Page 2 of For King and Country

  Chapter 2, Roche Castle

  “Charley? Charley! Wake up, we are stopping!” Thumbs said as he shook me awake, his red face alight with excitement. I sat up from the warm soft seat of the carriage and looked outside. It’s been four days since we left London. The royal procession has finally reached the gates of Roche Castle, home of the noble Walters family. The family is a member of the nobility native to Wales, and a member of my father’s Privy Council. The royal procession now contains 7 little red coaches, as 2 more nobles have joined us on our way to the Privy Council meeting.

  I looked outside the window. Mild little snowflakes were falling around us. NO wonder father is stopping. With the coming of the first frost the journey is about to become much tougher, as the roads to Scotland will be slick with ice. Several layers of frost have frozen over my window. Looking ahead I spied the castle, silhouetted against the snowy hill it sits on. It had the looks of a medieval Castle, yet behind its walls I can see a wooden hall. On one of the towers I saw both the banner of Wales and a green and red flag; the banner of the Walters family. A horse snorted outside my window. Verney was mounted on it, sitting tall and strong despite the howling, humbling winds around him. He called out toward the gatehouse of the castle in a booming voice:

  “Here is the King! Open the gate!”

  After a brief pause, the iron gate of the castle opened with a sharp shriek, and we entered through a great wall of old, ornate stones and emerald moss. On the battlements I saw a handful of soldiers, looking down at us. Some held spears and other muskets. Their armor was dimmed by the dark, frozen clouds over head.

  Our carriages came to a stop in the front courtyard of the castle, parked around the stone statue of a prancing war horse. Around us the dragoons dismounted, and a servant outside opened the door of the carriage for us. A gust of cold wind squeezed inside, but I did not mind. I was wet with sweat, bored, and as filthy as an ass. Jumping off the carriage, I looked the scene around me. Ahead is a large hall, with a round tower in the middle overlooking a cozy oak door. Around us walked several domestic animals, ducks, pigs and goats, looking at the horses with interest. Several peasants and workmen loitered around also, glancing at us with curious eyes. Suddenly the oak door to the hall in front of us opened, and 5 figures emerged. I looked at them from the distance. 1 was tall and fair, with grey hairs and serious eyes and a neat beard. He was dressed in a shirt of mail. Next to him is a lady, a bit plump and wrinkled. Next to these two stood two young squires, smartly dressed with shoulder length, cute hair. Each had a little knife strapped to their neat little belts. Lastly, hidden in the shrouds of the lady’s dress was their daughter, little Lucy, similar to me in age, with a round, cute face, large eyes, peeking out with only her face in view.

  They came to a stop and bowed in front of father, who had gotten out of his carriage.

  “My King, I, William Walter, welcome you to my humble home, Roche Castle,” The Lord said, bowing his head.

  The King gave a nod.

  “Here is my family. My lady Elizabeth,” She bowed to the King. “And my daughter Lucy,” She curtsied, her skirt a graceful swirl.

  Turning around, the Lord pointed to his keep. “Follow me, please. Servants! Take care of their horses!”

  We trudged through the snow and followed the Lord into the great hall. Behind us, loosely dressed servants lead the horses from the carriage and the horses the dragoons were riding on away. More servants, this time dressed in red, household clothe, picked up our baggage from the top of the carriages and followed us into the shoe room of the great hall.

  The Roche dwelling, as I have said, is divided into a castle wall, a courtyard, and a keep/ hall. The wall gave the entire place a medieval look, but the hall is of the latest 17th century fashion. As we entered I was greeted with a surprise. I had thought the hall would be as lavish and elegant as St. James. I was disappointed, obviously, when I found out most of the hall was not made of wood, but hard stone, and the walls and columns were embroidered in clothe and carpet instead of gold and silver. Instead of steel swords and golden plates hanging over suits of armor, the main hall of Roche Castle was adorned with simple tapestries and wooden carvings. Fortunately, despite its bland manner, the hall is well kept and warm, which is all I could ask for after a long trip inside our carriage.

  “Allow my servants to lead you to your respective rooms.” offered Sir William. Father nodded. Servants streamed left and right of us, leading us into different rooms and halls of the manor. “Meet me in the dinner hall at Seven, Charles!” Father called out to me as Thumbs and I followed a servant away from the main hall.

  Thumbs and I were lead into a medium sized room, with white walls, several lavish pieces of furniture, two small beds and a thick carpet. Servants peeled off our damp and dirty clothes, and dressed us in a fresh, light tunic, perfumed with the smell of peaches and cinnamon. Several servants carried in my belongings, comprised of books and maps, as well as my little dagger. When all was unpacked they left us.

  “How long do you think we’ll stay here?” I asked Thumbs.

  “Oye, how should I know? I reckon your dad will want to stay at least for a day if not two before resuming the travels….we’re almost half way up to Scotland, but now that snow has fallen the traveling ought to become much slower. Your father would no doubt wish to rest, and then when we do leave the Walters family, Lord of this castle, will no doubt come with us as they will also need to be present at the meeting.”

  “Two days? Do you think there’s anything to do here?” I asked.

  “Well, I think…at least I remember the sea is only half a mile from here….father said you could see it from the castle tower……and down in the valley there lives an old earl, or so I heard, who gave up a noble’s life to live like a commoner. He has a great library and welcomes all the nearby children to his house in the afternoons.”

  “Ah….that’s not so bad…..perhaps we will pay him a visit on the morrow. Let’s go up and look at the sea from here! Then tomorrow maybe Villiers will lead us down there to play,” I grinned.

  We walked through the manor, sidestepping several servants and cooks carrying huge platters off from the kitchen….our dinner. Several times we saw squires, in their cute little suits and soft shoes. Not knowing our directions, we came to dead stops several times and once even stumbled upon the private room of a bathing old lady, who shrieked at us and threw a brush.

  After a long while we ascended a polished wooden staircases with thick carpets, and soon the wood floor changed to one of frosted stone.

  Suddenly the roof above us gave way to open, gray Cold ocean sky. The walls around us, wooden and furnished with tapestries, gave way to the stone walls of battlements. Around us the squires and servants were transformed into men at arms, with pikes and muskets in their hands. We have made our way to the top of the battlement.

  Roch castle, despite having a rather modern keep, is surrounded by medieval fortifications. A wall with four stout towers in each corner surrounds the keep. Stout as the towers are, however, they are round, a hallmark of the medieval era and useless when fired upon by even the lightest canons. Perhaps because of that, and also the fact that there are almost no chances that Roche Castle, in the middle of Britain’s sphere of influence would come under threat from any invaders, only a ceremonial force of a few peasants that would run if any real enemies approached manned the walls.

  Ignoring the silent men around us, we leaned over the battlements, peering down at the grounds below us. Roche castle was located strategically on the top of a fair sized hill. To the eastern and southern side lay the mountains and forests of Wales. To the north and west lies the cold and grey Sea. We had ascended the south western tower of the castle’s battlements. Below us lay the cold cliffs overlooKing the rolling seas of Wales. Right of that we saw what Thumbs call the Golden Grooves, lands dedicated to the self-banished Earl Thumbs that had talked about. For a while we marveled at the sight. Then
I heard rustling on the walls below us. I looked down. Several crumbs of stone had rolled off the walls of the castle and fallen down below. Peering over I took a deeper look. A man. He was climbing the walls of the castle. I squinted at him. He was a large man, with a back like those of bears and dressed in a stained, orange shirt. I noticed with fascination that his right shoulder was deformed. He glanced up at me, squinted also, and kept on climbing. I called for a soldier. One of them heeded my call and came over. I told him what was down there and he peered over. The orange shirted man was gone! I shrugged. The soldier attempted to make a helpful remark by suggesting it was just a fox snaring a duck from the castle kitchen. I knew what I had seen however, and also remembered in particular the knife fixed between the man’s teeth. I will ask Villiers about the man when I find him again.

  Several minutes later, when the joy and excitement of seeing the landscape wore off, however, both of us realized how cold it was. Here we are, in our tunics, surrounded by the cutting cold gusts of the mountains of Wales in the middle of winter.

  “Let’s go back! It’s probably dinner time.” Thumbs begged me.

  I agreed. We followed the staircase back down. Finding the dinner hall was much easier. We followed the ding of plates and forks, and the aroma of the meal. Stumbling upon the room we found father and his ministers dining with their hats off with the Lord and his family on a small table in the middle of a large hall. Plants and tapestries filled the corners and walls of the hall. After greeting the different people seated we took our seats between father and Villiers. The meal was in no way large and barbarous as I would have believed to find in Wales, which still kept close to some medieval manners. Instead, the meal was small and elegant. There were several slices of white bread, a light soup, a roasted duck in a platter basking in its own fat, and several bowls of salad and ale. The gourmet food looked irresistible to me, since for the past week we have been relying on nothing but milk, bread and dried meat. I started grabbing handfuls of food and sloshing them onto my plate with my bare hands when I felt something on my wrist. I looked up. The Lord’s daughter, Lucy, has her hand wrapped around my wrist!

  “Father, the Prince does not know how to eat his food.” She giggled, delicately placing little bits of food onto my plate with her fork and knife, as was the present fashion of the day. I blushed in embarrassment, shamed by her remark. Lord Walters didn’t respond, but instead gave a careful look at me, then at my father, before coughing and keeping silent. Father, meanwhile, burst out laughing.

  “Tis true. My wife has tried hard to install proper manners into my son, but alas he is always too busy with other things to remember and keep them at heart. My son, we are the guest this time. Put on the proper manners!”

  I nodded in embarrassment. Opposite of me I heard Lucy giggle.

  Eating quietly I looked around me. Laud was eating and reading at the same time. Villiers was involved in a deep debate against Lord Walter and Cavendish about the welfare of the state. My father was eating slowly and listening to the conversation going on in front of him. Goring was attacking his meal like a bear, his huge fingers tearing apart fat lumps of crude bread and dipping them into the juice of his steak. Verney hang back in the shadows, observing the scene quietly, his great sword out as always. Thumbs and I usually start a food fight sometimes in the middle of dinner, but I guess he did not dare do so, especially after father’s order on good table manners. Lucy sat in front of me, eating delicately. I kept on marveling at how different she is from everyone else at the palace. No one has ever spoken to me so boldly and so rudely. Instead everyone always showers me with praise and tell me how intelligent, handsome and well-mannered I am. Although I know I should be mad that she spoke rudely to me, I don’t feel anger, but instead only a sense of frustration. Instead of cunningly devising a way to get back at her, I found myself wondering if she is a good playmate. Perhaps she knows some fun things for us to do during our stay at Roch Castle. Keeping that in mind I ate faster and quickly finished what little food Lucy has piled onto my plate. As soon as I was done I excused myself and left the dining hall with Thumbs, who was done eating at the same time I was, as usual. Slowly we walked back to our room together.

  It was already after sunset, and though we have candles and books to read, Villiers had instructed Thumbs to make sure we sleep early. As a result, I wasted some time, twirling my dagger around, opening a small cut in the sheet of our bed in the process. Putting the dagger down I flipped through my scrape book of drawings of ancient battles, taking some times at the detailed drawing of the battle of Pavia, which Leonardo Da Vinci of Italy himself drew. Before long it was time to go to sleep, which quickly came for me on the soft and well-furnished beds of the castle. I fell asleep planning what I am going to do on the morrow.

  The Room I slept in was of the latest fashion and commodity, with loose stones to break the howling winter winds outside and snug wood to keep in the warmth, thus I slept for a long time without waking up the next morning. When I finally did wake up it was from a loud Bang. I sat up and glanced around the room. A fire place cackled merrily in the corner, with Thumbs hunched over it, playing with it. The loud bang had come when a log Thumbs was burning in the fire split into two, in a cozy armchair next to his son sat George Villiers, reading a book. I noticed Thumb’s bed was made already, but I did not get mad at Thumbs for his Early rise. Villiers must have sensed something as he glanced up. However he saw it was just me getting up, grunted, smiled, and looked back down. I jumped out of bed, throwing opens the ornamented curtains and stared at the wonderful world outside: rural England. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham had told Thumbs and me that peasants are happy to remain peasants, enjoying the rustic lifestyles of the farm. That is why they do not move to the cities and enjoy the new renaissance advancements. Many times I have wanted to live with peasants to see what is it about the farm life that they enjoy so much, since from what little glimpse of their life I have seen, they seem to live harshly in poverty with barely enough to eat.

  Outside, I see rolling farms, a world blanketed by white, masking the landscape like the sugar frosted top of a morning pastry. Again however I thought of what lies ahead. This very afternoon I will meet Lucy down with the Earl, who I can’t wait to meet. Then….in a few days’ time we will leave for Scotland where father will speak to the Scots to accept his book of Common prayers in a polite speech!

  A knock broke the harmonious crackling of the flames. Thumbs opened the door to our room, and a maid, old and wrinkled, stepped in, a silver plate on her shriveled arm. Setting down the plate politely on our table she bowed and left without a word. We examined the content of the plate. There were loaves of freshly baked bread, arranged on a neat, porcelain plate, dabs of melting butter and cheese resting in a small bowl. There were also cups of ale and chocolate, two eggs for each of us, and two little daggers for us to eat with. (The daggers accompanied almost every single one of the breakfasts Thumbs and I eat. We were delighted at the thought of being like soldiers, eating with our swords.)

  During breakfast Thumbs and I made plans for the day. We decided to explore the castle in the morning, go down to the beach at noon and then finally head down and meet the Earl in the afternoon before coming back to the castle for dinner. I also wished to meet Lucy again by chance today during our adventures to see if she’ll play along with us. Villiers, however, overheard our ambitious plans and naturally became concerned about our safety. After a talk with Walters we were assigned a permanent body guard for the entire day, a squire in his early thirties named Digby. Digby was a tall, well-built man with long red hair, fat lips, small eyes and a small red mustache. He was very burley and also looked kind of mean. He is second in line to succeed Godwr Castle, a small estate belonging to an impoverished noble in northern Wales.

  As soon as breakfast was finished we ran out of the hall and into the surrounding castle, running around heedlessly and getting hopelessly lost in old corridors (chased by a frustrated
Digby the entire time) before finally stumbling upon a squire, brightly dressed and carrying a thick book. He seems to in his late teens.

  Thumbs called out to him.

  “Hey there, what are you doing?” He asked.

  The squire looked at us, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  “Who is it that asks?”

  “My noble master asked first, you lowborn rat!” Digby said arrogantly, still panting since he had just caught up with us.

  The squire stared at Digby, who stared back, venom in his eyes.

  “I do not know who you two are, but seeing that you dwell in the company of that cur Digby, I think my business is more important than those of the like of you!” The squire said, bowing, before continuing his walk.

  “What! More important than the likes of us? Why, do you not know who these are? And must I remind you, that I’m the Heir of Godwr Castle!” Digby said angrily, running after the squire. “I could have you hewn open like a fisherman guts his fish!”

  “Stop, honorable squire!” I called. “You will have to excuse my friend here. He is not so polite.” I said, glaring at Digby. “My name is Charles, and this is my best friend, who goes by Thumbs.”

  The squire turned around. His eyes were now softer, but the muscles of his face were still tight. “It is nice to meet you two. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to deliver this book to Lord Walter.” He said, before bowing and turning around yet again to walk away.

  I noticed Digby’s face change from triumph to anger.

  “Come back here you! Are you out of your mind? This is the Majesty, Charles, the Prince of Wales, your sovereign! And here is son of Buckingham, one of the most important lords in the realm!” Digby shouted after the squire.

  “Digby! It’s all right. He bowed to me and acknowledged his respect. That is sufficient. In fact, I would rather all the servants at the palace simply give me a little bow of respect instead of going at length to tell me how handsome I looked.” I remarked. Then, turning from Digby I spoke to Thumbs. “You think we ought to follow him? Once he’s done with his errand maybe he can show us where the library is.”

  “Excuse me sire, but the Lord designated me, humble Digby, as your guide and bodyguard, not Anthony over there. I suggest we go to the black smith’s at once!” Digby demanded.

  “Give us a little freedom!” Thumbs called out, slightly annoyed. “You’re not in good relation with Anthony are you?” He asked. “well, we are going to meet this fellow.”

  I nodded my approval, much to the ire of Digby, and we stalked after the squire. He walked on for a long time, paying no heed to us as he walked. Finally he stopped in front of Lord Walter’s room, and while we waited outside, he entered quietly and put down the books. When he finally reemerged we introduced ourselves again, properly this time.

  “I am Charles, the Prince of Whales, and this is my friend Thumbs, heir of Buckingham castle. We are on a trip to Scotland right now and we’ll only stay here for a few days. Would you care to serve as our guide, so we have fun during our stay?” I asked.

  “Sire.” The squire bowed again. “I admit I was a bit rude, not acknowledging you when we first met. However I saw you in the presence of the cur Digby, I naturally assumed the worse about you two. Furthermore my family has respect, but little love or loyalty to the crown. Thus I hope you understand and excuse my nonchalant attitude.” The squire told us blankly.

  “Oh? You speak strangely. You respect the crown, yet you are not loyal to it? You are an Englishmen, yet you do not pledge allegiance to the English king? Who is this imposter to the throne, this Claimant that you are loyal to?” Thumbs asked, feigning hostility.

  “My uncle and I are loyal to no man. Instead we are loyal only to the will and rights of the majority, of the Citizens of England. We are loyal to Parliament.”

  “My lord, do not heed to what he say. Vile chicanery dominates his speech. You will only be confused if you dwell in his mockery of the crown!” Digby warned.

  I ignored him, for I was extremely curious. “What is this Parliament you speak of?” I asked, for I have never heard the word before. I felt like a young fox, poking its nose into a hunter’s trap, no aware the result of its action will stick with it for the remainder of its life.

  “Oh? You do not even know what Parliament is? Go down to my uncle’s house down in the village of Golden Grooves. Perhaps you can find out what Parliament is from my guardian. After that, find me and we will talk again.” The squire told us firmly.

  “Wait, squire. We are planning to go visit the Earl this very afternoon, but for now we wish to visit the library and other sites in the castle. Will you take us around?” I begged.

  The squire thought about it for a bit, before agreeing on the condition that we visit the earl this very afternoon. He led us to the library, as well as informed us that there is an old jousting ring, (not that there were any more knights to use the jousting ring) several hidden rooms with intricate devices in them, a musket firing field and an old alchemist’s lab hidden in the castle. Then he quickly headed off, much to the delight of Digby. Although I dislike him for his disloyalty to the crown, I also felt attracted to his attitude towards me, which I found strange and different to the attitude of all the servants and gentlemen at St. James.

  We spent the rest of the morning exploring the castle. First Thumbs and I took some books from the ancient library. There are more than eighty volumes in the Lord’s library, and I was fascinated by many that I have never seen before in the even larger Library of St. James. Even though the texts were all in English, instead of French, which I enjoy reading more, I took with me 2 books that I can’t wait to read. The first one was An Analysis of 16th Century Military Tactics, and the second a Long timeline leading to the Pax Romana. Dropping the books down at our room we went to the musket firing range, hoping to find soldiers drilling there.

  The firing field consists of a long range for shooter to stand, a table behind where gun masters reload the guns for you, and the shooting field with birds thrown up into the sky by servants to be shot down. We desperately wanted to have a go at the shooting, so a servant called down Villiers and with his steady hand we attempted to shoot several birds. Of course we missed completely. Tiring of our ill fortune, we put down the gun and left, determined to visit the old Earl and have lunch there. As we walked around the back of the Firing Range, heading back up to the castle for lunch, we stumbled upon and surprised a man, hunched over the ground loading a pistol. He had a round, bald head, large protruding face and several scars all over his arms and head. I noticed several fingers were missing from his hand. He wore a large, orange shirt. With a cry of surprised I noticed he was the man climbing up the castle wall that I saw yesterday night.

  “Eyy. What do you two want? This is the firing field! Little children like you should not be here!”

  “Hey! I remember you! You are the man climbing the castle wall I saw yesterday before dinner!” I said aloud.

  “Ay….so I am. What does that mean? You have nothing on me. Now leave!”

  I was about to tell him who I was, when Villiers called out from behind around a corner. “Who is it you two are talking to?” He asked, half interested.

  The man perked up an ear, frowned, gathered his pistol, ammunition and powder in a cloth and fled. A second later, Villiers walked around the corner, eyebrows raised. When we told him about the man he simply shrugged

  “Must have been a peasant……don’t know how he got a pistol though.” Villiers said, scratching the back of his head.

  “Why aren’t peasants allowed to have guns?” Thumbs asked innocently.

  “Umm……they prefer it that way…..people who are peasants usually also prefer a peaceful lifestyle…..” He then muttered something in French and then asked us what we were going to do.

  We told him we were going down to the beach, but Villiers reminded us the wind was too great that day. Indeed, the cold icy sea was anything but calm, repeatedly
hammering into the cliffs that the castle rested on. Thus we changed our minds. After returning to the castle for lunch we decided to head down to the Village of Golden Groove to see the Earl. I walked down with Thumbs, carefree and jovial hearted, not knowing how this trip of a few hours will forever change my life as well as the destiny of all England;

  Chapter 3, the Earl.

  Stumbling through the green woods of Wales, dressed like Robin Hood and his merry men, with makeshift little bows and daggers we adventured through the forest surrounding Roche Castle down to the village. Two extremely bored dragoons, with swords sheathed and pistols in hand, kept a close on us from behind. (we had quickly grown bored of Digby, and left him lost in the castle.) The tiny village of Golden Groove lies on the very bottom of a small valley, stretching with the valley’s concave form like a long thin river. A sense of cheerfulness surrounds the village, despite the problems the populace faced, both socially and religiously. Smoke from the market and chimneys made everyone jolly. The minstrels sang songs and begged in the streets, Peasants pushed their carts and goaded their animals with them. Ladies and lasses chatted on the streets and farm boys battled back and forth with sticks. The whole lively scene was lit up by the bright sun, reflecting off the blanket of snow covering the thatched roofs of the village huts. In one end of the village is a pool where the community gets it water. On the other end, almost a mile away I can see a tall, double storied house, the house of the Earl.

  As we traveled through the village we often stopped to examine rural intricacies unseen in urban London. Now and then we would stop for some rustic and brash country dish, or a small hand crafted toy. We stumbled through the streets of the village, treating our eyes to the fair sight. The small market was full of rustic and intricate things that were rare in urban London, yet as I was walking through the fair, an old man by the look of it, dressed strangely in rags crawled across the path, blocking our way. His face was covered in mud of the streets, one of his arms wasted and gone. His hair was greyish and long, and he looked like a hermit or a Wildman. I did not know who he was nor his business, but assumed him some kind of minstrel, and his costume serve to interest children. However, much to my surprise as we came near the man one of the soldiers, the one armed with a pike, gave the man a savage kick and ordered him to move. I thought this a play or part of a well know story that minstrels tell and act out, but the man looked up with eyes shining in tears, and backed off, crawling away. I watched in further disbelief as the soldier gave the retreating old man a painful kick before leaving the old man alone. Shocked by the brutal, pointless savagery I ran up and confronted the soldier. He turned around before I got to him however, bowed, and said

  “Don’t mind him Sire, just a leper. Do your majesty wish to continue the trip to the Earl’s house or stay here in the markets a bit?” He asked. He had completely forgotten the incident.

  “Guard, what did you just do?” I asked him, horrified and aghast.

  “Me? I…walked and then I turned around and spoke to you, Sire.” He replied back innocently. “What’s wrong? Did I do something you did not like?” He asked.

  “You laid low a man!” Thumbs finished my sentence for me. I nodded and glared at the soldier.

  “A man? Oh you mean the leper! Why, that is not a man. He is a useless beggar that should have known better than to cross the path of a Prince! They have no rights, they are not citizens of England! No laws protect them.” The soldier defended himself.

  “Are lepers always treated as such?” Thumbs asked timidly. Indeed the solider was hinting widespread harassment of poor crippled men is going on in the Kingdom.

  “Why of course! Many times they are treated worse. From where I came from, Burton Town, lepers and beggars are not only beaten wherever they are seen, they are even purposely run over by carts and carriages! The person that runs them over is doing the world a favor. Beggars seemed not to know that the world do not like the sight of their unpleasantness.”

  Both Thumbs and I kept silent. The soldier had spoken this so casually, so sure of himself that we knew he was telling the truth. However at the same time, we knew what he is speaking of cannot be true. After all England is the land of the free and the unopressed. Everyone is content and satisfied. There could not be such unfair, such outrageous social disorders!

  The soldiers, seeing how upset we were, quickly changed the subject and asked if we wanted to start heading for the Earl’s house. We nodded glumly and halfheartedly. What the soldiers speak of cannot be the real truth. I was determined to ask Villiers or father about this incident later.

  Thus it took an hour by the time we crossed the village, and by the time we arrived at the Earl’s house it was well past 1. The house is just like it had seemed from the distance. Whereas most huts in the village have mud walls and thatched roofs, the house in front of us is made from wood and painted white. Its roof is tiled and the banner of Wales is hung on both side of a small door, which one of the soldiers politely tapped. The doors opened creakingly and an old man greeted us. He had many wrinkles on his face, a fair, round mouth, and kind, cheerful eyes that simmered in humor. On his face sat a pair of round, polished spectacle that came at the tip of his nose, silvery short hair, worn in an unfashionable manner for one of his class, or, more appropriately, his past class. He wore a red sweater, short pants, long socks and brightly polished buckled shoes.

  “Welcome! May I know who graces my porch?” He asked. His voice rang in a rich way.

  “It is his majesty the Prince of Wales, Charles the 2nd, and the noble of Buckingham, son of George Villiers the Duke.” The soldiers replied, presenting us. I noticed the Earl frown a slight bit.

  “Are you here for…..business? Meeting? Request?” The old man asked cautiously.

  “We are here to visit Sir, as we hear in the castle that you are a local favorite of the children!” I piped up.

  “Oh! Well then, come on in, and make yourself at home. You came from the castle you say?” The old man said, bending over and taking our hats.

  “Yes Sir”

  “Then no doubt you know Lucy Walter, the daughter of the Lord?” He asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “Yes! Is she here too?” I asked excitedly.

  “Yes!” The old man laughed. “I’m making tea for her. Anthony, go show them to the living room. I will finish telling the story of the spider once tea is made.”

  I stepped into the house. Anthony, the squire from the castle, stood at attention. He has changed out of his outfit and was now dressed in a plain, grey tunic. As he lead us away I noticed he was grinning a slight bit. Behind us, the soldiers looked at each other uncertainly, but finally decided to remain outside. As we walked through the house I began noticing little things. Anthony and the Earl seemed to be the only inhabitants of the house. There was no silver anywhere, no mirror, the roof was low, the walls were painted but there were no wall papers. I had imagined this man would live in a house at least mimicking St. James in comfort and grandeur, yet it was as bland and simple as the house of a common peasant, not that I have ever seen what a peasant’s house looks like on the inside.

  Anthony opened a door and gently led us through into the living room, which, like the rest of the house, was barely furnished. In the front of the room is a granite counter, behind which lie a serving table and the kitchen. On the other side of the counter lie a long, yellow table, some chairs, and a stool. The table was set with a white table cloth, but nothing was laid on it yet. A fire place cackled happily in the corner, filling the room with the delicious aroma of burning wood. Lucy sat on one of the chairs, a large book in her hands. Her legs dangled back and forth from where they hang, not even touching the ground. She was wearing a white dress today, which reflected her long, golden hair brilliantly despite the dark clouds that loomed in the sky. We walked up to the table and took our seats, and I sneaked a peek at Lucy, evaluating her.

  “Hello Charles….I’m sorry I got you in trouble yesterday,” she s
aid, her face beaming, but her brows showing hints of a little frown. “But your father seems nice. Mine would have been horrified!”

  I smiled a slight bit.

  “Would you like to learn proper table manners? I’m sure the Earl and I can teach you.” She said, winking at me.

  I looked up, grinning, and asked: “How did you come to know “proper” table manners?”

  Before she could reply, however, the Earl stepped in, a large metal saucer, common place during the late middle ages in hand. On it I spotted freshly baked biscuits, laid out neatly on a tray with white napkins, and an elegant teapot full of tea with little wooden cup surrounding it.

  He set the plate down on the table, the cookies, freshly baked, bursting in delicious aroma, the tea drifting off into the air in white perfumed plumes. I reached out my hand to grab a handful of treats. Lucy’s hand caught mine, stopping it in midair. Gently taking a napkin she masked it over her hand and gingerly picked up a single biscuit with two slim fingers, and settled it down delicately onto my plate, so finely that not a crumb fell off in the process. I gapped in horror as she lectured me on how much “care” must be taken when attending to such raw needs such as food!

  Next Lucy picked up the tea pitcher with a hand and poured tea for me. She was so careful and so delicate, that not a single drop fell out of the wooden cup boundaries.

  I reached out to take the cup from her, intent on now actually drinking and eating instead of watching someone take their time preparing food. Unfortunately, when Lucy handed it to me I grabbed it the wrong way and, horrified, she quickly took it back.

  “You cannot hold your cup like this!” She said, putting it onto the palm of her hand. “That makes it extremely likely for you to spill it. You must hold it so that you can drink it without your hand getting in the way.” She said, demonstrating the motion.

  I shrugged, slightly annoyed but also fairly appreciative. She slowly handed the cup back to me. Carefully, attempting to mimic her instead of incurring her “wrath” again, I brought it to my lips, knowing I would ultimately fail in my sorry attempt. Luckily at this point the Earl spoke up and I was saved from my embarrassment.

  “So……Prince Charles eh? Where might you and your father be off to?”

  “I am not so sure Sir___”

  “NO need to address me as Sir. I am as humble as any common peasant.” The Earl said, raising a hand and stopping me. “But no problem. Go on my dear.”

  “Father says he wants to head north. I eavesdropped on him talking with mother but none of their conversation made much sense. All I know for sure is the Privy Council is meeting with some Scots on issues brought up by The Book of Common Prayer.” I said carefully. “Though I don’t know why important men of the state would want to talk about religious books.”

  The Earl stayed silent for a while. He took off his spectacle and polished them, his forehead wrinkled and a frown covered his face. Outside the sun emerged behind storm clouds and bright sunshine lit up the polished wooden table. As if on cue the man spoke up.

  “Religious books…ha.” The Earl laughed. “The Book of Common Prayer is much more than just any Prayer book reserved for the chapel….it is a political instrument to unite Britain.”

  “Oh? How is that so?” I asked the Earl, confused. In front of me Lucy gave a giggle, putting down a cup of tea that was in her hands.

  The Earl sat down in front of me, staring me in the eye, a soft smile on his lips. “Your father has hid you from reality hasn’t he? Kept you innocent and naïve in the walls of St. James…..very well, I will not ruin his wish. Forget what I said about the book. It is, like its name imply, just a book of religion and Prayer,” The Earl said, laughing a slight bit.

  Lucy piped up. “Tell me! I want to know!” she begged, her eyes round with anticipation and wonder. “I want to learn all about the political effects of this book!”

  The Earl gave a short laugh, his hand covering his mouth. “Very well, my dear Lucy. I will tell you. As you may know, the English and Welsh practice the Anglican form of Christianity. The Scots declare themselves Calvinists, and the Irish remain firmly Catholic.” The Earl said, giving a sigh. “Now, the King, Charles, is officially the head of the Anglican Church. That causes much unrest among the Irish and the Scots, who are afraid of Anglican doctrines being forced upon them.” He took a look at us. I was lost. Anglican? Catholic? This must be some joke. There is only 1 religion, the one that mother, my family and I practice every day. Does it need a name?

  Meanwhile the Earl continued.

  “To stop the unrest, King Charles,” he tipped his cup of tea in my direction, “Created The Book of Common Prayer, designed to reach a compromise between the three states. He hoped that, with a book of Common Prayers, all of Britannia would be united under one religion. Unfortunately, that does not go so well. The Irish and the Scots are not satisfied with a compromise, and now the English Anglicans accuse the King of betraying them.” The Earl sighed.

  I was horrified. According to the Earl, my father is hated by his subjects. I know that is not true. My father is a hero, working hard every day to ensure the commoners of England a just and fair living. However I still cannot stop myself form asking, “Is my father….unpopular?”

  “Worse than unpopular. The Scots have recently condemned the book, and many Irish openly burn it in public. Let’s just say many in the isles have complaints against their King.” The Earl said, rubbing his hands together. “Now your father travels north to Scotland, in an attempt to convince the Scots to accept his Book. I am afraid he is taking the fatal path.” He sighed.

  “What do you mean Uncle Charles is taking….the wrong path? Should he not attempt to bring acceptance for his book?” Asked Thumbs.

  “The laws of hospitality go only so far. When the Scots already so unanimously decided to condemn the book, going north trying to convince them to accept it is simply shooting one in the knee. King Charles is taking too soft, too slow an approach. Things can quickly get out of hand in Scotland.” The Earl mused.

  “Why? My father is simply…trying to convince the mislead subjects to go back to the correct path and to be loyal to the crown. What is he doing wrong?” I asked.

  “The Scots are quick to reach judgment. They drink too much anyways.” The Earl laughed a bit, and then put on a straight face. “They will see the King’s coming as a sigh of weakness, a parley for peace. When King Charles arrives they will raise their demands and expectations, and if King Charles refuses their demands they will rebel.”

  I got up from my chair, walked around the table, and knelt in front of the Earl’s feet. “Please Sir, even though I doubt that what you say is true, how can I save my father from what you speak of?” I begged.

  The Earl gave a light laugh. “You will be a good King, if your father Charles does not lose the throne before he dies. The King wants to parlay, and if diplomacy fails then march north with an army. If he does that, however, the Scots will be prepared and his army will be defeated____”

  “But the Royal army is Strong and____”

  “Wait, wait, let me finish.” The Earl said, holding up a hand. “if he marches north with an army first, and then, with that army outside the gates of Edinburgh, parlay with the Scots, then the Scots will be caught by surprise and forced to give in.” The Earl said, smiling.

  “Surely my father will not do that! He is the protector of the Scots, not their enemy!” I cried aloud. “My father is kind and compassionate! The people love him! He will never resort to the sneaky, preemptive method you speak of!” As I spoke I shuddered, suddenly realizing Lord Goring would not hesitate one bit to execute such a move.

  “Kind, yes. Compassionate…that too. But too soft. He will never be as strong as his father James, your grandfather.” The Earl said, pointing at me. “Oh woe to England the day James died and his son Charles ascended the throne. King James, through his own hard work and competitiveness, advanced from the King of Sco
tland to King of all Britannia, the first King in history to unite all Britain. When he ruled, his mighty hands gripping the power of the land, for the first time all the Kingdoms, Scotland, Ireland and England, were at peace and prospered. Now your father ascended the throne, and the Kingdom falters. The Nobles grab more and more power while the peasants starve. If James can see from the heavenly Kingdoms, he will weep at how destitute and ununited England has become……I will cry in his place.” The Earl said mournfully.

  “Stop! My father is not the man you make him out to be, and the Kingdom is not in the state you make it to be” I protested. I had a strong urge to throttle the Earl, but somewhere inside me I am afraid what the Earl speaks of is the truth, thus I let him keep talking.

  “You will see….unfortunately your father will not see until it is too late…he is much like you. Innocent, too protected in his childhood……He thinks the Scots are still his loyal subjects and will listen to his pleading. Why does God make the sons of all great men idiots?” The Earl said, sadness in his eyes.

  I cringed , struck by the Earl’s boldness and shocked by him speaKing ill of my father.

  “King Charles is like Phaethon, son of the mythical Sun God Apollo, eager to hold the reins of the sun and drive the golden chariot across the sky. He will not know, until too late, that he is too weak to hold and control those reins of power.” The Earl said, sitting back.

  Both Thumbs and I were stumped. Neither of us have ever heard men talking about father in such a casual, disparaging way. It had never even occurred to us that the world around us could be different from what we imagined that it was full of flattering, fawning people trying to curry our favor.

  Lucy, however, not completely blocked from the harsh realities of the world, responded,

  “I think the King does a quite fine job. Even if far off Scotland and Ireland are engulfed in trouble, so what? Wales will always be the same. I will always have plenty, and I will inherit my father’s status when I am grown. My life here will never change.” She said, stirring her tea with the smallest of some 5 different spoons she has laid out in front of her.

  “Little Lucy, wars will always come. I have seen its cycles, seen gallant, fine armies shattered in despair……Through 4000 years of human civilization, no region….has ever been out of reach of the terrible, sick fingers of war……and what’s more, the longer it has been since the last war, the more devastating the next war will be….and England is Long overdue for a war.” The Earl sad softly, sadly.

  “Who are you?” Thumbs asked.

  “I am a normal, man that knows too much.” The Earl admitted.

  “Yes, but who did you use to be, to speak so boldly?” Thumbs asked.

  “Do not tell your father….but I was Lionel Cranfield, 1st Earl of Middlesex, the primary advisor to your grandfather James but disregarded by your father Charles…” He said after a long pause.

  “Cranfield? I have heard of you!” Thumbs said excitedly. “Father talks about you all the time!”

  “Shh…shush…sh…..” The earl said, batting at Thumbs with a hat. “do not tell your father I am here….for he will come and have me arrested…..leave now, it is very late…come back tomorrow if you three wants to hear more about the state…..” the Earl said.

  We nodded and got up to leave. I inwardly promised myself not to return unless Villiers or father confirmed what the Earl said today was true. From behind me, Anthony entered took away all the empty plates and gave us our coat. His face expectant as he lead us to the door.

  It was now almost dark, the sun slowly descending away from the skies. The village street, so crowded when we came, was now deserted. I walked confidently in the dark, but the Earl’s words, that the English despises my father and the entire Royal Family, haunted me and gnawed away at my resolve, and I began looking around in fear of Rebels, hateful of my father. I could call for the dragoons to ride back down to escort us, but I remembered what the soldiers did to the poor leper we met today, and decided I would rather do without them. The trip back to Roche was silent. No one spoke, not even Thumbs. All three of us were deep in thought. The words of the Earl had affected all of us. Thumbs and I were contemplating whether the Earl’s words were lies or not, and I imagine Lucy was equally disoriented by the Earl’s bold reasoning. Silence followed us all the way till we rolled out of Golden Grooves into the darkness of the sparse wood that lies between the village and the castle. Thumbs broke the silence.

  “DO you guy hear that? I don’t want to be a pessimist, but I think we’re being followed.”

  I looked behind us in alarm, and then relaxed. “Thumbs, the Earl will give you nightmares won’t he? This is the middle of Civilized Wales….what would possibly follow us?” I assumed, attempting to appear confident. My attempts were shattered when I heard a twig snap behind us.

  “Ahh……recently there had been a few troubles at Roche….several peasants around the area often steals and poach from my father…..” Lucy said hesitantly.

  I looked at her, whimpering. “But…surly they aren’t following us….it must just be a spare dog or something…”

  Our paces picked up. We began to jog through the forest. Thumbs tripped off a root, and that drove all of us into a full run. We tumbled through the dark, clawing trees, breaking for Roche castle. When we can see the castle’s walls, a luminescent white from the rays of the moon, just over the top of the dark trees, a huge figure popped into our path, the cold steel of his sword shining brightly against Lucy’s lantern. All three of us jumped, and Lucy, in her surprise, dropped the lantern so that it shattered on the ground, and our last rays of light faded.

  “Dangit, you idiots, scared the knackers out of me…what are you three doing out here so late?” The figure spoke.

  “Edmund?” I asked, relief pressing down on me like torrents of heavy rain.

  “Yes it’s me….who did you think it was?” Edmund said in his deep, booming voice.

  “Oh we’re so relieved to see you! We were being followed by someone……” Lucy replied.

  “Really?” Verney asked, keeping silent for a few seconds. “Well at least you three are safe. Your father sent me out here to look for you….something happened at the castle while you were gone.” He sighed. Despite the dark I could tell he was worried. It scared me to see that, so I quickly asked whether the King was okay. That is obviously the first question to ask, for if my father was in trouble England would collapse. However to my relief father was fine, for Edmund growled

  “Yes of course he’s alight, he sent me out here didn’t he? Move along now…” He said, pushing us ahead of him. “These woods are as dangerous as a troll’s lair.”

  As we walked up to hill to Roche I noticed Edmund was very cautious and careful. He walked behind us (between the woods and us) the entire time, and kept stopping to take a glance back. When we were almost up to the castle my ears picked up the tremble in the ground of galloping horses. A force of horsemen rode up to us from the right, surrounded us, and all dismounted. Edmund’s huge arm grabbed us and hugged us close, shielding us with his bulk, and I noticed his muscle tighten in anticipation. One of the horsemen spoke up

  “Who are you and what is your business to head up to Roche at this hour?”

  I could not see the face of the person that spoke, but he sounded like Waller. Indeed Edmund came to the same judgment.

  “Sir Waller, it is me, Edmund!” He called out.

  “Captain? And these are the missing children?” Waller asked excitedly. I could imagine relief washing like syrup down Waller’s plump pancake of a face.

  “Ay they are. I found’em in the woods.” Edmund said.

  “All right men, lets escort them back up the castle. The King will be very pleased.” Waller said, and the men around us remounted, and lead us back up to Roche. I was so relieved they were no peasant robbers intent on killing the King, but instead royal dragoons bearing the banner of my father. As we entered Roche,
I noticed with fear that the walls of the castle, instead of being manned by a few peasants, are now milling with armored soldiers, carrying pikes or muskets, the royal army of my father. Sir Walter and my father welcomed us as soon as we entered the great hall.

  “Sire….I found them in the woods, stalked by Felton apparently…” Edmundgrunted, sheathing his sword. Only now did I notice it had been drawn ever since he stumbled upon us in the woods.

  Father’s eyes were full of worry, but now they were filled by relief as he took me into his arms and lifted me up.

  “Oh my son…your safe….he’s safe Marie!” He said, lifting his head up, presumably assuring my mother in far off London.

  “Thumbs…I’m afraid a fugitive, by the name of John Felton….attempted to assassinate your father today in the afternoon. He snuck up to Buckingham from behind and fired a pistol at him, but the shot missed. Your father fought off the assassin with his sword until soldiers arrived and drove the assassin away….so luckily, your father is ok.” Charles told a silent Thumbs. “However the assassin is not caught and your father is deeply shaken. I’ll take you up to him now. Charles, follow Sir Walter and Lucy to the Dining hall. That is where we will be sleeping tonight under escort of soldiers until the assassin is caught.” Father ordered in a stern voice.

  As we walked away I looked at Thumb’s troubled face. I could tell he was deeply shaken.

  “Is he completely okay?” He kept on asking for reassurance, which father gave him as the sound of their footsteps dissipated in the cold night air.

  I remembered wondering. Why Buckingham? Why not father? I had thought it was probably Edmund, with his large sword, standing within 20 feet of Father at all times, that dissuaded Felton to go after Buckingham. It was not until Father’s last days that I found out the whole story. Felton, the orange shirted man, served in an English army under Buckingham’s control. He was wounded in battle, (that’s where the man’s nasty scars all came from) Felton had believed he deserved a promotion, but he was refused one, and as a result he decided to blame his misfortune on Buckingham. Later, I often thought, if this one man had just received his promotion, how much it would have changed my life, and the course of England for the better or worse!

  That night, a circle of armed soldiers surrounded the hall. The tables and chairs had been moved and beds replaced them. I lied down on my bed and thought about everything the Earl said for a long time…until a great jolt awakened me. Villiers, Thumbs, my father, and the other gentlemen including Cavendish had joined us in the great hall. I rushed over to Villiers, hands outstretched for an embrace. He took me into his open arms slowly. His eyes were strained, and his hair messy. He kept on darting glances left and right, as if looking for more assassins, but physically he was well. I decided not to ask him about what the Earl said since he looked like he could use a rest.

  Father slept with armor on tonight, and Edmund slumbered on a table with his sword gripped in his hand. Soon, several hours into the night most of the group was asleep. The large hall was filled with the snoring of its inhabitants while the soldiers half dozed, half patrolled the castle lazily. I can’t fall asleep in the knowledge that there is a loose assassin intent on killing us, and I can tell Lucy in the bed next to mine could not all asleep either, as she was humming a light tune.

  Slowly I got up and crawled over to her bed, my feet making little light thuds on the soft carpet. She turned around to face me.

  “I can’t sleep in here….especially not with all these soldiers.” She said, shrugging in her bed.

  “Me either…” I sighed. “I feel so bad for Villiers. He’s always so kind and so generous to all those around him…why would anyone want to harm him?”

  Lucy thought about it for a while, closing her eyes for so long I thought she had fallen asleep. Then she whispered

  “Don’t worry about it Charles….some people are just….crazy. Maybe that John Felton was wrong in the head….the important thing is that the Duke is safe now right?”

  I nodded. “Not very safe….not until Felton is caught. He might always come back….I wouldn’t count on his pistol missing a second time….” I gave a pause. WE listened to the silent castle around us for a while. “I still can’t believe all those things the Earl said today…..why would he think my father is unpopular? That people hate….” I stopped short. Is my father not unpopular? Didn’t a man just try to harm the Royal Family by killing Villiers, father’s most trusted man in the world? Did the Earl speak the truth, that many people in the Kingdom have their grievances against the King? I looked at my own hands. It cannot be true. The Kingdom belongs to my father…he has rights, God given, inherited rights to rule over these lands…and it is the duty of the people to love and support father…..plus, my father is not evil. He is caring, selfless, and I can never imagine him putting on a mean face, or doing intentional harm to everyone. Looking at Lucy I realized she has fallen asleep. Slowly I crawled back to my bed, making up my mind that if the Kingdom indeed dislikes my father, they are simply misled by his good intentions. Hopefully father’s attempt at reasoning with them in a few weeks will convince them to return to the right path.

 

  Chapter 4: The riot

  We spent another week at Roche castle before Sir Walters was packed and ready to depart, and even then only from my father’s insistence, since Felton was still not caught. In the meantime a letter had arrived from Ireland. It was from Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford, father’s minister of Ireland. Father did not let me read it, but I could tell it troubled him greatly…so much that he consulted Buckingham, and the next day Villiers and Thumbs left Roche to travel to Ireland!

  Several days later, on the 15th of November, the royal procession left the gates of Roche Castle. Everything appeared to be the same as the day we arrived, except the parade was now 7 carriages strong, the last one with Sir Walters aboard. Buckingham and Thumbs were absent, and Sir Walters refused to take Lucy with us. I could not have left Roche castle with a heavier heart. I had still not asked Father about what the Earl said, nor advised him to bring his army to Scotland before negotiating with the Scots. He is almost as shaken as Villiers was by the assassination attempt and I deemed it best to not trouble him for now. I will also remember the departure from Roche, saying good bye to the new people I met. Digby, Anthony and Lucy had all got up early to see me off. Digby was flattering and dominating at the same time, first kneeling down and inviting me to step onto the carriage from his back, then got angry and attempted to force me to do so when I tried to explain I can step onto my carriage without his help. Anthony saved me from the sticky situation and dragged me aside.

  “Be careful of this Digby fellow. I have a feeling he’ll become a big part of your life later. He is a lazy cur, intending to work his way to success by making friends with and exploiting those in power.” Anthony warned.

  I looked at him, momentarily surprised. I have never been talked to that way except by my parents. Anthony was so bold, so brash, so eager to share his true emotions; yet I found this to be comforting instead of annoying. He was so straightforward, unlike the all the servants and gentlemen at the Royal Palace.

  “I am sorry that I under estimated you in the beginning. I thought you would be like the average noble, arrogant, suspicious and merciless with power. I see that you are different, however, and this bode well for the future of England.” He gave a pause, before placing his hand on my shoulder. “Take care, my liege,” He said to me solemly.

  I nodded and showed my thanks. Last came Lucy. I will always remember what she said to me that day, her face smudged against our carriage window.

  “Don’t be troubled by what the Earl said. He is not a prophet. While he is wise the future can shift at the smallest change in the present. Your father seems all right to me, and even if the Scots do rebel I’m sure he will be able to put them in their place.” She smiled.

  I nodded, and after a long awkward pause, thanked her, not k
nowing what else to say.

  She laughed. “Charles you are so awkward! But I like you. Will you come back and visit me after you come back from Scotland?” She smiled.

  I nodded and crossed my heart.

  “You can teach me more about proper table manners when I do come back!” I suggested.

  She gave a light grin, her large eyes bubbling in happiness, lighting up the entire coach, even through my loneliness and depression. As we pulled away from the castle I kept on watching her figure, waving to me in the snow, until the cold winds completely fogged my view of her.

  The trip north to Edinburgh was cold and slow. Without Thumbs to keep me occupied, time seemed to freeze. My driver, Mr. Scot told story after story to help me pass the time. One that left an impression on me was the Story of Richard the III and the War of Roses. In the long tale, told over several long cold days, King Richard was the King of the House of York, the ruling house in England. After his harsh rule upset many nobles and peasants alike, another powerful house, the house of Lancaster, rebelled and defeated the house of York, killing Richard the III. This story caused great fear in me, for it reinforced what the Earl had said, how the common people have become unsatisfied with my father the King and a rebellion is doomed to occur in the near future. If the Earl was right in that the people hated my father, the perhaps us too will be doomed to die in a civil rebellion.

  Throughout the Journey north I kept on looking out the window at the vast, beautiful land, land that were destined to belong to me, but prophesized to be wrested out of my grips like sugar treats from a baby.

  On the 30th of November, 2 days before the meeting with the Scottish Nobles we arrived at Edinburgh. The town was smaller than London, but just as bustling. Ships rolled lazily out of its almost frozen ports. The mornings were filled with the shouting of men, the din of carts, and the barking of dogs. Craftsmen and peasants fill the street, in stark contrast to the streets of London, which is more often filled with marching soldiers and well-dressed gentlemen. I marveled at the dresses of the Scots around us. Many of the men wore woad paint, tattooed against their face and arms. Nearly all were dressed in heavy, coarse tunics and large, colorful kilts, a hall mark of Scotland. The ladies were dressed in medium length skirts. Had Thumbs been here instead of in far off Ireland with his father, we would now be intrigued by the sight and holding contests to see who points out the most outlandish sight. From outside the Scots pointed at us, bickering among themselves…We probably look like the outlanders to them.

  Our carriages pulled to a stop on the mud covered streets around a two story tall inn. A servant dressed in blue quickly ran out and bowed.

  “Most gracious and welcomed quests, we are honored to take your party in our humble inn this night. How many rooms do you noble sires need?” He asked enthusiastically, his words tainted with Scottish Brogue.

  Normally Buckingham would handle these things, but since he is on a ship for Ireland right now, there was a long stretch of silence before father caught on, sighed, and replied that we required 7 rooms. The servant bowed again, and ran quickly back into the inn. When he returned a few minutes later however he was not nearly as enthusiastic as before.

  “I’m sorry Sire, but there are only five free rooms.” The servant looked down at his feet. There was a period of awkward silence before William Laud broke it, poking his plump face out the window of his carriage and bellowing.

  “What do you mean there is not enough room? Don’t you see that this is the King you just refused?” The archbishop demanded angrily.

  The servant said nothing, only glanced down at his feet.

  “Don’t ignore me boy! What do you mean there aren’t enough rooms?” Laud demanded.

  “I’m sorry Sir….but there really are only five rooms free.” The servant said humbly.

  “Then you will make room for 7.” Laud said defiantly, before withdrawing his head back into the carriage.

  “Now Laud, that is not entirely fair. If other people, citizens of the Kingdom, paid for the services offered by his inn, we cannot force them to leave.” Cavendish said from his carriage. “What say you Sire, do you think we can squeeze a bit to fit?” He asked father.

  Laud scoffed before father had a chance to reply. “The Royal Family and the Privy Council, sharing rooms. We’ll be the laughing stock of all Scotland.” He grunted. “I say we kick out three families to make room for ourselves.”

  Father finally spoke from his carriage. “As much as I wish to act fair, Cavendish, I have to go with Laud on this one. We have a meeting with Scottish Nobles in two days’ time and we can’t afford to lose their respect. Verney, take a few soldiers and invite three families out of the inn. Pay them for their troubles.” Father said, sighing. Verney complied with a disgruntled ay, (for despite the giant’s fierce appearance and proficiency at arms, he was a gentleman at heart and knows right from wrong) and took with him 10 soldiers and entered the inn. After several minutes 3 families were herded out, escorted by dragoons on both sides. As they neared our carriages I noticed them staring at us.

  “How dare you! Woe to England the day King James died!” One of the men shouted. Another screamed

  “Everything would have been all right, our rights not violated, had this King not disbanded Parliament!”

  The first one agreed, even as he was silenced by a brutal kick from a dragoon.

  Another man from a different family screamed “Brutality! God damn anyone that strikes me! Down with the tyranny!”

  From behind a soldier raised the pistol and whipped the man across the face with the back of his gun. The wooden handle connected with a loud crack, and the man was knocked down face first into the snow. He didn’t move. His young wife, seeing this, twisted out of the restricting grip of the dragoon and rushed over, kneeling down near the fallen man, turning him over in the snow and cupping his head in her arms. I looked at father. This soldier just struck cold a man! Surely father would not tolerate this! From where I sat I saw father raise a hand as if to beckon something or someone, but then lower it gradually. With a long sigh he turned his head and got out of the carriage, walking towards the inn. The woman was dragged away from where her husband lay by several soldiers and dragged out of the courtyard inn. Verney picked up the fallen man from the snow and gently set him down next to his wife. Father had let the soldiers go, even after their cruel and unjust treatment of the 3 unfortunate families that were kicked out.

  I know father is not the kind of men with cold hearts and cruel stone faces. I have seen angrily exclaim at the mistreatment of street dogs, much less innocent citizens. Whatever the men shouted, the strange deal with Parliament and rights and tyranny had struck father hard, and he was uncharacteristically silent.

  I did not want to confront father over what happened, but I was also extremely curious about what the men’s words meant. Someday all this will be cleared up when Villiers returns back from Ireland, and I spend a good deal of time with him asking about everything new and strange that I have encountered on this surprise trip.

  After two days of rest in the inn Father was himself again, despite all the things that happened recently. The morning of the meeting he was dressed in his best clothes, and he was fairly confident as well as cheerful. All of father’s most trusted men, some forty members of the Privy Council, had arrived from all the corners of the Kingdom which built his confidence. The motley members of the council, from the intruding Goring to the polite and cultured Rutheven seemed like they would be able to match anything the Scots throw at them. I was fussed over and dressed in my best clothes for the meeting which is scheduled to take place in St. Giles Cathedral.

  We arrived to the central Square of Edinburg that morning in a huge procession of almost 50 carriages. The Square was milling with hundreds upon hundreds of Scots, all wanting a glimpse of us and to hear about the meeting as soon as possible. I did not know exactly what the impact of this meeting on their daily lives will be, of
course, but seeing all these eager, nervous faces I know what is about to happen today will change history. Driving through the hoard the royal procession came to a stop directly in front of the thick oak doors of the great church. Verney dismounted from his horse, and with a monumental effort, pushed the doors open, before striding in. The doors to our carriages were opened by soldiers and we stepped inside.

  A giant chandelier hangs from the roof. Colorful tainted glass depicting biblical stories make up the windows, and the weak sun light shining through them creates pale, light images all over the dim walls of the church. Gigantic artworks of the renaissance hang from the painted roof. The church was a fantastic sight. The long praying chairs that usually fill the church were removed, and the elevated platform where the preacher stands was covered in a thick, red blanket. On that blanket sits a giant round table with about 50 chairs sticking out from its circumference. On one side of the table sat 20 or so Scottish nobles, dressed in wild, dirty outfits and many carrying weapons. All of them have their hair braided in complicated knots and most had blue face paint on, adding to the overbearing aura of the Scots. I was surprised to see some Scots even gripped large, crude axes in their hand. They were of stark contrast to the English, who were all dressed in their best, most elegant of court clothes and carrying swords, the weapon of the gentleman. I looked at the Scottish nobles again. Four of them I know by name.

  In the middle of the motley Scottish nobles is middle aged, beardless man, wearing a small round cap on top of his long, flowing grey hair. His eyes were full of cunning and distrust, and a frown sat on his wrinkled face. Even I knew who this man was. Archibald Campbell, the Marquis of Argyll, this man is the most powerful man in Scotland. He sat, perched on his chair like an old, cunning vulture, look forward to his next meal. Sitting next to Argyll is a young, tall man of heavy, grey eyes, long face and long yellow hair tied in a braid. The man wore a half smile and stared at us. I presumed him to be the Duke of Hamilton, third in line to the throne of Scotland, (after my father and I, of course). On the other side of Argyll sat a young, handsome man, with long curled hair wore in true cavalier fashion, large eyes, fair features and a well-kept mustache. He smiled at us confidently. I know him to be David Leslie, a young Lord of Scotland and one of the most gifted commanders of Scotland’s armies. Another man, with large, kind eyes, a round nose, and long brown hair sits second to the right of Argyll. This man is the Earl of Montrose, another influential man in Scotland. The others mixed in with one another and I cannot distinguish them. All of them generally looked at us with a haughty demeanor. I noticed one extremely barbarous looking man in particular, dressed in armor, squatted in his chair and stroking his braided beard while eyeing us disdainfully. Father made a silent Prayer, and I overheard a noble whispering to Cavendish that these men looked like they want to tear us apart.

  When we all took our seats, me sitting between Father and Cavendish, Verney closed the great oak door, and the entire church dimmed. As Verney strode toward us to take his place behind father, and before anyone on either side the elegant and time consuming introductions that always take place before large meetings, the great doors opened again, and the bright light, as well as dozens of filthy Scottish Peasants, flooded inward in a great tide. Before father had a chance to express his surprise, their masses had already surrounded our elevated platform. I notice Argyll giving a light smirk.

  Verney drew his great sword. He probably thought the peasants meant to do us harm. Perhaps they did, but not in the way Verney interpreted it, for they carried no weapons. Once it was clear that the peasants would wait at the edge of the platform and wait for us to make the first move, Father stood up. “Why are they here? I want a private and undisturbed conference!” He demanded angrily.

  “Oh don’t worry Sire. They are here to watch the….debate.” Argyll smiled.

  “This is your King! Have you no loyalty? No Respect? Is this the sort of conference you will hold with him?” William Cavendish demanded angrily.

  “I assure you I have the utmost respect to the King.” Argyll promised. “Very well, Citizens! You heard his majesty. He is hiding things from you and does not wish for you to hear of them. I’m afraid you must all leave the church.” Argyll said, waving his hand to the door. The Scots started to mutter angrily.

  “I am hiding nothing from them!” Father replied angrily. “Very well, they may remain, as long as they remain silent!” Father was already losing his cool. I noticed Argyll smile from where he sat.

  “Oh, I don’t know if the masses will remain silent, for here in Scotland, the masses do as they please, not at the oppression of a tyrant.” Argyll said innocently, as if not knowing the seriousness of the line that he had just said.

  “Do you accuse my king of being a Tyrant, sir?” William Cavendish asked angrily.

  “Scottish people, you decide. Here sits a man, who ordered his soldiers to force honorable men from their property. Here sits a man, who stood by and did nothing when his soldiers beat down an innocent citizen! Scottish people, you are the final judge. Your decision is yours to keep. Is this man a tyrant or no?” Argyll said, manipulating his voice and expression such that he looked like a poor old man, exploited and in need of help. I looked at him in hate. He knows full well the full story, yet he manipulates it to do harm to father. He is calm, confident, and prepared to attack underneath, yet he puts on the disguise of an old man who has been wronged.

  “Talk no further, Argyll, let the meeting take place.” Montrose said from where he sat. Argyll’s old head snapped back in hate, and his eyes spat venom, but he sat down and indicated to the English that we may speak. I realized although Montrose is one of the most powerful member of the Scottish elite, he is against Argyll….perhaps he will help us later.

  There was a pause as Cavendish brought up a document from his purse. Clearing his throat as he stood up he began.

  “The King received this letter…..” Cavendish said, waving the letter in front of the entire council. “In here, addressed to the King by Scottish nobles, the leaders of Scotland condemns the King’s order that The Book of Common Prayer be used to practice religion throughout Scotland, citing the freedom and independence the Scots deserve from their king.” Cavendish paused, glaring at the Scottish Nobles, one by one with his narrowed eyes. All the nobles except for those that sat near Argyll looked away, unable to stand the authority of the stare. “does the Scots not know that the book is meant to create religious Unity on the Isles? Why do they make trouble for the King by condemning this book?” Cavendish cried into the cold air, before sitting down.

  Leslie replied quickly, before Argyll had a chance.

  “The Scots have their right to read from their own Prayer book and practice their own religion. They will not be subjected to English Tyranny!” He said, pumping his fists in the air. Scotsmen all around us cheered several times, drowning out Father’s protests. When they finally fell silent again Father spoke up.

  “I am your King! It is my duty to take care of you and it is your duty to obey me. I choose what is best for the country as a whole, and that is for the entire nation to practice religion in a uniform manner!”

  “Scotland will choose its own religion! You have no right to order us since you dissolved Parliament!” Montrose countered. The Scots launched into another wild tumult of cheering. They now openly jeered at us.

  “You do not understand how important it is_____” Father said, but was interrupted by Argyll.

  “No…you do not understand Scotland! That is the problem. You have no right what so ever to impose your ways upon us! Scotland is free; Scotland will not live under Tyrants!”

  “I command you, as King of the Britons, to accept the book!” Father said, increasingly frustrated.

  “And I, as the favored and popular champion of the rights of the Scottish people, refuse your order!” Argyll replied, a smirk on his face. Then he added in a low voice such that only the nobles at the table could
here “you think you can do away with Parliament, and put aside your promises in England, but it will not work here! We will bury you, O great Tyrant of God Fearing people!”

  “Treason! All of you, traitors! You have betrayed your King, and your sacred oath!” One of the younger members of the Privy Council screamed, provoked by Argyll’s whispered words.

  The cunning old Scot stood up. His eyes were victorious, yet his face displayed feigned sadness and pain. “Do you see, honest Scotsmen, what this King does? He rules in tyranny while our rights are picked apart by vultures, and he calls us traitors when we try to protect our rights!”

  The old man’s words put the crowds around us in a trance, and they started shouting at us. Though each Scot was shouting a different curse at a different time, their individual curses merged with each other, such that the noise they made was simply one huge, combined roar of hate and anger. I looked at father. He had gone speechless and white as a sheet. The words of the old Earl now rang clearly in my head.

  “Your father is like the son of Apollo, too weak to keep hold on the reins of power,” the Earl had said. “you best pray hard, for your Kingdom may be lost before you have a chance to take it.”

  As I was caught in my own fear, however, out of the corner of my eye, I spied an old woman, wrinkled and clad in a robe of wool, stand up, pick up the stool she was sitting on, and hurled it at us. Everything became slow. The stool traveled through the air. Next to me Verney shouted and jumped to shield the King. The stool landed once on the round table, bounced off with a loud crack, and struck father square in the face. I screamed in terror. Father flipped over, off his chair, landing on the ground in an undignified sprawl. His eye was in shock. His black hat skittered off his head, rolling across the stage where we were sitting on and falling down into the masses below. For a while there was silence. Father lay on the ground, a hand placed over his forehead where he was struck. The nobles have gone quiet. The guards huddled around him. The hundreds of Scots all around us has also became silent.

  Father’s hand slowly left his face. A cut was swelling in blood on his fair forehead. A single stream, spear headed by one glint of bright, red blood, flowed across his face and into his beard. At this instant all havoc broke loose. The Scottish nobles all got up and screamed, facing the crowd and pointing at the King, yelling some unintelligent gibberish, thickly smeared in Scottish accent. All I picked up were “He bleeds” and men screaming “he is a mortal after all. Have at him!” All the yelling seem to make the Scots more bloody thirsty, for their roaring grew louder and louder. Rocks, cabbage, and all kinds of filth were thrown onto the stage at us. A riot had broken out.

  The soldiers around us snapped to action. Many drew their pistols, or leveled their swords toward the raging crowd. Over the noise of all the Scots I heard Captain Hampton and Captain Waller’s loud, strong voice, urging the dragoons to defend their King. Several of the soldiers had drawn their pistols and pointed them at the Scottish Nobles. I looked at Argyll, expecting the villain to be at a loss of words to see his little rebellion stemmed before it had even started, but the old Scottish noble looked just as smug as ever. From where he sat he gave a long, chilling laugh.

  “Fire now, and this day will live in infamy. All of Scotland will rise against your oppression with such fervor and valor that England will never oppress again!”

  All eyes turned on Father. The scratch across his forehead had stopped bleeding already, and for a while he looked around desperately, before screaming “Stop, do not fire. God damn any man that draws the blood of my subjects.”

  The mention of the word blood seems to excite the rioting crowds more, and they surged forward, upon the soldiers, shouting curses and pushing. The soldiers, with strict order not to employ lethal force, tried their best to push back, but most simply dropped their weapons and allowed the Scots to beat them. At this point we may very well have been overwhelmed, and father subjected to at least a very humiliating beating, but Verney cracked into action. With two huge strides he was next to father. Bending down he helped prop up the King, who stood on wobbly knees. With the King hanging off his broad shoulder, Verney made for the door, followed immediately by Cavendish, who tugged me along by the hand. A mob of disordered nobles followed us from behind, stumbling and running in a very undignified manner. Although many Scots hissed and spat at us not one was able to lay a hand on us, thanks to the brave dragoons, who blocked the cruel blows with their bodies. Captain Hampton and Captain Waller were in the thick of it, pushing and kicking back Scots, leading the dragoons to continue screening the King all the way to the door.

  In front, several soldiers kicked open the door of the church, and in flooded the grey rays of light from the frozen Scottish Skies. The royal procession streamed out of the door in a mixed, disorderly mob, a completely different herd of men than the orderly lines of nobles and soldiers that first entered the church. Hateful Scots followed us out, shouting and throwing objects. With the exit of the King and the nobles the soldiers resistance collapsed, and almost all of them dropped down their weapons and surrendered to the rioters. Many disappeared in a mass of hungry hands and cruel feet; beat down by the wrathful Scots. To my jubilance, however, Waller and Compton made it out safely, albeit injured and panting from shrugging off so many assailants, but safely all the same.

  Outside the church, a huge crowd of Scots, waiting for the results of the meeting outside the chapel greeted us, their faces as expressionless as the grey skies looming above them. At the sight of King Charles carried by soldiers, his forehead smeared with blood, and their fellow Scotsmen chasing us closely behind, they joined the riot. Anything the Scots can throw, whether it is vegetable, rocks, even sacks of clothes were thrown at us. I looked on as if all of this was just one horrible joke. After wild tumbling and wrestling and much pushing and rough work, I somehow found myself crammed into my carriage. Mr. Scot was terrified, but he drove with all haste, and to my surprise he was able to follow father’s carriage through the muddy streets. It was like this we drove; Hampton and Waller with several dragoons leading in front, beating down and trampling Scots that got in the way of the royal carriages, while the rest of the dragoons flanked us on both sides, protecting the carriages from what the Scots were throwing at us. In the very back rode Verney, great sword out and bringing up the rear. Gradually we left the riot behind until all the Scots we met on both sides of us looked more confused and lost rather than angry.

  The carriages rolled south all day and half the night before the lead carriage, father’s, came to a stop next to an inn. Of the thirty or more carriages that converged outside the church of Edinburg, each belonging to a separate noble, only 15 were left. All the soldiers who escorted us are still trapped in the city and the 20 or so dragoons that left London with us are now down to 2, Sir Waller and Sir Hopton. Even the able Cavendish was nowhere to be found.

  We had stopped at a clearing on the side of the road. Everywhere little snowflakes fell, carried around by drifting, light winds. Several soldiers gathered wood for a small fire. Apparently the driver of father’s carriage had done a good job in escaping from Edinburgh, but in his haste had lost all sense of direction and we were completely lost in the middle of the wilderness. Now the Royal Family, the royal dragoons and many of the most powerful nobles of England sit in a small isolated part of the Scottish wilderness, freezing in a small, wretched camp. I squatted next to father near the fire, looking at his brightly lit face. The wound on his head has stopped bleeding, but his forehead is smeared in caked blood. His well-kept face was now in an undignified mess, and he was missing his hat, making him look like a common man one would see in the streets rather than the King of all Britain. Or, the King of England, Wales and Ireland, since Scotland could scarcely be counted as belonging to the King anymore. Again the Earl’s words flashed in my brain.

  “Charles, you will be a good King if your idiot of a father does not lose the throne before he dies.”

  Is this t
he first step of what the Earl spoke of, the rebellion of Scotland? Surely it is not. Everyone knows my father is the King of Britannia….Scotland belongs to him, despite how rudely the Scots treated him….and should my father die, and Scotland will still belong to me!

  Father looked me in the eye, saw my troubled expression, and shrugged, brushing the caked blood from his head.

  “Do not remember your father looking like this.” Father warned me.

  I nodded. Tears were swelling in my eyes.

  “What’s going to happen now?” My world seemed shattered. The Earl’s words were right. The Scots hate my father, and now they have rebelled. Beautiful Scotland, the rich country sides and its many people now no longer belong to father or me!

  “Don’t worry my dear….all will be well. I don’t know how this crisis will end, but God is on our side…soon all will be well!” Father promised.

  I looked at him, even more terrified. Father always loved his subjects, cared about them like he cared about my siblings and me. It was so unlike him to use any force like this.

  “Get some sleep Charles. Tomorrow we will make at London with all haste.” Father said, giving me a gentle pat. “Com’on, don’t be troubled by the events that went on today. Everything will soon be all right.”

  I obliged and found myself a mound of packed snow made by the soldiers and lay down. I was frightened about the events that went on today, but deep inside me there is a blooming feeling, seeing how father must be worried to death about his Kingdom, but still loved me and found time to care for me.

  No, I decided. I will not quiver and become a burden to father. Now is the time to be strong and support King Charles, help him mend everything that has gone wrong, so things can return to the way they were.

  Over the next few weeks we navigated through Scotland and then down south into England. Along the way we were reunited with many members of father’s inner circle, including lord Cavendish. On the 3rd of January we entered the safety of Newcastle, the stronghold of Lord Cavendish. The castle is well defended, manned by half a hundred troops paid by Cavendish’s own fortune. Several mortars, painted black and each looking like a powerful warrior for my father’s cause, line the walls. As we entered the large, thick walls of the castle, father breathed normally for the first time in days. I knew he must have been nervous, but I am personally sure the Scots wouldn’t have done much to us even if they did catch us. Sure they were angered at us, but they have no power and no right to slay their King!

  We left Newcastle within an hour of arriving. Father was sure to return in a few weeks with the English Army, and thus Cavendish stayed in the castle to prepare supplies for father’s arrival. As a show of gratitude, Father left Verney to protect Cavendish until father returned with the royal army. When I left the castle I thought little of it, and little of the soldiers and defenses, but little did I know that these soldiers and these defenses would soon become very important later, in a new war that hasn’t even begun to form yet.

 

  Chapter 5; the Calm before the Storm

  A dark sky was cast over London when the royal procession, heavily escorted by hundreds of mounted dragoons, entered the city interior. Everything was gloomy. The air was made from stuffy, suffocating sweat, the way it was before a great rain. The corners of the streets were filled with filth, and darkly covered travelers skittered about with their heads drooped. Even the gold on the royal carriages was dimmed by the greyness of the sky.

  The scene well matched my depression. Although only the Scots are rebelling at the present, how long till the enemies of the King reached London and change my life forever? As we neared St. James I could hardly imagine how much my life has changed in just a few short months. Before this trip, there were no real worries in my life. Everything was provided for. I had no responsibility except for heaping the most enjoyment out of life. My future was secure, and everything before me was laid out like a well-drawn atlas. Now my future is dim and uncertain. Throughout the journey I have seen and heard much, and realized that reality of the world around me may actually be different from what I was told, or what I had assumed them to be my entire life. Even now, weeks after the rebellions broke out in Scotland, I still have nightmares, a result of my shattered views of the world. Sometimes I dream of men dressed in dark, old and haggardly like Argyll, attacking father and the royal palace. Other times I dream that I am surrounded by angry Scots, hurling objects at me and cursing the Royal Family. However, I realize a broken egg cannot be mended, what has happened has happened and cannot be changed. My life have seemed like one, long stretch of endless gloom and disappointment but now we are almost at London again, and I felt strengthened by the prospect of seeing my mother and siblings, as well as Villiers and Thumbs when we arrive back at St. James. In a few more hours, all my questions will hopefully be answered when I ask Villiers about everything that has troubled me on this trip.

  The carriages pulled to a stop on the wet courtyard of St. James. Dozens of servants rushed out to open the doors of the carriages, their bright court clothe in stark contrast to the grey drabness of everything else. Behind the streams of servants I spied my family walking out of the palace. My brothers and sisters ran at the carriage enthusiastically while mother followed closely behind, her hands lifting her dress so she could follow them at a jog.

  I jumped out of the carriage, running into mother’s open arms. I happily saw that, despite the shock of the events in Scotland that left my father quiet and glumly, he took all my siblings into his arms in a big hug.

  After the joyful greetings, mother and father walked arm in arm back into the palace, while I walked in the center of all my admiring siblings, all begging for stories of what happened on my trip. Little Elizabeth was especially demanding, begging to know if there were lots of sheep in Scotland. I gave her a sloppy kiss to the forehead rather than tell about exactly what Scotland had a lot of….rebels!

  As soon as we entered Father summoned Chamberlain, an able, old man with round spectacles and a walrus mustache. Chamberlain manages the affairs of the royal palace while father is gone.

  After asking several questions about visitors and letters that arrived while he was away, father asked about Buckingham and where he was.

  “Your mercy, Sire, but the duke has not returned.” Chamberlain said, his round nose quivering.

  “What do you mean he has not returned? He left Ireland weeks ago!” Father demanded.

  “Sir......his boy returned, but not he….” The old man said with a low voice.

  “Thumbs?” I asked, my eyes lighting up. Where is he?”

  “He is outside, in the main park…” Chamberlain said uncertainly.

  “Why is the boy here, but not Villiers?” I heard father demand as I ran off to find Thumbs.

  I remember hearing Chamberlain mumble a bit, but disregarded it as I ran to reunite with my friend.

  I found him in a dark clearing in the park, surrounded by flowers that have lost their petals. He was knelt down. Rain has begun to drizzle over head, but it did not deter me. As I neared him I shouted

  “Hey Thumbs! Guess who’s back! Where’s Villiers?”

  He made no reply. Guessing he had fallen asleep I slowly sneaked upon him, imagining the joy in his eyes when he sees me.

  With only two steps between us I jumped and leapt onto him, tackling him down onto the ground. I looked at his face, expecting to see, among other emotions, surprise, joy, and perhaps eagerness to tell me of things he saw in Ireland. Instead I gazed upon a dead face, devoid of all emotions, eyes puffy from crying and nose turned up as if he had eaten a mouth full of sour lime.

  “Villiers isn’t coming back.” Thumbs replied.

  I looked at him in doubt for a second. The colors around me drained.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Before he could reply a servant called out to me from behind. “Prince Charles…your father requests your attendance…you
too…..Duke of Buckingham.”

  “What did you call him?” I asked the servant in surprise. Thumbs was addressed officially as a noble of Buckingham, not the duke, the duke is his father, Villiers.

  The servant shrugged and walked back to the palace. I looked back at Thumbs, my heart sinking lower and lower in my chest.

  “What happened?” I demanded this time.

  “Seeing my father killed, right in front of my eyes…….his blood splattered, his eyes glazed,” He cried. “That wasn’t even the worst part. The cries of the murdered keeps ringing in my ears!” He shouted, gripping his head and rolling in the grass. Thumbs looked insane.

  When I entered I saw father in a similar position Thumbs was initially in. He had his back to me, and he sat on the ground, squatting over granite floors. His forehead rested on his right hand, and I noticed his left hand shaking. My siblings, mother, and a layer of servants surrounded him, trying to make sense of the situation.

  “Father! Father?” I ran up to him, pushing through the servants gathered around him.

  Father looked at me. His mouth was hanging loose, and his face full of disgust as if he was going to throw up. His eyes darted left and right and it looked as if his mind was taken over by that of a rat, fleeing from an angry cook.

  “Father! What is happening?” I asked him, horrified.

  Father opened his mouth as if to speak, gagged several times, and fell to the ground, lifeless. I looked around. Mother was screaming, and all my siblings crying.

  “Chamberlain, what is going on?”

  The old man looked left and right, not sure if he should tell me or not. However when he looked again at my face he saw my desperation and sighed.

  “The Duke of Buckingham was stabbed by a fugitive, John Felton, in Dublin Ireland….the fugitive was caught and shot by soldiers, but the duke succumbed to his injuries several days later.” Chamberlain said quietly, eyes downcast.

  I looked around, not comprehending. Buckingham, dead? It is not possible. It cannot happen. It would not happen. Surely God Almighty will not play with my life like this, to take Buckingham away from us so soon after he took Scotland! Who would be so cruel as to cut off both the right and the left hand of a man within days of one another? Even as I was sinking deeper in my depression, I begun to realize how much this must have shook father. Buckingham had been even closer to father than Thumbs was to me. The two had been friends since infancy and were sworn brothers. When they were young adults the two went on many diplomatic missions together, enduring much hardship together. Now, with Buckingham gone, it was as if half of father was ripped away. Indeed, as several servants lifted father’s lifeless body and carried him up to Father’s room, I couldn’t help but shudder at how weak, how helpless father looked.

  For the next month, father locked himself in his room, forcing mother to attempt to run the palace and the country at once. I, being eleven years old, was given the responsibility of watching over my siblings. It was on not a hard task, for the spirits of my siblings have been drained from them. Everyone now knew that Scotland had rebelled, and this added with the death of Buckingham proved too much for anyone to put on a smile. Thumbs was one of the most affected, and now he was a completely different boy. Instead of being fun loving and humorous, I find him depressed and sad. Instead of playing with me, he found fault with everything I brought up. I remember one rare time when he agreed to walk through the servant’s quarters with me. We had barged into a steamy room and intruded on the bath of a wrinkly old woman, who let out a wild shriek and threw a brush at us. As we closed the door and ran Thumbs remarked dimly about how I could have her hung for her actions, but I just stared at him, horrified.

  “Hung for such an innocent act? Thumbs! She just threw a brush at us.”

  Thumbs shrugged.

  “Don’t pretend to be horrified about the thought…..many men have been killed for lesser wrong.”

  I looked at him skeptically. Other than the death of his father Thumbs has also seen the execution of several Irish Rebels. Now he seems to think there is no love in the world, that man is a selfish creature, but I know it is not so. England is happy and prosperous, its citizens happy, kind and in love with my father the King. God looks over us with a loving eye and make sure no wrong occurs in the world. I deftly told him so, and he just shrugged.

  “You are naïve Charles.” He replied.

  I hate the word naive. Adults and Thumbs use it whenever there is something they pretend to know that I don’t.

  “What does Naïve mean?” I demanded angrily.

  “There are things I saw in Ireland,” Thumbs told me, “that are 100 times worse than anything you have ever seen. The dead’s cries still ring in my ears, their faces hunt my dreams.” He stared into my eyes. I took a step back.

  Without another word Thumbs turned and walked away, leaving me in confused, angry frustration.

  The condition of the palace continued like this, father rolling around in filth like a drunk animal, the children at the royal palace all silent and scared, mother busily managing daily affairs in the palace, and Thumbs always sitting by himself in the garden like a drunken recluse. Everyday father’s great Court Room lay empty as the King refused to summon his ministers to court. Finally, one day in May, an important Earl by the looks of it, suddenly arrived with his entourage in the courtyard of St. James. He had long, black hair, very similar to Buckingham’s but not as curled. His face was thin, and he wore a goatee. His eyes were very large and intelligent, and from his fine clothes and good graces I instantly knew him to be one of my father’s most trusted and able advisors, even though I do not recall what his name was.

  Father left his room for the first time in days, helped out by Mother. The Earl was Thomas Wentworth, and he is the Earl of Strafford. The man is father’s overall commander in Ireland, and it was rumored that it is only because of his skill and charisma that the Irish have remained loyal to father and the rebellions were only the efforts of a few drunk extremists.

  The earl brought with him a letter, which father read aloud at once, since it was from Cavendish in Newcastle.

  “Your Royal Majesty King Charles;

  I write to you, Sire, in the deepest distress. During the months since you departed from my manor, I have heard nothing from London, thus I bide my time, gathering troops and supplies in hope that your army will soon arrive. Meanwhile my spies reveal dire news almost daily.

  Several leading Scottish nobles, that old hag Argyll included declared themselves to be Covenanters (Fighters for the Church of Scotland) in resistance to your authority. Their support grows daily. The Covenanters have gathered an army and are not only moving throughout Scotland, (securing the allegiance of many Scottish nobles) and talking about open rebellion in the process, but are also making moves into England. Scots cross the border, raiding English farms almost daily. Everyday my men see the raiding parties get stronger and more bold. It will not be soon before the Covenanters are strong enough to threaten or even besiege Newcastle.

  I know not of what crisis is happening in London thus that I received no word from you, Sire, but I beg you Sir, Newcastle is in a dire situation. We need supplies and at least 500 more soldiers to hold out, or we will fall and the entire northern front may collapse!

  Sincerely, Lord Cavendish of Newcastle”

  The very next day father was up and ready, a completely different man. He looked fierce, and smitten. The letter had transformed him from the shocked stage to the revenge state, and he was now filled with hate and eager to avenge his friend anyway possible. It was the Scots who invited Buckingham and him on this ill-fated trip, and it is the Scot that will pay. With the arrival of Strafford to replace to loss of Buckingham, father set to work immediately. For the first time in months, father summoned his court once again. The palace was packed with ministers and generals that morning. Some of the most prominent included Archbishop Laud, Strafford, Lord Goring, as well as the captains
of father’s dragoons, Sir Hopton and Sir Waller. Most of the men present I knew, but some I didn’t. From gossip and pestering father, I was able to find out much about the war plan.

  The Covenanters have control of all of the lowland of Scotland and most of the highlands. A few highland chieftains however still pledge for the King. The Covenanters have garrisoned all their troops South of Edinburgh in preparation to invade England. Thus father drafted a brilliant plan. A force of 5,000 veteran English troops, members of the professional, royal army, would be shipped from Ireland to western Scotland. Royalist clans from the highlands of Scotland will attack the Covenanters from the north. A force of 3,000 professional soldiers would sail up north behind the Covenanter’s main army and strike Aberdeen, a major Scottish town. These three attacks from three different directions are meant to draw Scottish troops away from the southern approaches to Edinburgh. Finally, father will lead the main English force, composed of troops levied from garrisons across England, whether it be the personal armies from nobles or drafted citizens for a grand total of 20,000 troops. With this army father plans to smash through the weakened Covenanter army in Southern Scotland, capture Edinburg, and take captive the Scottish nobles.

  For the next month father worked diligently and then, suddenly, all his efforts collapsed. The great treasury at St. James expired. Everything required money. Spies, diplomats, and generals all required a monthly fee. Soldiers needed upkeep. The ships from which to transfer soldiers had to be paid for. The armies had to be fed and supplied, and the newly drafted ones had to be equipped with arms and armor. Everything required money and father simply did not have enough. He was granted a crown duty every year but that duty does not increase in times of war. The only way to fill up the coffers again would be to levy taxes, but for some reason father was unwilling, or unable to do that.

  Suddenly rumors in the palace turned towards a different direction as the preparation for war began to halt. There were still discussions and debates everywhere, among servants and cooks and servant boys, but father and his ministers had stopped talking about the war. Instead they discussed, in their private chambers, about something called Parliament.

  Thumbs, though depressed, was also quite curious about this and joined me in cornering Wentworth in the gardens.

  “Strafford, what is a Parliament?” I asked him, aware of how stupid I sounded, since the word “Parliament” was used every day by everyone, even the lowliest servants.

  The Earl looked at us for a second, before bending down and taking my little hands in his.

  “Parliament, boys, is a group of people elected by the citizens of the Kingdom to represent them, and to make their wishes clear to the King.”

  “Are they powerful?” Thumbs asked.

  “Not as powerful as the King, no. They are much like the Privy Council, giving the King suggestions. Their one, tangible power is the ability to levy taxes. Without them the King cannot impose new taxes,”

  “Oh?” I asked my face full of surprise. Perhaps this is why father is so desperate for money right now. Thumbs, meanwhile, asked a different question.

  “If they’re so powerful and so influential, why have we never heard of them?” He asked.

  “Your father had a fight with them 11 years ago…..when they refused to grant your father new taxes. Thus he disbanded Parliament and ruled by himself for 11 years.” Strafford sighed.

  Secretly I lit up. That’s what the men were shouting that day in Scotland, when we pushed them out of the inn. They were screaming at father’s injustice by bringing up his abolishment of Parliament, and those words upset my father so much that he was shaken for the next day.

  “Now, something unprecedented is about to happen. Your father needs money to fight the Scottish rebels, yet he cannot get money unless he summons Parliament again. Thus he must either attempt to fight the Scots with an empty coffer, or summon Parliament and face its wrath at his abolishment of it 11 years ago.”

  I thought about it for a while. The Earl meanwhile resumed his work. Suddenly I spoke up “I think he should resummon it. If they represent the wishes of the people, and since my father values his people, he should value this Parliament…..do you think he will call forth this body again?” I asked, aware of the fact that I sounded exactly like Anthony.

  “I think he has already. Throughout England people are debating the rebellions in Scotland and many past members of Parliament knows the King has little choice but to summon them again….I think it is only a matter of time before the Parliamentary houses in London are filled once again.”

  “But they will make trouble for the King!” Thumbs cried.

  “Ay….that is what I fear….I am not exactly on good terms with many members of Parliament myself. If the King summons Parliament again I fear they may move against us.” Strafford sighed. “Luckily, Parliament is divided into two houses, the house of lords and the house of commons. The house of lords are staunch royalists and support father….if Parliament is summoned we might yet stand a chance in the war against Scotland….if we carry on the war on ourselves we will face certain defeat.”

  The very next day I asked father about Parliament. He confirmed what Strafford said, and when I asked him if he intends to summon Parliament or not he gave a sad nod and added “They have already been summoned. They will meet April 13th at the house…”

  “April Thirteenth? But that’s in 3 days.” I asked in surprise.

  Father nodded, and told me he had to face them. He seemed pretty confident, and I knew it was extremely crucial at this point to beat down Parliament early so they do not make trouble later.

  For the next few days father left early in the morning and late at night, each day his mood worsening. Finally, one day in mid-May he did not leave early morning. I learned from mother that he had angrily dissolved Parliament when they made a bill documenting their grievances and attacking the King. The bill cannot be produced without support from the House of Lords, who will not act against father, but nevertheless father was deeply shaken by the incident, and thus locked the House of Commons from the meeting house, ending this short session of Parliament. We were doomed to face Scotland on ourselves, with no help from them.