King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  “The science council will be here later this afternoon to discuss their new research project.” George was rhyming off responsibilities as if he had a list in front of him. He didn’t. He had a mind like a locked safe and was good at keeping Henry on track with all his commitments. “Shall I reschedule them for next week?”

  “No. I’ll meet with both groups. It’s important I keep abreast on their activities. But thank you for the thought.” Henry had moved over to the window to look out into the courtyard as George went through the list. “I do need time to settle the English royals into Balmoral and return here for some peace and quiet.”

  George stifled a chuckled. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat when Henry glanced his way, with an eyebrow cocked. “Right. And Ian’s here, sir. Wants an audience as soon as possible. Something about disturbances in the Highlands.”

  Ian MacGregor was another long-time friend and confidante. He was the Chief of the MacGregor clan, as well as a great warlord who oversaw all of Scotland’s military affairs. He was a good warlord: fair and efficient. If he demanded an audience immediately, it was with good reason.

  Henry wondered if Elizabeth had come with him. She was Ian’s younger sister. A childhood sweetheart. Without the obligation of an English connection through marrying Isobel, Henry would have happily settled down with Elizabeth to rule the country and raise a family. Sadly, it didn’t happen.

  “She’s not with him, sir,” George spoke softly, sensing his cousin’s thoughts. He cleared his throat again. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Toast, George. Tea and toast. And send in Thomas.” Henry’s valet was as important to him as George, but in a different way. Thomas took care of Henry’s personal needs. George took care of his official needs.

  “Nothing else, George.” Henry shook his head and waved George away. The door closed quietly behind his cousin, but the king didn’t make a move to prepare himself for the day. Instead, he returned his attention to the world outside his window, allowing the sun to warm his face. He didn’t see anything. He wasn’t looking with intensity. He was merely staring into space. Thinking.

  Four

  Another knock on the door brought him back to his sense. “Enter.” He moved from the window and stood with a hand gently placed on the back of a chair, ready to greet his valet.

  Thomas entered with his usual bright, “Good morning,” juggling a tray of toast and tea as he manipulated the door open, only to close it again behind him. “As requested, sir. I shall place it on the table next to your chair. Shall I move it closer to the window?” Henry answered with a brief shake of his head and Thomas continued with his chatter.

  “While you have some refreshment, I shall lay out your clothes.” Thomas placed the tray on the table. Henry, with a sigh of resignation, sat in the chair next to the table, watching the valet as he poured some tea and milk, not cream and sugar, as he did every morning, preparing the king’s breakfast drink just the way he liked it.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” He forced a smile as he accepted the teacup and saucer. He could do it himself. He was not incapable of pouring tea and adding some milk and sugar. It was a simple enough task. But a valet had a job to do and he didn’t want to insult his good valet by insisting he could take care of himself. It just wouldn’t do. Thomas prided himself in a job well done. As did all of Henry’s staff.

  The valet nodded in acknowledgement as he started preparing Henry’s wardrobe for the day. “It’s going to be a fine day, Your Majesty,” he continued with his steady stream of commentary. He was a chatty valet, but never loud or obnoxious. He just liked to talk and, he always did so in his quietly soothing voice. He neither pried nor shared gossip. Only idle chitchat. “A fine day for Queen Victoria’s arrival. I gather there’s already quite a crowd lining the Royal Mile, sir.” He was, of course, referring to the long stretch from the grand old castle on the hill, Edinburgh Castle, to the gates of Holyrood House, including Castlehill, the Lawnmarket, the High Street, the Canongate and Abbey Strand – exactly a mile long. It was the route made famous by Queen Mary Elizabeth’s first royal procession in 1603 and her ultimate proclamation in the grand courtyard of the castle. Queen Victoria’s royal procession wouldn’t encompass the entire route, detouring partially along Princess Street to make a more direct progression from Waverly Station where the royal train from London always made its final stop. Henry could envision it in his mind’s eye. Yes, it would be a grand procession. His English cousin loved her pomp and circumstance parades.

  He only half listened as the valet chatted on. “They like to see the English queen in all her finery, even if it is mostly black. She has the air of regal elegance and importance.” The man stuttered and quickly clarified. “Oh, I not be saying you don’t as well, sir. But there is a way she sits in her carriage, holding her cane with one hand and nodding her head ever so slightly in acknowledgement of those who greet her along the way.”

  Queen Victoria had never fully recovered from her husband’s death. Even now, over twenty years later, she mourned his passing and wore the black garments of a grieving widow. She had loved Albert with such intensity. Without him, she seemed to flounder about like a ghost, oblivious to the woes of her people, taking advice from her ministers on what she should do, what foreign lands she should conquer or what foreign wars she should fight. All this while her people starved in the streets.

  Henry was saddened by his cousin’s lack of interest in the country’s well being, relieved, too, she had no control over his Scotland. He watched his southern neighbors with interest, studying their strengths and weaknesses, but always aware the English people as a whole were mere pawns on a chessboard of life. He was a voracious reader, enjoying particularly the works of the English writer, Charles Dickens. He usually preferred Scottish authors like Walter Scott, but Dickens had a way with words and he didn’t mince words as he described the drastic demise of the working class in England.

  Henry banished the sad thoughts from his mind and finished his breakfast. He wasn’t one for a big meal at the beginning of the day. Not like the English who enjoyed a feast to break the overnight fast. He liked to give his stomach time to wake up slowly, just as he had done this morning.

  After drinking the last sip of tea, he placed the cup on its saucer and returned it to the tray. Standing up, he walked to the window to study the scene being played out below him. Indeed, the crowds were already lining the streets. Everyone was dressed in their finest to greet the English queen. They always did put on a show for visiting royals from around the world. Only a few weeks ago, the Scottish court had hosted the Russian royals, Tsar Alexander III and his family. The English had not been too happy. Queen Victoria’s representative in Edinburgh had been quite vocal. The Crimean War had ended close to twenty years ago, but tensions still ran high.

  Edinburgh was at its zenith of prosperity and influence and it required a certain amount of diplomatic relations with everyone. Henry was not about to shirk his duty just because the English queen thought it was a bad idea.

  “Here we are, sir.” Henry stepped back from the window to see his valet laying out the wardrobe for the day. “If you care to sit, sir, I’ll have your face washed and shaved in no time at all.”

  Thomas whipped a white sheet in the air away from his charge as Henry took his seat on the chair they saved for this purpose. It was a sleek walnut chair with horsehair-stuffed leather-covered cushions. Thomas had to spin it around in order to raise it or lower it and the back did recline to facilitate the barbering task of shaving a man’s face. It was a sturdy chair, not overly comfortable, but certainly practical. Thomas kept it hidden in the corner when not in use and dragged it out daily to take care of his king’s hair.

  Henry settled in, resting his feet on the horsehair-stuffed leather-covered footrest and waited while Thomas placed the sheet around Henry’s shoulders, tucking it in at the back. He then picked up the small jar and brush and applied well lathered shaving soap all over the king’s face
. As the valet ran the razor over the leather strap to sharpen it, Henry was lulled into a sense of compliance, soothed by the routine, but also unsettled by it. The razor met his face and the work began, stroke by stroke. Thomas was gentle. He was always gentle.

  Stroke.

  Wipe the razor on the towel slung over his shoulder.

  Stroke.

  Wipe the razor again.

  It was repetitive. Gentle. Soothing.

  The king hardly noticed his valet’s idle chatter. When the man had put away the shaving instruments and started brushing Henry’s hair, he gave a little jump when the brush met a tender spot. By the time Thomas had surveyed the cause of Henry’s discomfort, the king was fully aware of the conversation.

  “You have a big cut on your head,” Thomas noted as he carefully fingered the hair away from the sore spot. “Did you have a fall? It looks recent.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Henry automatically reached up to touch the top of his head, feeling for the tender spot he had discovered earlier. What was it? Why was it there? How had it happened? Did it have something to do with his dream? Something about an implant?

  Thomas put down the brush and grabbed a couple of mirrors. “Here,” he said, handing the king one mirror and positioning the other mirrors so they could reflect off each other as it picked up the image of the injury. “You have a bit of a bald spot, which was concealed by your long hair hanging over it. The area looks a little raw and it appears to have stitches.”

  Henry studied the reflection in the mirror. He didn’t remember having stitches woven into his scalp and he certainly didn’t remember having a bald spot on his head. He gingerly ran his hand over the area, wincing when his coronation ring rubbed against the incision. He always referred to the ring as his coronation ring even though the only connection he knew about this ring was from his great ancestor, Queen Mary Elizabeth, who had worn it. She had passed it on to him. According to her, it had something to do with his trips through time. It did rather look like a coronation ring, though, since it bore the Royal Stuart crest. He handed the mirror back to his valet.

  “I’ll ask my wife,” he said, trying to brush off the valet’s concern. He was more disturbed than he cared to let on. “Perhaps she’ll remember. Carry on, Thomas. We shall keep this between ourselves, shall we?” On second thought, he realized his wife wouldn’t remember anything. She seldom took notice of him except at formal occasions. It was highly unlikely she would realize he had undergone minor surgery involving stitches. However, it might be good to make the suggestion. He had to keep up with appearances. He didn’t want the downstairs staff to acknowledge what he already knew: his marriage was failing. No, he wouldn’t mention it to his wife. No point.

  Thomas retrieved the brush and finished brushing the king’s hair, using extra care around the bald spot. Task completed. He removed the sheet from around Henry’s shoulders, tossed it aside to be taken away by the cleaning staff, and proceeded towards the clothes he had laid out earlier.

  “It’s all right, Thomas.” Henry stopped him and nodded towards the door. “I can dress myself.”

  “Very good, Your Majesty.” Thomas sniffed, a little miffed at being dismissed. He took great pride in his job. “Will there be anything else?” Henry shook his head. Thomas let out a deep sigh to demonstrate his feelings of being slighted, as if he wasn’t doing his job. He started to clear away the grooming instruments, but Henry waved him away.

  “Later.” Henry almost snapped. He wanted to be alone. This constant fluttering of attention was annoying at the best of times, but right now, he needed his space. Desperately.

  Thomas hesitated ever so slightly. Seeing the determined look on the king’s face, he decided not to argue. “Very good, Your Majesty.” He let himself out of the king’s chambers, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Five

  Henry managed to dress and make himself presentable in a short span of time. The nagging worry about the scar on his head and the recurring headache threatened his composure, but he had been brought up as a royal and he knew how to keep a stiff upper lip.

  A knock on the door brought his thoughts into focus. “Enter.”

  George opened the door and stood on the threshold. “The MacGregor is waiting in your study, Your Majesty.” The highland chiefs were addressed with the word “the” before the clan name, designating their rank, so to speak. Hence George’s reference to Ian MacGregor, the chief of the MacGregor clan, as “The MacGregor”. George had obviously shown him to the study and left him to inform the king of his presence. He knew Henry preferred to meet his friends and colleagues in a less formal environment. The study was the refuge he sought whenever he wanted to deal with matters of the realm and whenever he just wanted to unwind.

  “Thank you, George. I will come right now.”

  “And her Majesty is requesting your presence.”

  “Is she now?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Well. She’ll have to wait. I have business to attend to. Does she know her English cousins are arriving later this afternoon?”

  Isabel was a distant cousin of Queen Victoria’s. She had grown up in the English royal court alongside of the large family of princes and princesses. Being married to a king north of Hadrian’s Wall had not been her choice, but Queen Victoria ruled all of her court with an iron fist and she strove to make sure all royal matches were to her benefit. A match between a young cousin, one she had raised as her own, to the neighboring monarch, was just good politics. In other words, Henry’s wife was Victoria’s spy in the Scottish court. Hence, Henry kept his distance and allowed Isabel little access to the political goings-on of the Scottish royal court. Unfortunately, Isabel had her own network of spies and little passed without her notice and consequently the English queen.

  This current summons demanding he attend her ‘court’, such as it was, demonstrated yet another irksome trademark of the complex world of spies and espionage which he had to tread through. He didn’t like it one bit, but he knew it was important to play the game and act the part. Little did the Scottish queen know, or the English court for that matter, Henry had his own resources and means to stay informed at all times. Not the least of these resources was his ability to jump through time and spy on those who sought to threaten his reign. Bertie, the Prince of Wales, knew of his gift, though there were times when Henry wondered if Bertie believed in time traveling, or if he thought it was just another magical trick, a slight of hand, so to speak.

  As for spies in his court, he knew most of them. Some he wasn’t too sure about, including George. He never let on he suspected his childhood friend. Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer, was the sage advice of the sixth century Chinese general, writer and philosopher, Sun Tzu. He held those sage words close to his heart at all times. It was good military strategy and just good sense.

  “Yes,” George nodded. “I believe it is why her Majesty, your wife wishes to see you. Something important she needs to discuss with you regarding their visit.”

  Henry groaned. “Very well. I shall pop into her chambers on my way to see Ian. Let the MacGregor know I am on the way. Make sure he has all he needs.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Already done. And I will let him know you have been slightly delayed.” He bit back a knowing smile.

  Henry chuckled softly. “It’s all right, George. I know you understand my marital situation all too well.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Henry made his way to his wife’s chambers. He knocked, out of respect only. As king, he had every right to just march right in. In the case of his wife, he chose to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had him at her beck and call. Which in many ways she did, but only superficially.

  “Enter,” she called from the other side of the door.

  Henry opened the door and walked in. “You requested my presence, my dear?” His voice was stiff and formal. It didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Yes. We must discuss our son and his need to be promised
to the English.” She motioned to a chair opposite her. “Sit.” She spoke with the authority she falsely believed she had over him. Henry refused to oblige.

  “I prefer to stand. I have meetings to attend to and you already know my position about the young prince. He will be educated in Scotland, raised as a Scottish prince and prepared to be king of Scotland. With any luck, he will find himself a fine Scottish lass to share his throne.”

  “No!” Isabel spat with venom. “My son will not be attached to some poor, Scottish lass. He is meant for grander things than this backwater country.”

  Henry could take no more. “You have gone too far, my queen. You seem to forget yourself. You are only my wife and the mother of Scotland’s prince. The title queen is merely a title and it means nothing. You would do well to remember it.”

  Not waiting for a response, he pivoted on his heal and stormed out of the room, making sure to pull the doors sharply shut behind him.

  A few minutes later, entering the study, Ian cast a look of concern, standing to give the king due honor. “Is everything all right?” he asked his king and friend. “I heard a crash as if the walls were crumbling around us.”

  “Not quite.” Henry marched briskly over to the table which held his prized whisky and glasses. He lifted the lid off the bottle and held it up as he glanced at Ian. “Shall I pour you a glass? I think I could drink the entire bottle right now.”

  Ian chuckled. “Must be wife problems. I shall join you, my friend. And I shall make sure you do not have too much. We wouldn’t want you tipsy with the English monarch almost on your doorstep, now would we?”

  “I don’t see why not!” The king smirked at his friend as he poured two glasses. Carrying them across the room, he handed one to Ian. They raised their glasses and clinked them together. “To the women in our lives. May they be forever meek, humble and somewhere else.”

  Ian laughed and the men tossed the contents, glass full, down their throats. “Ahh! Better.” Henry wasn’t usually a drinking man, but sometimes the stress was too much to bear. Like this morning, with his bad dreams, sore scab on his head (throbbing head, too) and a nagging wife who believed she ran the show always lording it over him whenever she could. “Another?” he asked Ian, who shook his head, placing the glass on a nearby table.