Short Summary: Their mothers were enemies. When she is born, he is doomed to die. But someone decides that fate should take another way, and that he should live to be her champion, he friend, her knight in shining armour. How will Princess Elizabeth's life change now that she'll never be alone?
Prologue: The Uncertain Visitor
Charles Brandon was shivering by the fire, a goblet of dark red wine in his hands. His eyes were staring into the mesmerizing flames, but behind them was a void. He knew he was supposed to feel fear and sadness and anger and all of those other emotions, but he couldn't bring himself to it anymore. What was in it for him, what good had it ever done him? The last year had brought misery after misery.
First, his best friend and sovereign, King Henry VIII had married this Anne Boleyn, first secretly and then openly. Charles had been suspicious of the woman because of her previous relationship with that poet, Thomas Wyatt, and because he knew her father. Thomas Boleyn was an ambitious man with a heart of ice. The lady herself was different, but he knew that she would prove troublesome for him sooner or later. For now, she was a matter of indifference to him even though he knew there was reason to dislike her.
Heavens, Mary could have given him one thousand reasons to hate Anne Boleyn! She had never hid the fact that she considered her brother's sweetheart unfit to be queen, stating that her low birth and dubious reputation were mocking the very idea of queenship. Of course she had conveniently neglected the fact that her own husband had been born as humbly as Anne. Mary had always been gifted with seeing things only the way she liked them to be, and Charles had never fully understood her opinions and motives. Now, he could only be sure of two things: First, that Mary had despised her new sister-in-law fully and wholeheartedly. Second, that it didn't matter anymore. Mary was dead.
Last year's June had taken her away like a strong wind blows away falling leaves. Their marriage had been a troublesome one, filled with both love and hatred at the same time, but now that she was dead and gone, Charles couldn't believe it. Was that really Mary Tudor, Queen of France, buried at the abbey of Bury St Edmunds?
He wished she was with him still. He wished that she was alive, not to see her rival the Queen fail in giving the King the son he had hoped for, but to help him now, in his hour of need. Charles was a women's man, growing up first with his mother and then surrounded by all the governesses and ladies at court caring for young Prince Henry. They had both loved women from their earliest childhood on, and even thought Charles wouldn't even confess it to himself, they had both relied heavily on their ladies. With Catherine of Aragon, his best friend had once possessed a wife that was both clever and dutiful. Charles, on the other hand, had not been so lucky. His first marriage to widow Margaret Mortimer had been annulled after only one year, and the second one to Margaret's niece Anne Browne had not lasted much longer despite producing two daughters. He had then vowed to marry Elizabeth Grey, but that was before Mary.
Ah, Mary. He had defied his best friend to marry her, but had it been worth it? They had quarrelled from the earliest days of their marriage onward. He had betrayed her, slept with other women, many of them. It had not been the fairy tale they had once imagined. Still, he could not deny that Mary had been a fierce woman capable of giving him counsel. He may have hated her at times, but he had always relied on her.
Now she was gone and he was alone, watching as the life of his only son was slowly fading away. He had tried everything. He had sent for physicians, good physicians, to come and look at the boy, and when they had failed, he had even urged the King to send his royal physician. The wish had been granted, but to no good. Three hours ago, Dr Linacre had told him that there was little to no hope left, and even if the boy made it through the night, calling in a priest for the last rites was a necessary and advisable precaution. Henry Brandon's days were numbered.
By God, he hated Februarys. They were cold and grey and miserable and always made him feel older than he was. His bones were aching and his flesh felt weak. Not even a warm, cozy fire was able to scare off the ghosts of the past that came to haunt him during February nights, and there were many of them. Apart from failing health and being treated as a senile old buffer, this was one of the main disadvantages of being an old man: He had seen too much. He had known so many people, almost all of which were long dead and forgotten by now, and not all of them had lived as happily as he had wished they would. It was the bitterest lesson he had ever learned: That people didn't always get what they wanted and even rarer got what they deserved.
There was no denying it; he needed only to think of Arthur to know it was true. Ah, what a golden boy Arthur had been! Kind and curious and noble by nature, a true prince so unlike his grim father. How high the old man's hopes had been! He had dared to dream of a perfect rule, of a golden age for England. But then, slowly, everything had gone awry. Arthur had lost his health, his sanity, and even his beautiful wife. Everything had been gone in a second. His old mentor had not been able to do anything about it.
"Are you fretting over bygones again?" A raspy voice asked him.
"No," he hurried to say. "Not entirely. Not all the time. Perhaps now. Yes, perhaps. I was just thinking that I regretted Cardinal Wolsey's death."
"Yea, such a shame, he was a good-looking man." His friend giggled.
The old man sniffed at his words. "That is completely beside the point and you know it."
"Oh, let the little one talk," a third, female voice interrupted them. "I hope I am not too late for supper?"
"On the contrary, Madam, you are just on time, as always. Please, have a seat." He clicked his fingers twice, causing one of the chairs to hop backwards and wait for her to sit down. Then he clicked his fingers again. "I hope you fancy a good crispy roast?"
"Is it owl roast? Nah, I'm just kidding. I'll take anything your kitchen has to offer," she returned laughing.
He nodded and clapped his hand. A door swung open, allowing some dinner trays to soar into the dining room before smoothly landing on the table. The sound of wings hovered above it as his old friend flapped away from his chair and landed on his shoulder.
"Did you hear that? Owl roast, she says." His voice sounded choked. He fluffed up his feathers nervously.
"I am sure she didn't mean it, Archimedes. We're friends," the old man tried to soothe the bird.
"She's still an evil old hag," Archimedes hissed.
Driving her fork into the roast, the 'evil old hag' smiled and asked: "So, how are things going in the capital? Judging by your weary face and the fact that the King still does not have a son, I would say they are going not so well, but you may always correct me if I'm wrong."
"I am afraid you are right, Madam. Things didn't go as expected when the King's child with Queen Anne turned out to be a girl."
"I suppose you've fallen from grace then, considering the fact that you were amongst those who prophesied the King the birth of a son," she said smacking her lips.
His face turned red. "I never said anything of the sort! My prophecies are completely accurate; but the people only hear what they wish to hear!"
She smiled. "So, just to satisfy my curiosity: What exactly did you tell them?"
"The truth," he said and seemed to be piqued. "I told them the Queen was carrying an enormously talented babe that would change England's future for the better. I told the King that it was the heir he deserved, in fact, that it was the best heir anyone could ask for."
"And now it's a girl!" She laughed maniacally. "Oh, what pristine humour that is! Tell me, how did the King take it that his perfect heir has no willie?"
"Mim, I beg you not to speak like this, this is a very serious situation!" He said gravely. "Yes, he was disappointed about the Princess's sex, so was I, but I did not lie! What does he expect of me, that I can see unborn children's sex? No, we're centuries away from that. I told him what I saw and what I saw was true."
"But how can she ever be Queen?" Archimedes rasped. "England has never had a Queen Regent."
"The poultry is right, Merlin," Madam Mim agreed grinning. "What does your gift of prophecy tell you about that, huh? If she is to reign in her own right, it means that either she will never have a brother or that he must die young."
Archimedes nodded, patiently ignoring her side blow. "And if the Queen doesn't have a son in time… God help her."
"I know, I know!"
The old man sighed and buried his face in his palms. As if he didn't know what could happen to the Queen and to England. Who better to know than him? He had watched centuries of English kings, watched their schemes and intrigues and moral failures. There had been some promising ones, young and virtuous and shining, but they had all fallen, eventually. The old man, known these days as Master John Neill, but still called Merlin by his eldest friends, was cursed. Whenever he picked a young prince hoping that he could bring about the golden age, doom was hard on their heels.
Henry I had been so very promising, a scholar and king at the same time, but what had happened? His only son had died in a shipwreck and his following attempt to name his daughter Matilda his heir had led to civil war. Merlin had stood by watching sadly as the English once again mauled each other for no good reason.
Henry II, Matilda's son, had been a fine warrior with a sharp mind, causing Merlin to try again with him. How miserably he had failed! First the disastrous falling out of the King with his one-time best friend, archbishop Thomas Beckett, then the drama surrounding his sons ultimately leading to the crown being placed on the head of one of the worst creatures ever to grace the earth: John Lackland.
But he had tried again, centuries later, when young Henry V had entered the stage. The King had not been a learned man like his ancestor Henry I, but Merlin had sensed that he was destined for greatness. How joyful things had been when his prophecies had come true in October 1415! Oh Agincourt, the greatest victory ever to be won by an English king! But the joy had not lasted for long. England's new hero king had died aged only 36, leaving the throne to an infant son and thus setting the founding stone to the wars of the roses.
Merlin's hopes had been high again for the eighth Henry, a humanist young prince educated by the brightest minds in the kingdom. The boy had even declared his wish to have a Round Table just like Arthur! But Merlin had known better than to interfere this time, and as things were turning out now, his reluctance had been wise. King Henry VIII was showing more despotic and maniac traits by the day. In a way, it forced Merlin to smile. This promising king was about to ruin himself without the old man's doing. But with his infant daughter, things were different. Merlin simply knew how grand her future would be. He couldn't stand by idly, not this time.
"What are you going to do about it?" Mim interrupted his thoughts.
"What can I do about?" He returned the question. "Must I do something about it? I may have misinterpreted the sex, but I know for sure that the young Princess Elizabeth is destined for greatness. She will be Queen one day and I can only hope that she, unlike her ancestors, uses this chance to bring about a golden age."
Mim downed her cup. "What is it with you and this golden age, anyway? So the girl will be queen, yes, perhaps even a good queen, if you say so. But she can only be queen on the cost of her brother's life, or her mother's. Until she ascends to the throne, she will be in constant danger, and I wager that she'll be lonely for all her life. A toast to that?"
Merlin wanted to respond to it, to cut her down to size, but sadly her words made sense to him. He had seen Elizabeth as queen, but he had not seen how she would feel about it. If Mim's words came true, then Merlin would have to pay a high price for his golden age. What good was there in a perfect kingdom when it came at the cost of its queen's happiness? He had sacrificed so much without ever succeeding. Could he sacrifice the heart of a girl on the altar of his ambitions?
"That's not a promising prospect, the old hag is right," Archimedes blurted out.
"I know, old friend, I know," Merlin sighed. "And if I could do anything about it, I would try to alter the Princess's fate. But we must face the truth: Whenever I try to interfere with history, things only get worse."
"Such wise words from you, old man? I must confess I had never expected to hear you accept your own failures," Mim said astonished. "Or is it just your way of moaning? You think you can neglect your duty towards this realm by sitting in a corner and crying over your wrongs?"
"No, but I can't, I mean, if I did, it would be clearly, no, really, if I interfered, everything would go wrong," Merlin began to stutter.
"That's no excuse." Mim put down her fork and cleaned her mouth using the tablecloth. "If you can't interfere personally, then you must find other means. You must find someone who can make sure that the Princess is never abandoned and never alone, no matter what the future holds. You must find someone who is willing and able to be her champion."
Merlin scratched his head. "It sounds logical. But who? Those who support the Queen and her daughter would no longer be able to do anything if the Queen should fall, and those who would survive her fall are unlikely to support her daughter. They would side with the Lady Mary instead, given that her mother had many friends."
"Maybe someone who doesn't remember Catherine of Aragon as queen?" Archimedes suggested.
"And who should that be, stupid owl? An amnesiac?" Merlin hissed back at him.
The owl fluffed his feathers angrily and pushed his head forward. "No, someone who's too young to remember her now, but who might be old enough when Elizabeth needs a champion- stupid wizard!"
"Delicious," Mim remarked laughing. "But the poultry has a point. Such a person could perhaps do what we need and protect your precious princess from any harm."
"I don't think there's anyone who is both young and powerful," Merlin sniffed.
"On the contrary, my dear old friend, I know just the man," Mim replied smiling. "He's perfectly suited for our task with perhaps one little difficulty."
Merlin raised an eyebrow. "And the difficulty being…"
"He's currently dying."
Agitated, Merlin rose from his chair and tore his hair. "What are you saying, Mim? How can he be perfect for us if he's almost dead?"
"Well, because the term 'almost' means there is something that can still be altered. Not by a doctor of course; these modern quacks wouldn't recognise an illness if it jumped out of their patient and leapt in their face," she said, causing herself to laugh maniacally. "But he's not too sick for a habile witch to cure him, if you know what I mean."
"And you would do that?" Merlin asked unbelieving. They may have been on peaceful terms for centuries now, but being friendly and helpful didn't exactly sound like her.
"Yes."
"And you can guarantee that he is the person we need?"
"Yes."
Merlin scratched his head. "Why would you do it?"
"Of course I would not do it for free," Mim admitted smiling. "There is a favour I would ask in return, but before you question me: I cannot put it into words today, yet I will come back to it in the future."
"A favour? From me?"
"Indirectly."
"What does that mean, indirectly? Listen, Madam, I am willing to do many things to prevent the Princess's sadness, but if this is one of your mad games, I will simply…"
Mim laughed and waved his words aside. "This is no game, old man, nor is it madness. I am not asking anything unreasonable, just a fair price for the effort I will put in saving your precious princess. You could hardly call this madness, could you?"
"What's the price?" Archimedes crowed.
"Silence, poultry, grown-ups are speaking," Mim hissed at him. "So, Merlin, do you want my help or not?"
He hesitated. Knowing her as well as he did, he feared the favour she would ask in time. She had her very own agenda that he had never fully seen through no matter how hard he had tried (and he had tried for centuries!), making it very likely that the price she sought was either illegal or dangerous or bluntly mean. But what choice did he have? If he interfered himself, all would go down again as it always did, yet if he did not interfere, he would sacrifice a person's happiness for his own goals. Neither option seemed acceptable.
"Fine," he said sighing and offered her his hand. "We'll do it your way."
"I'm glad that you should see reason, old man," Mim returned. She took his hand, shook it firmly, and then rose from her chair. "Thanks for the roast; it was delicious, as was your company. Always delighted to be making business with you, Merlin- you're one of the last people to really appreciate a witch's work."
"How will I know you've done what you've promised?" Merlin asked.
"Oh Merlin, do you still distrust me after all these centuries?" Mim asked laughing. "I'll send word when the deed is done. Perhaps we can meet again when things begin to accelerate. I'd sure like another roast one day." She grabbed her broomstick smiling. "Good night, old wizard," she said, and after a second she nodded towards Archimedes as well. "Poultry."
"Hag," the owl returned.
Mim took a seat on her broom, causing it to hover above the floor. She slowly ascended to a certain point before rushing out the window in a flash of laughter.
"Do you think we can trust her?" Archimedes asked fearfully.
"I don't think it is wise to ever trust a woman, old friend, especially not if she's a witch. But sometimes, I guess, there's no way around it."
A knock on the door startled Charles. He flinched, almost dropping the goblet in his hand. Who could this be, at this hour of the night? Surely his ears had been tricking him. He put his hands up against the fire to warm himself and pushed aside any other thoughts.
Knock. Knock.
He looked to the door. So it hadn't been a trick of his mind; there really was someone outside trying to be allowed in. But who?
"Gregory?" He called for his groom, but there was no response.
Knock. Knock.
Angrily the Duke rose from his chair, put aside the goblet and left the room. What did he pay his servants for if no one answered either the door or his calls? Surely he had better things to care for right now!
Knock. Knock.
Charles rushed down the stairs and towards the entrance portal. He pulled it open only to have a blow of freezing cold air pushing into his face. He gasped. There were some people he would have expected to be standing outside the door, a messenger from the King perhaps, but not this. The creature in front of him was an elderly woman, poorly dressed, her nose half-frozen, carrying a basket in her arm.
"Who are you?" He asked surprised. "What do you want?"
"Sorry to disturb Your Grace at this time of the night. I come to help," the crone replied.
Charles frowned. "Well, whatever your services may be, there are certainly not required here. Off with you!"
He tried to close the door, but the meddlesome hag pushed it back and urged him with her voice saying: "But I come for the young Lord, Your Grace. I can offer him healing!"
For a second, the prospect seemed tempting. Was there salvation? But then Charles remembered what his deceased wife would have said about it- quacks were not to be trusted. "The best doctors in this land have examined him and found no cure. There's nothing left to do," he told her.
"For them. But I can help him, Your Grace. You must know I am a wise woman who sees and senses things. Fortune has led me to your door to heal your son."
His hand firmly attached to the doorknob, Charles hesitated. Mary's voice was still in the back of his head, but so were the old woman's words. Could she be true? Could she help Henry to survive? Was this some sort of witchcraft or sorcery or trade with the devil? Charles sighed. If he was frank to himself, he didn't care anymore. So much had gone awry for him this last year. If there was any chance of saving his boy, he would not let it go. Mary would have sent the crone away, but Mary was no longer here to guide him.
Charles opened the door to let the woman in. She nodded gratefully and pushed herself into the warmth of his house. He led her to his son's chamber without further words, but refused to enter. The sight of his feverishly shivering boy was too disturbing. If Henry had to go, he didn't want to keep this picture of him as his last memory. The crone entered alone. When the door closed, Charles wondered if had been wise to let her go on her own. What if she had malicious intents? But no, even if she was here to kill his son, what real harm would be done? He was soon to die anyway. There was nothing left to lose.
After only a few moments, the door was opened again, allowing the crone to push out her head. She grinned toothlessly. "As I thought, Your Grace, I can save him, if you wish."
"Of course I wish it!" Charles exclaimed angrily. Slowly calming down again, another thought crossed his mind. "What is your price, old lady? What do you ask in return?"
She laughed and mumbled something under her breath that he didn't fully grasp. To him, it sounded like "Why does everyone keep asking me that?", but he couldn't know for sure.
"No worldly possession, if that is what Your Grace means. I am a messenger of fortune, of the fates, and I would only ask one thing in return," she said in a mysterious voice. "One day, not very far from now, a child will lose its mother just as you are about to lose your son now. I can prevent him from dying, but I cannot prevent this child's loss. If you wish me to save your son, you must promise to take in that motherless child when the time comes and see to it that it never lacks anything- neither food nor education nor love."
It took him a moment to process her words. "That is it?" He asked frowning. "You wish me to take in an orphan?"
"I don't wish anything. It's the fates that ask this payment from you."
"Alright then, but how am I supposed to know which orphan you mean?"
The hag winked at him. "You will know when the time comes, Your Grace. But you must promise now, and you must stick to that promise or else your son's life will be forfeited."
This time, Charles didn't hesitate. "I do so promise. What harm is there in it? An orphaned child gets a home and my son gets to live."
"So be it, then," the old woman said. "You can go to rest now. I will take good care of your son, I swear, and by the morning he will be on his way to recovery. You will not have cause to regret this."
He watched the door closing behind the strange crone again, wondering once more if it had been a wise decision. What would be happening in there? He didn't believe in the supernatural, knowing that quacks only liked to sound mysterious but were in truth no different from any other man. But what if that woman was a witch? What if she was what she said she was- an emissary of fate? Was she an angel perhaps? Charles shook his head, thereby shaking of the thoughts. There was no answer to his questions, at least not tonight. He would do as she had said and decide everything else in the morning.
To His Royal Majesty, Henry VIII, King of England, Ireland and France
By his most loyal subject, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.
Your Majesty, it is with the greatest pleasure that I am writing these lines in order to inform you that your nephew Henry has been spared by our almighty God. As you are well aware, the boy has been sick with fever for weeks now, and even Your Majesty's physician had despaired of any hope. This morning, however, the servants have awakened me to come and see the child, and behold: His cheeks were rosy once more and his mind clear as the blue sky. He is still weak and drowsy, but the doctors say that the peak of sickness lies behind him. They have no explanation for his survival, but I do: It is a miracle, nothing short of a miracle.
Written in the hope that these news bring joy and comfort to a worried uncle,
Charles stopped before signing the letter. He meant every word, but what he had written wasn't the entire truth. There was some small piece of the story that he had left out. Was it acceptable to hide it from the King? But if he chose to include it, what exactly could he write?
After his initial joy and relief at seeing his recovering son, Charles had soon remembered the mysterious visitor. He had asked his servants when the crone had left, but none of them knew anything about her. They had not seen her with Henry, they had not seen her leaving, and heavens, they claimed not to have heard any knocks during the previous night! It was as if she had never existed. Charles was questioning his sanity. Had it been a dream? It could not have been just a dream; there had to be more about it. He couldn't have foreseen his son's recovery, not after all those bad news from the physicians. What if she had been an angel indeed, sent by God to save his son? Then the promise he had given her was indeed a promise to God and he had better remember it when the time came.
Charles couldn't know for sure which of the possibilities was true, but he knew one thing: there was a chance that his promise to the crone had been more than a dream, no matter who she was or who had sent her. If that was the case, he had to keep his promise or otherwise he would lose his son again. And there could be worse, couldn't it? All God had asked of him was to care for a poor orphaned child in the near future. It was a noble task and a small price for the life of his precious boy. No one else need ever know.
Charles signed the letter and gave it to his servants.
"There's a letter for you."
"I cannot hear you."
Archimedes snuffled angrily and dropped the letter onto the table. "I said: There's a letter for you!" He waited for an answer, but there was only silence, followed by a loud noise.
BANG!
Smoke was leaking from underneath the kitchen door. When it was pushed open, a slightly deranged Merlin emerged from it. His beard was singed, his face was covered in coomb, and he was coughing heavily.
"Must you always do that in the kitchen?" Archimedes asked rolling his eyes.
Merlin patted off the dirt from his clothes. "Where do you want me to do it instead, the living room?" He didn't even wait for an answer but instead turned to the letter. "Ah, a letter. Who is it from?"
Archimedes coughed, too. "There's no sender on it, but I could make an educated guess…"
"And I would suppose you're right, old friend. Let's see what the lady has to say."
Merlin carefully opened the letter only to realise that it was just a small piece of parchment. He had expected a lengthy letter, but instead he found only two words written in spidery handwriting.
Mission Accomplished.
AN: Hope you've enjoyed the prologue of this little story. As you may have guessed, it's based on history rather than on the show, so Brandon's wife was actually Mary Tudor, the King's younger sister. In history, their only son Henry died in March 1st, 1534, but here, things go a different way. Hope you stay tuned for it! And don't worry, there'll be an update to my other story soon, I just wanted to get this off my table as it popped up inside my mind. Please feel free to review!
Just a short note for those who are confused: Merlin, Archimedes and Madam Mim are all characters from The Sword in the Stone, a Disney classic. Merlin, however, is of course a figure of old English legends, but I based my depiction of him mainly on the Disney movie. But if any of you understand the Wolsey joke in the beginning, they'll get a cookie!