“So, there’s nothing can be done in your time either?” Henry ran his hands through his scalp, his agony at discovering his son was dying obvious.
Cecil shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, no. If he sustains an injury, he could bleed to death. If an injury doesn’t take his life, then the HIV or the AIDS will kill him in a few years.”
Henry was groping to understand all these medical complications. His family had always been so healthy. Died of old age. What was this hemophiliac and now HIV and AIDS? And why was his family, his son, suddenly infected? Medicine had certainly progressed considerably over the centuries, but there was still a long way to go.
“Father,” Edward’s voice startled Henry from his thoughts. “Father. I want to die a hero. Like James Stuart, Grandmother Mary Elizabeth’s love. It’s better to go that way. Like a hero. Better than wasting away until death invades. Don’t you think?”
Edward. His young son. So mature beyond his years. He would never reach adulthood. Never love and marry. Never rule the country he was destined to rule. Tragic. Unfair. He pulled his son into a fierce hug and blinked his eyes tight to prevent the tears from escaping. A couple did anyway.
“Time is a-wasting.” Cecil rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit he was demonstrating more frequently as tensions rose. “If you’re going to visit his mother, best to make it quick. Then we must make haste to the future. Before it’s too late.”
“Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron, Uncle Cecil.” Edward pushed away from his father, trying to ease the burden of his news.
No one laughed. The seriousness of the boy’s news and the impending doom threatening them all was too much to wash over with glib comments.
Henry nodded. “Come along, son. Let’s go see your mother. We’ll meet the rest of you shortly in the twenty-fifth century.”
Thirty-Six
Loch Leven Castle, Late Spring, 1877
“You came. I knew you would come. Eventually. And who is this?” Isabel remained seated by the fire, wrapped in many layers of fur coverings to ward off the chill. Her skin had a pallor only death could beat. She released a cough and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a callous move speaking only of her decline in both body and spirit. She obviously no longer cared what anyone thought of her.
“Edward.” Henry approached slowly, leading Edward gently with a few nudges on the arm. “Your son.”
“My son is an infant. This is a young man. It can’t be Edward.”
“Time passes, Isabel. More quickly than you realize. This is Edward. Your son. My son.”
“Is he?” She quirked an eyebrow. Henry wasn’t sure if she was goading him with the ongoing nagging suspicion Edward wasn’t his son. He let it pass. No point in upsetting the visit, upsetting Edward. He had so little time left to spend with his son. For it’s what he was. His son. In every sense of the word. There was a bond which could only exist between father and son. Henry wrapped one arm around his son, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was a show of solidarity. A sign he claimed Edward as his son, regardless of the suspicious allegations of his ex-wife.
“Mother.” Edward’s voice was small, almost shallow, swallowed by the emptiness and cold chill of the room. He left his father’s side and walked up to his mother, kneeling at her feet. “Mother. I wanted to meet you. Finally.”
Tears dribbled down the woman’s cheeks as she reached towards her son and made a fierce grab to engulf him in a hug, grasping at some thread of the past in the hopes to make amends or, at least, to restore what she once had as Queen of Scotland. She made a fast swipe of her dampened cheeks to wipe away the moisture before it was noticed. The tears kept coming. They were noticed. “Edward. My son.” She sniffled. She glanced up suddenly, her eyes piercing a glare of hatred at Henry. “Some privacy, please.” It was part request, part command. Henry would have none of it. How dare she think, even now, she could command him? The king.
He shook his head. “I’ll sit over here. It’s all the privacy you need.”
She glared more intensely, but Henry shifted his eyes towards his son, ignoring hers. “Ten minutes, Edward. Then we must leave.”
Isabel shrieked. “Ten minutes? It’s not enough time. I haven’t seen my son since he was born.”
He returned his gaze to his ex-wife and forced a sad smile on his face. He was sure it was more of a grimace than a smile. “You didn’t care about him then, Isabel. And I’m sure you don’t care about him any more today than you did at his birth.”
“That’s not true!”
“You’re wasting time, Isabel.” He nodded at his son. “Ten minutes.” Edward nodded back. He understood. Sad as it was, this was not the mother-son reunion he had hoped for. His mother had yet to let him go, her hug becoming more of a vice grip than a motherly embrace.
Edward squirmed and somehow loosened the grip. She relinquished him and he breathed more easily as he took a seat opposite her.
“How old are you now, Edward?” she asked.
“I just had my twelfth birthday.”
“Twelve. A birthday. I didn’t get you a gift.”
“It’s all right, Mother. Father gave me a fine bow and arrow set.”
She harrumphed. “Now what would you need it for?”
“I am a good archer, Mother. And I like to shoot my arrows.”
“Well. As long as it’s just for recreation. You are much too young to be learning how to use weapons for battle.”
“Not really, Mother. History is full of young princes fighting battles at my age. And, princes younger than me becoming king, like England’s Edward VI.”
“But he never fought any battles, my son. He was much too sickly. Sad, but true.”
“Yes, Mother. Perhaps not the best choice for comparison. But I would rather die a hero than a sick young man.”
Isabel gave her son a weak smile. “I would rather you did not die at all. You must live to claim your right as King of Scotland and then marry a fine English princess to combine the two countries. Scotland should be part of England. It really should.”
“That’s traitorous talk, Mother. And I don’t agree. Scotland is much better off on its own. It’s a proud and strong nation, full of potential and possibilities.”
“Fine words for a young man mimicking his father.” She shook her head sadly. “Had I been taking care of you and monitoring your upbringing, you would have thought different.”
“I don’t think so, Mother.” Edward stood suddenly. “Our time is up. I must go. I won’t be seeing you again, Mother. Not in this world.”
She reached out her hand, but Edward ignored it. He gave her a curt “Goodbye” and followed his father out the door and into another time.
Thirty-Seven
Balmoral Castle, June 1st, Year of Our Lord 1861
“Uncle Harry.” Two young boys greeted Edward’s father enthusiastically.
“That’s me.” Henry pointed to the young man on the left, standing over a table covered with plans. He wanted his son to see some of his own past, his own youth. He wanted Edward to see Balmoral in its infancy. “Just a little older than you are now. And there’s Edward, Prince of Wales. We called him Bertie. We were close back then. Not so much now. Sadly.”
“And this is Balmoral?” Edward asked, his voice bearing witness to a sense of awe.
“Yes. I worked alongside Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband. He was a fine craftsman. A genius. I learned a lot from him.” He motioned forward. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”
“Have you traveled through time yet?” Edward asked in a whisper.
“Yes. But my cousin, Bertie, thinks it’s all fantasy and frequently makes fun of me and my stories about traveling through time.”
Young Henry ran towards them and wrapped his arms around the older Henry in a big hug. “Who did you bring with you this time, Uncle Harry.” The two shared a wink of knowing. Young Henry obviously knew this man he called uncle was actually himself in the future.
; “Henry. Meet my son, Edward.”
“My son?” The young man whispered then coughed to mask his comment as the Prince of Wales approached. He quickly recovered and patted the young Prince of Wales on the back fondly. “Edward. Meet Edward.” He motioned from one to the other. The two Edwards took their cue, chuckled and shook hands.
“Uncle Harry,” Bertie nodded to the king. They had met before, but not in some time. And they would meet again.
“Father brought me here to meet Prince Albert and study the progress of Balmoral.” Young Edward was eager to learn. While he could. While he still lived.
“Come.” Young Henry led the way over to the table where the plans were spread out and Prince Albert was leaning over them, studying them closely.
“And who have we here?” the prince consort straightened and studied the three young boys.
“Another cousin,” young Henry chuckled. “This is Edward.”
“Another Edward?” Albert shook his head, winked at his son and added, “Just what we need. Another Edward.”
“He wants to see the plans. He’s interested in what we’re doing.”
“Well, it’s something, isn’t it? Come here, lad. I’ll show you what we have planned on paper and then we’ll all take a walk around the site.”
Thirty-Eight
India, November, Year of Our Lord 1875
Henry and Edward stood at the large window of the grand house, watching the events unfold below them. The guards were scrambling to secure the area as armed men fought to make an entrance. In many ways, it was no different than the Scotland they had left behind. The heat and humidity, the dress, the architecture, the décor, all suggested otherwise.
A door opened behind them and the two moved away from the window.
“Henry. Again. And this must be your son. We met many years ago at Balmoral. Amazing how little you’ve aged since then. Both of you.” The Prince of Wales quirked an eyebrow as if expecting to be greeted with a chuckle from his unexpected guests. He was, after all, trying to be funny.
“Another battle being fought?” Henry motioned his head towards the window. “Still unable to squelch the natives?”
“You should talk, Henry.” The prince, having waved away his attendants and shut the door firmly behind him, made his way to the cabinet along the far wall. He picked up a decanter and proceeded to pour some of the thick brown substance into a finely cut crystal glass. He raised it towards Henry. “Care for a glass, Cousin?” Henry shook his head. “And what about you, young man?” Shocked, young Edward took a step back, shadowing his father’s form. The prince just laughed, lifted the glass to his lips and downed the substance all in one gulp. Placing the empty vessel on the table with a clatter, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a nearby chair. He rolled up his sleeves and undid the top fasteners of his shirt, rolling his head as if to further release the pressure which had once restricted neck movement. “Ah! That’s better.” He poured himself another glass and made his way over to a chair close to the window where there was a minimal amount of air flow from the open window. “Confounded heat. Don’t know how they stand it. I shan’t be complaining about the cold damp of England when I return. It will be a blessed change from this.” He dug out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow. “Now. Sit. You didn’t come all this way through all of time just to talk about the balmy weather in India.” He motioned to chairs opposite him and stretched out his legs to get comfortable. “Sit.”
“We’re not here at your beck and call,” Henry retorted, maintaining his standing pose. “And I do outrank you, Cousin Edward. So, you can stop ordering me about.”
“Oh! Don’t get into that.” The prince was never one to mask his displeasure. And, he was obviously angry with Henry. “I’ve had a lifetime of watching you get what you want so easily and so quickly. Not anymore. Now what do you want?”
“Get what I want? And so easily? What do you mean by that?” Henry was better at hiding his anger. To a point. His nerves were on edge and he was showing signs of losing his patience. Not just with his cousin, but with everyone.
“You have to ask?” It was more of a question than a statement. “You were king before you came of age. Here I am, in my mid-thirties, and still just a little prince waiting for his crown. You’ve had years to make a mark on your country and your people. And me?” He snorted in disgust. “Just the merry prince. That’s what I am.”
“And what have you done with the time?” Henry snapped. “Whored yourself to whatever skirt caught your liking?”
“Enough!” the prince bellowed, tossing the now empty glass at Henry. It missed and shattered just behind his son. “There’s never been anything I could do. Nothing I was allowed to do. Until now. Here. In this miserably hot, humid climate. India. She wants to be Empress of India. Ruler of the world. And why not?” He gave a show of shrugging his shoulders, as if he didn’t care. “And what does that make me?” He snorted. “Nothing more than I ever was. Just a pawn. A figurehead.”
The prince shot a look at both Henry and Edward which suggested piercing daggers. It worked. Partially. Edward jumped back a step. His father stayed rooted where he stood. “I want to be king, Henry. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be King of England. By the time I’m king, if I live long enough, I’ll be too old to enjoy the privilege of the position of power.”
Henry let out a sharp laugh. “It’s not all that wonderful, Cousin. Believe me. It’s not all about fine clothes, parading around in luxurious robes, hosting elaborate parties. And it can be dangerous.”
Bertie laughed, slapping his hands on the arms of his chair. “Well. I guess you would know, wouldn’t you? The danger, I mean. You get what you deserve in this life, I suppose.”
“Which means you deserve your princedom,” Henry counterattacked. “And the danger? I have no one but the English to blame.”
Anger flashed across the prince’s face, a red blush spreading from his neckline up to his forehead. “Careful. I can still call the guards.”
“And we’d be gone before they arrived,” Henry pointed out.
“Like I said, you get what you deserve. England deserves the right to rule the world. And that includes Scotland.”
“No, it doesn’t!” It was young Edward’s turn to demonstrate anger as cool and as sharp as ice. “Scotland has just as much right to be free and independent as any other country in this world. Including India. England may have the upper hand of its colonies now. But just wait. You’re all so arrogant and bullyish. It will be your downfall. Just wait.”
The English prince let out a cacophonous explosion of laughter, so intense tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away and pointed at Henry. “Your son has a temper and a sense of humor. An amusing combination, wouldn’t you agree?”
“He’s right, Cousin. And you’d do well to think on what he said. One country can’t rule the entire world. Neither does it have the right to do so. Back off with Scotland.”
The prince just snorted. “Or what? Are you threatening me, Cousin?”
Henry and Edward had vanished. The prince was alone. His thoughts ravaged his mind. “Typical. Always slithering to another timeline to avoid both truth and consequences. Oh well! They’ll soon see who’s boss.” Standing up, he walked over to the side table, ignoring the crunching of broken glass as he slowly moved towards another glass of mind-numbing sustenance.
Thirty-Nine
Secure Facility, Holyrood House, Edinburgh, Year of Our Lord 2445
“You took your time, Your Majesty,” Cecil greeted Henry and Edward when they appeared in Henry’s private chambers of the future.
“Edward had a couple of requests. We made a few stops along the way.” He shrugged his shoulders to brush off Cecil’s concerns. “We agreed to meet at this time and place and we’re here now. At the agreed time and place.”
Cecil nodded. “True enough, I suppose. All time is relative, is it not? Well,” he rubbed his hands together. “No more ti
me to waste. The queen awaits. Follow me.”
“I think I know the way.” Henry muttered, but followed along as instructed.
“Perhaps in your time. But a lot of things have changed over the centuries.” Cecil led them out of the chambers, down the long corridor which had once been a gallery of masterpieces hanging on every spare space of wall. Everything was barren now, sterile. Artificial. Devoid of light, color, and, yes, life. In other words, it was dull. They followed Cecil down the back stairs, the ones once used by staff only and along another hall leading towards the front, towards the greeting area, sometimes dubbed, at least in Henry’s time, as the state room. Cecil opened the double doors and motioned them inside.
“Some things never change,” Henry muttered as he studied the space, still draped with grand armor from centuries before even his time and paintings which must be worth more than a fortune in this era. In his day, there had been over a hundred portraits of Scottish royalty hanging in this room. There were many more, obviously added over the centuries. The room itself was sumptuous with elaborate plaster work ceilings and finely polished wood carvings.
Satisfied he was in a familiar space, he glanced at the alcove and the grand chairs, the pair of thrones, which had held a place of honor since the days of King David I who sighted a vision of a stag with a glowing cross between its antlers and built an abbey on the site which later became the Palace of Holyrood, or Holy Cross. Seated on one of the thrones was a woman Henry didn’t recognize, though her features were surprisingly familiar. Two other women stood nearby, conversing. Henry recognized them immediately: Grandmother Marie and Grandmother Mary Elizabeth. Everyone paused in their conversation, taking notice of Henry and Edward’s entrance. Cecil walked briskly forward and bowed to the woman seated on the throne.
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