The Song of Wessex
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Ulster, Ireland - February 1337
The tiny boat rocked as a wind picked up and roiled the once calm lake. Arthur held fast to the sides as his old friend laughed, “You think to toss overboard, monsieur? Ha!”
The King looked around before turning back to his friend, “Where are we, Amedee?”
“Take your pick, lad,” Amedee answered, “Heaven...Hell...where did you think to end up?”
“Am I dead?” Arthur asked with worry.
“No...” the old Lord answered, “...but I am.”
Arthur still did not understand, “Then why...am I...”
“I’ve never been able to answer that any more than you, monsieur,” Amedee smiled, “Yet you’re not done. Mayhap you still have time to figure that out.”
“So then I am dreaming?” the King questioned.
Amedee shrugged, “Can’t say. I did not expect to see you...but you always were good company.”
“Why...you?” Arthur asked, “If I am to hold a ghost...why not Ava...Arturo?”
The old Lord grinned, “Oh...she’s here. Who do you think rocks the boat? Yet your lad is here too...finding good time with the younger men.”
“His brothers?” the King questioned, “And Ans? Tienne?”
Amedee leaned in with an ominous smile as he answered slowly, “All of them...Your Grace.”
“You laze about in bed, Arturus!” the voice called out and suddenly Arthur looked up to see his father standing over him.
“I have found wound!” he answered.
Ælfstan folded his arms and scolded, “Not like you to take your time. Uncle Geoffrey will be sorely disappointed...and your maman. She will be angry with me.”
“They tried to kill me!” Arthur pleaded.
“Hmm!” the old King sat to the bed and dismissed the idea, “Think I didn’t hold my cuts in my time, lad? Took plenty of them! There’s always an enemy...and one you least expect. So stop lazing about and get to it!”
Queen Alearde leaned over her husband’s shoulder and showed a stern eye, “I have all my children to me...and his other one too, mon enfant. Your time is not yet. I will see you soon enough.”
“Arn?” Arthur looked to his mother with sadness.
She huffed and stormed from the room saying behind her, “Sortir le garçon de ce lit!!”
“I told you,” Ælfstan followed before great heaps of dirt began to pour from his mouth as his eyes grew wide.
Arthur screamed and closed his eyes in fear before a soothing voice answered to him, “Shhh...cousin...it will be all be well.”
“Em?!” he opened his eyes to see Emma sitting with her back to a tree by the river.
Somehow, he was far away now and he called out again, but she did not see him and offered no reply. She did look up with a smile as she watched her young boy run by the water way and then went back to her book. Arthur tried to take a step towards her but could not. He felt frozen in place and no matter what strength he put towards it, he only seemed to get further and further away. He could not run...he could not walk...he could not even shout.
But then she did look towards him with a kind smile. She said not a word...and then she was gone…
“Your Grace?!” he felt his body being shaken, “Your Grace!!!”
Arthur opened his eyes finally to see his Earl John sitting over him in a bed. Brushing a cold cloth to his forehead, the Earl offered a smile, “God be praised! You are alive!!”
With hardly a voice, he tried to question, “Where...am...I?”
“To Ulster, sire,” John responded, “To your grandson’s keep. We thought you gravely wounded. We did not think you to live.”
“Arthur?” the King questioned again with confusion.
John smiled, “No, sire. To young Prince Eadgar.”
“But...” Arthur slurred his words, “...Eddy...is...dead.”
“His son, Your Grace,” Earl Randolph walked up behind his fellow Lord, “He keeps his time to Breifne...with his mother...but we moved you as fast as we could. To the safest place. And Lord John is correct...God is to be praised for your saving.”
Arthur was still confused but turned again to John and held up a hand, “I...missed...your father.”
“I am missing of him all the time, sire,” Earl John answered as he held the King’s hand, “And I imagine that he is missing of you.”
Earl Randolph stood over his shoulder, “And I am sorry, Your Grace. I was not in time. I did my best...and unseated the Bishop...but they were crafty.”
King Arthur suddenly felt no ability to speak and grabbed to his throat. Earl John was quick to pour some ale and slowly fed it to him, making sure that he did not choke. As the King’s breathing began to calm, his memory started coming back to him and finally was able to ask, “The...war?”
“It is over, sire,” Earl Randolph answered him, “The man Gilbert of Tyrone...the Earl...when he heard that you were injured...he came to us straightaway.”
Earl John smiled as he helped the King sit up, “Your legend speaks for itself, Your Grace. He could fight for the highlanders no more and was devastated that such calamity had befallen you. He begged for peace and to be your vassal. How could we dishonor your wish?”
“I...wished...to...be...there,” Arthur struggled to talk still.
John was quick in reply, “The Lord of Kent has seen to it, sire. He is with this Gilbert now...to Tyrone. You were in no shape...have been fevered for nearly a month. It was a grievous wound...but the Lord Marshal saw to that as well. The man responsible is no more.”
The King slowly turned his head to Earl Randolph, “He...was...not all.”
“You should gain your health, sire,” the Earl suggested, “There is time enough to deal with these other traitors.”
“No!” Arthur found voice to shout as he forcibly swung his legs over the bed, “You...will...tell me now!”
Earl John tired to help him as he answered, “All of the conspirators have been rounded up, Your Grace.”
“All but two,” Earl Randolph followed with a serious eye.
Arthur felt weak but he pressed his hands to the bed for balance and looked forward, “Maud!”
“Indeed, sire...” Randolph replied, “...we cannot reach the Queen of Scotland. And the other...I am sad to say...is your grandson.”
Arthur bent forward with tears now in his eyes as he called out, “Oh...Arturo!!!”
As John tried to steady the King, Randolph stepped closer, “He remains to Lancaster, Your Grace. We did not think it wise to notify him...yet. Not...under the circumstances.”
King Arthur finally found some control and turned to both Earls with a stern eye, “I...will not...harm...my grandson!”
“He was to the plot, Your Grace,” Randolph argued, “More to that...it is said that he is in correspondence with the Lord Chancellor...his wife’s grandfather. A claim to Poitou is made.”
“Was...Edward...” Arthur attempted to ask.
John was quick in reply, “No, sire. He does as he always does, but he is not implicated.”
“What...of...France...” the King followed in question, “...and Germany?”
“We think not,” Randolph answered, “The Emperor Luitpold still surely smarts from your spanking, and other than Champagne...and your grandson...the other French Lords we think as loyal.”
King Arthur looked ahead for a time as he thought. His brow furrowed and his eyes grew piercing. A single spot to the floor turned into the entirety of Europe and all the many tendrils that extended from it...grew to one point as well. With a weakness still, he attempted to stand and his legs nearly buckled before John helped him. But finally he was on his feet and he used what little strength he had to turn to his Lords, “I...am not...yet done. I will...speak to the court...at Ulster. And then...I will return...to England.”
“You’ve not yet your health, sire,” John argued, “And a cold travel...across the Irish sea...it is unwise.”
Arthur held tight to his Earl’s shoulder as he replied, “What is...unwise...is being without...when I should be...within. All will know...that their King...still lives!”
“Yet the Prince Arthur, Your Grace?” Randolph had to ask.
He turned with a stern eye, “I told you! You will leave...my grandson...to me. Now...take me...to...the court. And I will...stand before them!”
* * *
Westminster, England – August 1337
The hall had never been as packed this tight. Every single Lord and Lady, from France all the way to Ireland stood in attendance. The summons from the King came with it urgency and King Arthur of England, France, Ireland and Wales was not a man to ignore. He had conquered Ireland, had bested the Empire three times in his life and had now survived an assassin’s blade. He was, in short, the unstoppable force in Europe.
It was true that the attempt on his life had taken a great toll on him. He walked with a slower gait and slurred his speech at times. Yet returned to Westminster, he was nursed back to health by his mistress Lady Annabella of Albany. His lover...and his prisoner. She enjoyed her captivity and more than that, her time with this great man as he was kept to court and to her.
Arthur was now sixty and seven. The light of Wessex and bold even if he was called just. He was not the latter, but he did prove some justice by standing on weak legs before the court when he returned and declaring that all executions of the traitors were right and proper and those that did not occur were due to his love and respect. First among them was his grandson that was called on immediately. A public show was held for all to see of grandfather hugging the young Prince and the kiss of peace shared. And then? Not a word.
The youngest Arthur was kept under heavy guard and not allowed to leave the palace. A prisoner just as Lady Annabella. Yet one struggled within their shackles when the other did not. The King knew this well. He’d done it before. In truth, it was not abnormal for the House of Wessex at all. Family was always their saving grace and their greatest foes. Keep their friends close. And their enemies even closer.
If there was one person missing from this day, it was the Queen of Scotland. Married to his son...born an heir. Perhaps a treacherous one. Ever bitter now...and another enemy. Everything that he had built, with all of the trouble of it...he understood. Maud lost a husband. Her King. He had lost a son. The King. The path from there to here was a long and winding one with many hard ditches in between.
His recovery had not gone well at first. Though he pressed, Arthur was hardly able to walk for the first three months. Stuck to his bed with only the kind hand of his sweet Bella to brush his face with a cold cloth, he tried to make his appearances but showed as weak. That would not do. The cut to his stomach...it hurt. But he forced himself. Every day...a painful walk through the gardens. It was spring. That helped. And he would not show that he was defeated. Never! He was Arthur of House Wessex...great King and warrior. And every day of his convalescence, he thought. Ideas...and what truly was his goal?
Satisfaction for his father? Revenge over his son...and an answer to what was left? He’d been King for over forty years. Arthur had taken much. Conquered and given...ruled and well. He’d executed a wife...a Queen. She’d been more than unfaithful. But he had never remarried. He’d lost three sons and a daughter with only one left to Gelre. Some grandchildren...faithful or not. Plots made for and now against him. Great Lords and Ladies that had fallen by the way...and many that he loved.
What was his true wish?
As he was stuck abed for months, he often struggled with memories from the past. The treachery of his wife...and the few good times they held together. The long back and forth with his son...never his enemy and always the promise...but difficult. His youngest that he stole from Ava...and then never saw again after she was passed off to Poitou for her match. His eldest that never truly forgave him. And all the rest of them. Sisters. His long dead brother. Uncle Geoffrey that taught him so well and every one after that did as much...Etienne...Anselm...Mark...Theobald...and always Amedee.
When he became King, everything seemed so easy. Not a healthy marriage but they had found their issue. Arthur was surrounded by good men at all times. Took them close as his father had done. Made them friends. He needed them as much as they may have needed him. Held good times and had gained so much with their help. And now they were all gone. He was now an old man, nearly killed, and had lost as much as he had gained.
Yet all the while in his dreams, one thing kept to his mind. The smirking face of Werner came back to him often. And the cold, dead eyes of his father. And then the last look his son gave to him. Those three images could not go away and when he was finally healthy enough to move with some freedom, he began to plan.
The council had done well in his absence and not much had happened in the six months of his recovery. Taxes were called...his guards trained. No further threat was issued and his master of spies Earl John and Earl Randolph kept him informed. Even the Lord Chancellor worked to gain claims in Hainaut. That place that meant so much. Lord Stephen of Lothian had argued that the treasury was low after these last few years of war, but Arthur had waved a dismissive hand.
In the end, it was all for one thing and everything that he had gained...and everything that he had lost...had been for that one thing. He didn’t really have any children to lose anymore other than Blæja. Held a grandson that tried to kill him. Good men still about...but not friends. No!
Arthur was sixty seven and as he moved through the summer, he planned. Call every great Lord and Lady to him. Let them know that he was alive and well and not nearly done. His show of strength to Ulster had impressed. That wasn’t enough. His enemy was not his Lords. It wasn’t even the Empire. It was time.
On this autumn morn, he had pulled himself from his bed with help from Bella. Dressed in his finest robes after some few hours, he was helped to the hall by good and poor men alike. The staff struck the stone floor and he entered as every single one stood to attention. Arthur among them stood the tallest.
He did not sit his throne but gestured for his grandson to help him. It was an odd sight for most to see the young Arthur assisting the old one when one had tried to kill the other. All knew it, but the King made purpose to hold tightly to the Prince as he smiled, “His mother’s not here. Well to me that she is not for I could be in peril otherwise.”
There was laughter from the court though not from the Prince. The King ignored it, “Yet here stands the son of my boy...my Prince. What is past is forgotten and I now give him the kiss of peace.”
Arthur held forcefully to his grandson’s head as he did so and then turned back to the court, “Here stands your future King. Every promise that I have made...it now rests within him!”
“God save the King!” was followed by “God Save the Prince!” until King Arthur held up his hand to quiet them.
“I have lived a long and unquiet life,” he stepped forward with strength, “And one thing always returns to me. All of the promise that my great-grandmother proved to this realm...what was made by the great King Eadgar of centuries past...those great men of Wessex that came before...Alfred the Great and the Confessor himself...every one! Here we stand today...in the year of Our Lord thirteen and thirty seven. We see you Lords in front of us...from Ireland...from the north. The good Welsh peoples. French Lords and Barons...and my good Lord Mayor Eric!”
The Lord Mayor of Compiegne smiled as he gave nod and others clapped him to the back.
“I have struggled long...” Arthur continued as he held a tight hand to his grandson’s shoulder, “...and I have conquered much. Yet I think to do more. When I leave this lad...this Prince...what I have to offer...it will be as great as anything that has ever existed.”
More cheers rang out from the court but Arthur held up another hand, “I have used the term we often…mayhaps as a royal prerogative...but in truth...it is true. It is all of we! From the northern coasts of Ireland...to the eastern coasts of Scotland. The reach...the channel...from York to Devon...London to Paris...what we have is self evident. I have been called conqueror, and that is right! For what I wished was never to stand below any other man. An Emperor killed my father...your King. From this day forward...he will have an equal in this world!”
Arthur grew weak in the knee and the Prince held him up, “Grandpapa?”
“Steady, lad,” the King kept his eyes to the court, “And to all of you out there...from every part of this empire...I am not yet ready to rest. It is not because my father is gone...nor that my son leaves me. It is because you...Albion...Brittania...whichever way you wish to refer to it...it is true and here and now! Let them come from the Khanate if they desire. Let the boy King in Germany make another move. From this day forward...we are the equal of every one of them. And better. Once they were two. Now there are three. And all the desires of men that would see us weakened...well, my Lords...my Ladies...they will now tremble!”
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End of Chapter 11
I like it - and the cliffhanger.
