make sure.”

  Henry waved his concerns away. George had a knack of babbling and Henry wasn’t up to idle conversation. “What’s the time?” he asked.

  “Almost noon.” George stepped further into the room. “Her Majesty has been asking after you too. You usually visit her after your breakfast. She was worried when you didn’t come and she sent for me.”

  “She was worried, was she?” Henry didn’t sound convinced.

  “She said so, sir,” George sidestepped the question. He understood his king’s marital situation better than anyone else. On the surface and in public, all appeared to be as it should: a happily married couple enjoying the birth of their first child. A son. An heir to the Scottish throne. But deep down, there were cracks in the armor of appearances. Cracks ran deep and, as George witnessed, were exceedingly painful. The marriage was nothing more than a political farce. A sham. Instituted as an alliance between England and Scotland. Mostly to the benefit of England. George wasn’t even sure if the little prince was Henry’s son. But he didn’t want to cause further pain to his dear friend. The man suffered enough.

  Henry ran a hand through his thinning hair, grimacing as he felt again the tender spot at the back of his head. It couldn’t have been a dream. Then what happened? And why had he slept so late? George was right. Henry was always a morning person.

  “I must remind you, Cousin,” George continued conversing. “The English queen arrives this afternoon. It’s her annual visit and you’ve agreed to allow her a few weeks at your grand castle retreat.”

  “Balmoral.” Henry sighed deeply. He had purchased the 50,000 acres on a whim over thirty years ago, built a marvelous castle and used it for his occasional retreats from the pressures of court life. Only after Queen Victoria’s first visit to the nearly completed estate in 1860, she had fallen in love with the place and she been rather vocal in requesting frequent visiting rights. Her husband, Prince Albert, had been a useful aid in the castle’s construction and the layout of the grounds. He and Henry had become great friends as they worked and planned together. It was considerably sad the queen’s consort had died so young, only forty-two, and before the great Balmoral Estate had been completed. Their plans, Henry’s and Albert’s, were a big undertaking.

  He shook his h
ead to clear the cobwebs of memories. “Right,” he said, more to convince himself than anyone else. “I shall get dressed and be ready for her arrival. Have some toast and tea sent up, will you George?”

  “Right away.” He paused briefly. “You do recall your agenda with the Arts Council. You were supposed to meet with them this afternoon, right after lunch, to finalize plans for next month’s Edinburgh Arts Festival.”

  Henry slapped his head with the palm of his hand. “Right. Make sure the notes from the last meeting are handy so I can peruse them quickly before they arrive. Anything else?” Henry liked to be prepared. He was a vital player in his country’s affairs, but he took a special interest in the arts. He fostered and nurtured what his ancestors started, creating a country internationally acclaimed as a vibrant arts centre. Scotland had reached such prestige in supporting the arts and promoting artistic endeavors in all the arts. Centuries earlier, they had become the world capital of the arts, rivalled only by Paris and Rome. Composers, painters, sculptors, dancers, actors, writers from all over the globe sought a place in Edinburgh’s art world. This Edinburgh Festival of the Arts was the place to be seen and recognized in the world of art.