King Henry's Choice

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Victoria let her hand drop and stepped back to sit in her favorite reading chair. It held no comfort for her as she fumed inside with the knowledge her cousin, the King of Scotland, knew more of her plans than she would have liked.

  “It sounds like you’re threatening me, Henry. It’s never a good idea to threaten a neighboring ruling monarch.”

  “And yet you feel obliged to threaten me, Cousin? I am your neighboring ruling monarch, am I not?” He worded it more like statements than questions. “Having my wife spy on me, plot against me. Your son pretending to befriend me. Sending one your English minions to kidnap my son. Which, I might add, he was unsuccessful in his attempt. He was also unsuccessful in assassinating me. Tomorrow, he will be in captivity. Mine. Either that or dead.”

  Victoria shuddered, struggling to maintain her composure. “It’s all part of the art of diplomacy, Henry. Something you, of all people, should know.”

  “It’s all part of your grand scheme to make what is mine, yours. Greed. That’s what it is. And you always were a greedy …” He didn’t finish his thoughts, biting his upper lip to prevent further insults from escaping his mouth.

  “Think what you will, Henry. Now, if you’re done with the insults, I think I’ll order up some tea. Would you care for some?” She took her eyes off the Scottish king just long enough to reach another bell pull, one secretly handy to her chair. When she returned her gaze to the place where he had been towering over her, he was gone.

  Twenty-Five

  Stirling Castle, Late Fall, Year of Our Lord 1875

  His cousin’s words rang in his ears. “The art of diplomacy,” she had said. Her definition of diplomacy certainly wasn’t his. He always believed diplomacy executed a significant margin of caring, of compassion. Perhaps he was an anomaly, an exception to the rule. If there was a rule.

  Then there was his great ancestor, Lord Bothwell. His advice wasn’t much, but it was important. “Surround and conquer,” he had said. He claimed it was the best way to defeat an invading English army. He would certainly try.

  “Your Majesty. The Murray scout has managed to break through the English lines without detection. He’s here.” Robbie marched smartly into the grand hall where the MacGregors continued to lounge while their chief talked to the king. A mud-splattered youth made his way purposefully the king. He knelt on one knee.

  “Your Majesty.” He ducked his head.

  “What news?” Henry asked. He knew there wouldn’t be any missive, nothing in writing. Oral news was always the most secure. If the messenger was killed en route, then the message was lost with the messenger. Besides, he had long since instituted the use of Gaelic for sending important messages. Few people outside of Scotland, unless they were Irish, knew the language.

  “My chief sends his regards, but believes it best to remain hidden in the woods beyond,” the scout replied. “The English are moving into position as we speak and will soon be setting up their camp just beyond the ramparts. The Murrays and the Ogilvies have agreed to surround the camp with the intent of laying siege once the English settle for the night. You will see the banner across the fields. They plan to raise it high and light it as a beacon, to announce the onslaught of their attack to the troops here in the castle. There will be no further communication until the mission is complete. The English are thick as thieves out there, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they are. I shall have men watching for the signal. Good job. You best stay here and fight from this end.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Robbie. Take the lad down to the kitchens. I’m sure the cook has something to spare for our brave messenger.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Robbie led the lad out of the room as Henry continued making plans for the castle frontal attack.

  “And instruct the captain to secure all the entry points. All gates and passageways must be sealed and heavily guarded.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The men sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound permeating the large room was the occasional rustle of shifting feet, a few coughs and the spattering, crackling flames from the fireplace. Ian was the first to speak. “So, the battle begins. Surround and conquer.”

  Henry was startled by Ian’s use of Bothwell’s exact words, but he didn’t look up. Noticing his expression, Ian chuckled. “We all know the famous Lord Bothwell’s approach to dealing with the English. He learned it from his peers. It’s the Scottish way. Always has been.”

  “Aye. You’re right. It is the Scottish way. I hadn’t thought of those words in some time. There hasn’t been a battle on Scottish soil in over a century.” He had been intently studying his feet, for no particular reason other than to focus his thoughts. Looking up, his eyes caught the knowing look of his friend. “I didn’t want to be the first monarch to start a new war with England.”

  “Well, you’re not the first, lad.” Ian said in little more than a whisper, meant for the king’s ears alone. He frequently used the familiar when he was making light of something Henry said.

  “The first in a long time, Ian. And I’m not sure this will bode well.”

  “We are strong, Your Majesty.” He returned to the more formal address, since they were surrounded by a room full of loyal subjects. “We will prevail against the English menace. We always have.”

  “Aye. For now and forever.”

  “For now and forever.” Mutterings around the room echoed the same Scottish battle cry, the one Henry’s ancestor, Mary Elizabeth, had first uttered as she rallied her forces to keep Scotland independent and free.

  “Ian. I need your men to add extra security at the entries and boost the manpower along the walls,” Henry stated in his steady command voice. He had no choice but to face this unwelcome force head-on and fight he would, alongside his men. He wasn’t one to shirk his duty and let others do the dirty work. “I have men already posted along the ramparts and, as you heard, orders are being executed to seal all entrances to the castle grounds.”

  “I’ll get right to it, Your Majesty.” Ian stood abruptly and waved to his men. “Thomas.” A thick-set man in his mid-thirties made his way forward. He stood at least a couple of inches taller than Ian and had the weathered look of a seasoned battle commander. The Scots may not have had major scuffles with the English or any full-out war on their lands, but the ruling clans had their own little clashes here and there, maintaining their lands and protecting their own people. This man would know the terrain as well as the tactics to lead this siege to success. Alongside Henry’s chosen captain, of course. “March the perimeter and station men as you see the need.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Thomas nodded smartly and inclined his head towards his king. “Your Majesty.” Just as abruptly, he waved his men out of the room to do as ordered. There were other MacGregors outside, probably stationed around the guardhouse square, warriors awaiting their orders. The guardhouse square had been Henry’s idea to extend the battlements and provide the castle with an extra level of defense. He also had more ditches dug around the walls with a caponier, complete with musket openings to protect his troops while at the same time taking aim on the advancing enemy. Ian had suggested these additions to Stirling Castle and Henry was pleased he had listened to his friend’s advice. It would serve them well in this upcoming battle.

  Henry and Ian were alone. More or less. At least, momentarily. Heavy footsteps sounded like galloping horses as they approached the grand room. “Your Majesty.” Robbie and the castle’s captain, John Stirling, greeted the king in unison.

  “Your Majesty.” This time only John spoke. “The signal has been sighted. We have the drawbridge up and all entry points are well sealed and guarded. Shall I load the canon and rain down a barricade of canon balls on the poor English bastards?”

  “Yes. Let the battle begin. The caponier is manned?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Have they breached the River Forth?” Stirling Castle was an important strategically s
ituated castle, not only for its impenetrable height and steep climb from the surrounding countryside, but also because it controlled one of the main access crossings along the river which wove its way around the castle and the community, the River Forth.

  “Not yet, Your Majesty. But they appear to be setting charges to blow the bridge.”

  “They must be stopped. We need the bridge. It’s strategic to our plans. We must get word to Bruce and Wallace.”

  “I’m sure they are aware, Your Majesty,” Ian pointed out. “As we all are. They will be taking steps to prevent the bridge’s destruction.”

  “Aye. You’re right, Ian.”

  “Top the canon and let them roar. Let’s defend our castle, for whomever holds the keys to Stirling Castle holds the keys to Scotland. And we mustn’t let the English have those keys.”

  “Aye.” Ian, Robbie and John agreed unanimously. John bowed and made his exit to follow through with his orders.

  Henry stood abruptly. “Well, Ian, Robbie, I believe it’s time we took our place in the action, don’t you think?”

  “You shouldn’t allow yourself to be seen, Your Majesty,” Robbie advised. “You are a target.”

  “I shall stand well behind the canons and use my Ignazio Porro device to see all the action.”

  “You mean your binoculars?” Ian asked, his twinkled. He knew how his king loved to use the more formal names for new inventions. The binoculars weren’t exactly new, but they had undergone some wonderful advancements and were excellent tools for situations like the one they were facing.

  “Aye. Robbie. Fetch them for me and send my man in with my bulletproof vest, sword and bow and arrows. I’ll be armed and dangerous. You’ll see.”

  “Bulletproof vest?” Ian quirked an eyebrow. “This I have to see. I heard about the Japanese invention using layers of silk to prevent bullets from piercing through to the skin. And it works?”

  “So, they say. Hopefully we won’t have to test the theory.”

  Robbie returned with the binoculars and Henry’s man carrying the armor and weapons. Ian watched in awe as Henry slid into the vest and strapped on his sword belt. The king slipped the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

  “Impressive!” he said. “But why the bow and arrows?”

  “You know I’m a good shot. And there’s nothing better than a bow and arrow when fighting from the top of a castle wall. Wouldn’t you agree, men?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” they spoked in unison.

  “Rather archaic, though.” Ian shook his head.

  “Archaic? Perhaps. But effective? Definitely.” Sword sheathed, quiver of arrows strapped over his back, he was ready. Taking the bow, he nodded to the men. “Besides, guns are not always as effective as we’d like them to be, especially from a distance.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Shall we? To the ramparts it is.”

  “Perhaps the tower of the caponier might be better,” Ian suggested, lamely, as he knew Henry would object.

  “No. I want to be outside. Above the action. With a clear view.” He slapped Ian fondly on the back. “To the battlements, men.”

  Ian followed the king, shaking his head as he muttered, “Stubborn old…” He wasn’t allowed to finished his grumblings.

  “I heard you.” Henry didn’t break a stride as he called back over his shoulder. The two never did lose their love for bantering. “I’m not an old coot. Primarily because coot is an English expression and we don’t use English expressions in the Scottish court.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Ian sounded suitably chastised.

  The first boom of canon fire rattled the foundation. Henry quickened his pace, gripping the precious binoculars so they wouldn’t fall from his grasp. He moved with military precision. The men exited the castle into the esplanade, making haste towards the stone steps leading up to the top of the walls where the canons sat in their casemates. Another canon let loose its ball as the men reached the top. The noise was deafening. The officer in charge of the men manning the canons nodded in acknowledgement as he noticed their presence. He didn’t move, remaining in position at the end of the line of canons, shouting out orders.

  Another canon boomed. Smoke emitted from the trajectory and more smoke was seen below where the canon ball had reached its target.

  Henry made his way across the landing, coming to stand beside the officer shouting orders. Raising his binoculars to his eyes, he glanced through the lenses, over the man’s shoulders, studying the smoking targets below. Between canon bursts, he asked, “Status?”

  “We’ve managed to cause some damage to the enemy forces, Your Majesty.” The answer was brief. Another order was barked. Another canon fired.

  Across the smouldering targets, Henry could almost make out shadows of figures closing in on the English invaders. His men. His clans. His people. They were making their move to protect their homeland. To surround the enemy and expunge him. Bothwell’s strategy of surround and conquer. The Scottish strategy.

  The sounds of yelling, musket fire, orders shouted, swords clashing mixed with the intermittent boom of the canons. It became a blur of noise and smoke. Henry didn’t like the battlefield. Too much pent-up anger exploding into nonsensical bloodshed. For what? But he knew there was no alternative. Victoria had made it abundantly clear. He either fought the English or he lost his country. He could never live with the knowledge he had caused the demise of what centuries of Scottish monarchs had worked hard to build up and maintain.

  A loud boom from below caused the foundation beneath their feet to tremble violently. “They have their canon in place and they’re doing their own bit of damage, Your Majesty.” The officer yelled in the king’s ear. “You might be safer down below, Your Majesty.”

  Another explosion caused the stone foundation of the casement at the far end of the wall to crumble, taking the canon and its men to a crushing descent. The officer increased the rapidity of canon fires as much as he could given the time needed to reload after each firing. The Scottish canons continued to hit targets below. Suddenly, out of the smoke from the crumbling wall came a stream of men in English uniform. As they scrambled to get a footing, Ian called for his men to secure the ramparts.

  Henry heard swords being drawn and started to draw his own, but before he had his weapon fully released, a sharp blast hit him in the shoulder. The pain cascaded throughout his body like fire. He’d been hit. By what, he couldn’t ascertain. He heard the crash of glass as his binoculars fell from his grasp and shattered on the stone floor. He heard a voice, Ian’s voice perhaps, penetrating his consciousness as it quickly ebbed away. “Your Majesty. Henry. The king.” And all went black.

  Twenty-Six

  Secure Facility, Holyrood House, Year of Our Lord 2445

  Voices trickled around him like a dizzying haze.

  “We can’t let him die. Not now.”

  “The future depends on him.”

  “Whose future? His? Or ours?”

  “Both.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Later. We must save King Henry first.”

  The fog closed in on him. For how long? He couldn’t tell. When it cleared, he noticed sunlight trickling through curtains which must be as old and threadbare as he felt. He was sure they were the same curtains which lined the chambers in his time. Wasn’t he still in his time? Everything was so different. The beeping, the smell of something potent, the constant clatter of footsteps marching up and down the hall beyond his room, marching to and around his bed. Puttering. Everyone was efficiently puttering at something. Who were these people in their stark white uniforms? He didn’t know them. Or did he?

  His eyes flickered open. Someone was fiddling with a tube draped from a pole. He felt a surge of something cold enter his arm. Looking down, he noticed tubing fastened to his arm. He tried to reach with the other arm to pull it out. It was invasive. His other arm struggled, but wouldn’t budge. It was tied down. Why? Why was he confined in such a manner?

  “O
h. You’re awake, are you? I’ll fetch the doctor.” The female figure stopped her fussing and patted his arm. “Don’t fuss. You’re perfectly safe. These are just medicines to make you better. You almost died, you know. Gunshot grazed your heart. It stopped. The doctor here is a whiz. He patched you up and kept your heart pumping.”

  “My binoculars.” Why was he worrying about something so inconsequential when he was lying in a bed, strapped in securely, presumably sometime far in the future.

  “You mean these?” The woman held up what might have been his binoculars. It was a crumpled mess, but then his eyes weren’t focussing too well. “Interesting contraption. Binoculars, you say. They’re much more sophisticated nowadays.”

  He glanced at her. “What year is it?”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you. They’ll wipe your memory before sending you back.” She appeared to be studying him intently. “2445. And, yes, this is your home, your Holyrood House. Though sometime in the last century, it was converted into a research facility. Very secret.”

  “2445. That’s over 500 years from my time!” He shook his head in disbelief. Was he dreaming? This couldn’t be possible. “Holyrood House a research facility. And you said they’d wipe my memory. Who? Why? All of it?”

  “Enough, nurse.” The male voice from across the room startled them. Henry recognized the voice. He couldn’t place it. Where had he heard it before? Certainly not in this time. 2445? Is it possible? He’d never jumped so far into the future before. “Leave us.” The man’s voice was closer. “Now. You’ll be disciplined later.” Disciplined? For what?