Beyond 1602
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are modified versions of Marvel characters (apart from some real historic figures), and the original modifying concept is by Neil Gaiman. I claim no ownership of anything, except the story itself.
Gaiman's vision of 1602 was "original 60s Marvel characters only". But, even in the 1602 Universe, time marches on...
This might be a prologue for a story to be written later (in which all these characters meet, and become the Defenders, or the Marvel Knights, or something), or it might just be a series of vignettes; I'm not sure.
London, England, 1606:
The crowds had gathered in Tyburn to watch the hanging, drawing and quartering of Catholic traitors to the crown. In front were the broadside writers, ready to note down any impressive last words for the masses.
Just as the trapdoor was about to open, the hangman was hit by a length of polished wood, which knocked him unconcious before returning to the hand of the scarlet jerkined figure who had thrown it. One of the scriveners, Benjamin Aelric, nodded, as though that was exactly what he had expected to happen.
With a hood covering his head, on which an image of the Devil's face had been sketched, it was impossible to identify the mysterious figure as he swiftly untied the victims. He then tied them to another rope by their waists, this one leading up the side of a building. Jumping to the roof of the building, he pulled the victims after him, and disappeared over the rooftops.
Taking a circutous route, so that the guardsmen could not trace their passage from street level, the Devil who Dares led his bewildered charges to the dockside, and, descending from the roof of a deserted warehouse, quickly harried them onto a ship.
"My thanks, Master Murdoch", said the leader of the conspiracy, as the Devil removed his mask, "Though, given your comments when last we talked, I am surprised."
Matthew shook his head. "I may disapprove of what you attempted, Master Catesby, but I certainly understand the motives behind it. And no-one deserves to die like that, especially as naught came of your efforts. Besides," he added , "one of your number was just there as the expert on gunpowder, barely a conspirator at all."
The man he referred to, the black-clad Francis Castelli, scowled. "Do not patronise me, nor fool yourself, Master Murdoch. I knew what I was doing, and would do it again. Great crimes deserve great punishments."
"An' may the saints preserve me if I ever underestimated you, Master Castelli. But there are ways of protesting the Protestants that don't involve killing relatively innocent people." He put a hand on the larger man's shoulder. "You're a smart man. You can figure out a better use for your skills."
Castelli scowled again, then his mouth moved into what may have been a grim smile. "You have my word, Murdoch. The next such plot I involve myself with will only target the guilty."
Roanoke, the New World, 1607:
Two men had just arrived in the settlement of Roanoke, asking to speak with Governor Dare. One was dark skinned, like the Afric prince who had visited the settlement some years ago. He had heard rumours of the Anomaly somehow, and suspected a connection to a mysterious metal in his kingdom. This fellow, although just as confident seeming, did not have his kingly bearing. Instead he stood like Sir Nicholas had, a man who had fought to gain his place in the world, and would fight to keep it. He wore blue breeches and a yellow jerkin. Curiously, the breeches were held by a length of chain in lieu of a belt.
The other seemed even more exotic, his skin was a tone the settlers had never seen before and he wore a loose shirt and breeches of green silk, fastened with a golden sash. His bare chest had some form of winged lizard, like those in the forest, tattooed upon it. The Governer's daughter, Virginia Parquagh, watching from a distance, wondered where he came from.
"He is of the Orient," said a voice from behind her. She started, and turned to see Carlos Javier, carried by his student McCoy.
"The Orient?" she repeated. The word was Latin. "The East?"
"Indeed," replied McCoy, "Although, all educated peoples having been long aware that we live on a Globe, I fancy it is as quick travelling West to get there if this, rather than Europe, is our starting point. Since no ships have arrived since our own return, I would assume these fellows have reached the same conclusion in reverse, as it were, and travelled here overland from the other side of the continent."
At that point Governer Dare noticed them. "Good day, my child. Master Javier, McCoy," he nodded. He turned to the two men and made the introductions. "This is my daughter, Virginia, Master Carlos Javier, a most learned gentleman, and one of his students, Henry McCoy. My friends, may I introduce Rand-Kai and Lucas?"
The dark-skinned man, Lucas, stared at McCoy, "Where on God's Earth does such as you come from?" he said, ignoring his friend's embarrasment.
McCoy stared back impassively. "The Orkneys," he responded, briefly.
Rand-Kai nodded slightly, "There is an aspect to your appearance that suggests the mixture of Keltic and Viking tribes, but that is not, I suspect, the whole story."
"Perhaps not." allowed McCoy. "However, as you have not vouchsafed your own biography to me, nor do I expect you to, I will likewise keep mine own tale close to my bosom."
Javier smiled. "Hal is famed for his recitence," he said, "But, if I might ask, what are you doing here?"
"As we were telling your governer," Rand-Kai explained, "we seek employment as guards. I am skilled in unarmed combat, and Lucas' strength might surprise you."
"And would he care to test that strength 'gainst 'such as me'?" asked McCoy, mildly.
Lucas grinned. "By the sweet birth of our Lord, I would."
Vinci, Italy, 1608:
Young Ricardo was bored. He was often bored, longing for adventure in a village where the last exciting thing to happen was a resident becoming a famous painter, two hundred years ago.
This was why he had been exploring the caves beyond the village. He often did this, but he had never gone as far as this before.
Suddenly, the caves opened out. Ricardo was amazed. In front of him was an ancient temple, seemingly from the days of the Empire. And a strange coffin lay on the dias. Fascinated, Ricardo moved to look closer.
Inside the coffin lay a man in the armour of the Roman Legions. The helmet bore a red starburst, which Ricardo didn't remember from the historic accounts he'd seen. Then the figure opened his eyes. Ricardo was too scared to run.
"My name," the figure said, in Latin, "is Centurion Diem.Once I fought for the glory of Rome as Il Cometes. With this helm, I gained the speed and power of the shooting star. And, like a comet, I was a harbinger of doom to my enemies. I have waited long centuries for a successor. What is your name, boy?"
"Um... Ricardo, signore Centurion. Ricardo Rodrigo."
"Then, Ricardo Rodrigo, take my helm and become the new shooting star. Il Cometes Nova."
Serbia, 1609:
There was no question they would have to leave. The superstition of the villagers made life impossible. They did not know the term "witchbreed", but they had their own explanations for people with senses and agility beyond the norm, and had much the same feelings about such freaks of nature.
So it was that the two women packed their meagre posessions and, ignoring the suspicious glares of people they'd known all their lives, paused to choose a direction. It strenghtened Grigora Sorenovik's resolve when she realised they were standing next to the statue of King John in the village square, spearing one of their supposed ancestors.
"Are you sure about this, Feklitsa?" Grigora asked her companion.
Feklitsa Hardeski nodded, "If we travel far enough, we will find a place where no-one has heard of the Cat People."
Medmenham, England, 1610:
"Merciful heaven," the terrified man cried to the emptiness of the room, "What have I done?"
/Too late to call for heaven's mercy now,/ a voice echoed in his head/For I am called, just as thou did command. Inspired by that trifle by Marlowe, I'll wager success wasn't what thou planned./
Jon shook his head. It was true. His riding tutor had come down with a mysterious sickness and, more in desperation than in hope, he had called on Faust's Mephistopheles to save the man's life. He had certainly not expected the devil to answer.
/The equestrian may not die his ague, to ensure that is well within my power. In return for the health of Simon Creag, wilt thou give me thy living soul this hour?/
The unfortunate summoner nodded. Then screamed. He was on fire. He stared at his hands as the flesh burnt away, leaving the bones untouched. In front of him, also burning, was a skeletal horse. And the voice of Mephistopheles still filled his mind.
/A skull ablaze for he that bears the name; thy pain may subside slightly in a minute, and leave thee with thy ghost-horse and thy shame.
/This is thy hell, Jon Blaze, and thou art in it./
Somewhere near Hudson's Bay, 1611:
Across the snowy wastes of the Northmost New World a fur-clad figure, almost feral, travelled. His identity was hard to define, even to himself.
Those who'd heard rumours of him called him Gulo, the glutton, associating him with the local legends of the Wendigo. But that was just superstition.
Henry James Hudson, casting him off the Discovery the previous year, had called him Witchbreed. But that was less than irrelevent to him.
When he'd signed on to Hudson's crew, it had been under the name of his mother's family, the Logans of Berwick. But that was but a memory.
His father, longer ago than he cared to consider, had given him the name James. But this now held no meaning for him at all.
As he walked through the blizzard, he caught sight of a figure heading towards him. He scowled. He was hunting, and a large, green-clad man blundering around would be enough to scare off any game for some distance.
"Ho, friend," he said, his voice cracking with the unacustomed speech, "You mind keeping the noise down?"
The figure got close enough for him to realise the man wasn't wearing green; he was green. That was almost enough to give him pause.
The being that had once been Lord David Banner, and whose current identity was as doubtful as that of the feral man, was not in a reasonable mood. "You startin' trouble, wee man?" he demanded.
The witchbreed held up his hands "Not I, friend," Without his moving, a sharp, unsheathing sound echoed through the trees. "But if it does start, I'll be sure to end it..."