The Terror Begins

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen disappeared. I wipe back my tears and think with relief that years from now, villagers may gossip and be in awe about that remarkable event, in which even hardened hearts witnessed the hand of the almighty. But who could foresee that I, the young Sir William, the only son of her majesty, Queen Anne Phillips of the kingdom of Coventry, are but hours away from being tossed into a solitary, dirty cell by his mother’s new lover and confidante, the Earl of Canterbury, Thomas Grey, to be cured of madness I do not have? So, as I look outside my window in my chambers where I am held under house arrest, I take out my pen and paper and write to my friend, who happens to be a barrister.

Letter to Philip Blackwood, Esq. Blackwood & Associates, Barristers-at-Law 7697 Imperial St, Gloucester, Gloucestershire

March 30, 1489

My dearest Philip, my trusted friend and advisor:

Great misfortune has come before me! All I ask is that you hear my entire story so that you may take action to right the wrong I honestly face and stop a grave injustice that befalls me. So if I shall be hidden away and not seen again, please appeal to the highest Justices –and free me! I write to you to plead to make good sense with my mother, the Queen, who needs to believe the Great Event that put faith in my heart to withstand the evil forces that had nearly felled our KIngdom. But darkness may still prevail, and prison may be my fortune…But let me start from the beginning when all this mayhem began.

2 March 1489 –9 am. My mother had expected me to be gone for a few days. I was scheduled to see my Uncle John in his Warwick House, near the mighty Thames River, where I visited and supped on a plate of stewed venison and sipped from a glass of sherry infused with the delicate smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. My uncle, the Duke of Essex, knits his brow when he brings up war. Even as a young child, I have heard of such things talked about after dinners, and I had never grown accustomed to such talk —my heart shakes because war reminds me of when my generation’s forefathers fought against strange forces of men who ravaged their homes, and took their women as slaves or captives. I shudder and glance at my cousin, Lady Sarah, who embraces me, wearing a fetching red gown cinched in the middle to show off her most attractive waist.

“I am free to marry, “ Lady Sarah whispers before I sit down with my Uncle.

“I have had enough with Tom,” she reveals, knowing full well that I am aware of the young Thomas Lancaster, who had just finished first class as a student of Oxford University in law but now spends his free time enjoying the company of many tavern ladies. I smile gladly and hold her delicate, pale hand under the dining table, careful not to be caught by her uncle, who suspects nothing of my love. I had desired her since I was a young boy.

My mother brought me to see her often to play and tumble in the sweet-smelling rose and aromatic lavender gardens of my Uncle’s estate, where we enjoyed the simple joys of youth—she hit me gently with her wooden sword, and I played dead; I mischievously hid her favourite doll. We listened with fascination to the quaint love tunes from the music box I had given her for her 10th birthday.

But I grew to love her since she saw me for who I was –a shy, unconfident boy who stammered sometimes. She had defended me from the other school boys who had made fun of my childhood tendency to stutter under stress. I loved her then, as I do now –even more so because I know she is now free. Some say I should not desire her for a life companion because she is my cousin, but I say, “Poppycock!” Sarah was an orphan when my uncle adopted her and found her crying, bundled in rags on the church steps. It had been raining hard, and almost the whole street and steps were flooded until my Uncle picked her up and hid her in his overcoat. My Aunt Louisa could bear no child, so my Uncle was glad to raise sweet Sarah. As she grew, she developed a voice as lyrical as the nightingales which lived in the great oat tree outside her estate. I remember hearing her sing for the first time, and she played the piano splendidly. Her singing echoes in my heart now:

Oh, how I love the nightingales,

so beautiful and charming;

I love seeing the birds and the bees

Happy to be young and carefree;

Oh, would it be so,

To live in peace,

And worry no more.

My uncle says he has much business to share with me. He takes me to the library to discuss what might befall my mother’s Kingdom of Coventry. He gives me a glass of whisky and talks in a low voice because he does not wish to frighten his wife and his daughter.

He tells me they are leaving immediately!

He decided it was best to abandon the estate because villages were on fire and set ablaze.

Yes, he tells me about the Wopzingers!

He says quietly, “I am sure you are fully aware of these murderous peoples, who emerged two centuries prior, no doubt the progeny of the murderous Atila the Hun, wreaking havoc on the Kingdoms of China, Germany and now here. Yes, they will be in London in a day, so you know how accurate these stories are.”

He encourages me to hurry home and tell my mother that such wickedness is afoot. I tried to bid farewell to my love, Sarah, but my uncle had already sent her away with her mother in a carriage to France, where their friends, the Duke and Duchess of Calais, offered them a place to sleep and eat until this whole nightmare passed. I watch them go –fighting back tears.

March 2, 1489, 2 p.m. The coach carries me to Coventry. I plan to make speed and get there in time for the 5 p.m. supper, but the path is strewn with rocks and pebbles. Many people and animals are blocking the way, as if a great calamity had beset the village.

I asked a man running ahead of our carriage what was happening. His eyes were wide, and his voice shook. “Sir, please. Can you give me a lift? They are coming!! I told the driver to pull them in. His wife and his two small children carried their belongings and fell in a heap in my carriage. And wait!

The bridge above has collapsed. It could not support the weight of the people herding their oxen, sheep, and carts filled with food and belongings. I tell the driver to cut through the meadow full of tender, short grasses, for here, the land is flat, and we can make it past the beleaguered land. I look behind me and see some townsfolk crying and trapped in the water.

Men, women and horses are stopped because the injured are laid out on the grass and are tended to. Now, the rain is heavily upon us, and gradually, we leave dismal London behind.

I turn and face the glass-eyed, dirty-faced man in my carriage. He tells me his name is John Smith, and he left his workshop in Stepney because his brother from neighbouring Hackney rode to him, taking a day and then some, telling me that the fearsome Wopzingers are attacking and claiming the village as their own, and taking no prisoners.

My heart beats fast, and I give a deep sigh –the shortcut leads us to another village, Chelsea, where everything is as it should be – the people I met tip off their hats in greeting as we pass, and I hold back from telling them of the beastly Wopzingers–lest the tales that I will tell force them to abandon their cheerful moods.

March 3, 1489, 12 pm. The driver tells me he cannot see much ahead; a grey mist fills the landscape –even the distant mountains and hills are invisible to the naked eye. He cannot go fast, lest the whole carriage falls to the wayside. The horses trot at a measured pace, and then, as we round a curve in the road, I see townsfolk heading to the quaint parish church in the village of Sheffield. John asks to be let out with his family because he knows the owner of an inn there. He feels there is little time left when the enemy comes. We have driven hard and long, and the driver begs to stop for a while to rest the horses. I agree, and we head to the Boar’s Head Tavern, famous for its singing proprietress and boar pot pie. I drag my weary body to a seat and ask the excellent lady of the tavern to give us food. She is Margaret O’Brien, an Irish red-haired tavern owner, who sings an Irish song and is in good spirits. I don’t want to dampen her mood, so I don’t mention anything but the weather. “It’s bitter, and the cold makes my body shiver. The fog is bad, “ I say, throwing back a mug full of beer.

“Let us pray to the Lord that the fog will stop, “Margaret says. “Eat up and be merry because life is meant to be happy.” Oh, could it be to be so? I am so beside myself, thinking about the poor Queen. And what would become of my beloved Sarah? I will head to France and claim her as my bride when this is done! This is what I thought, my dearest lawyer friend, when I sat with the driver at the tavern. My driver would not stop shaking, and I feared he would be unable to take us to Coventry. “What is the matter with you?” I demand. He replies weakly, “My heart. I am nearly 70. I am not used to riding all night and all day. I need to sleep.” He had drunk two mugs of ale, as well as ate a plateful of boar pie, and promptly fell under the table in a stupor!

My mind is cloudy, and finally, when my senses come to me, I tell the good lady of the tavern why I am in such a hurry to go home. She drops her singing, and she wipes away some tears. “Aye,” she says, “It is all coming true, then. I dreamt last night of a fearsome army of people dressed all in blue-black riding red dragons, purple eagles and black giant ants with metal tusks. They had a meanness in their faces, and the big one, I believe, the King, had a sneer on his face that frightened even his men.” I put down some gold coins as payment before saying, “I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. You and your family must flee, too. Leave this place before the enemy comes to destroy your family and your home,” I confess. But Margaret grabs my hand and looks into my eyes, stating, “ I have faith that God will come and protect us! Do you not know that we all have the power within us to ask for help? Pray, good Sir, and you will be saved!” I tell her the truth: my mother hadn’t prayed for the last 10 months ever since Father died of wounds that never healed from a previous battle. It would be no use telling the Queen to pray. I bid her farewell and persuaded my driver to get up from the floor. I promised her I would pray powerfully as she had recommended. She looked at me with tears, “Please take me too!!” I hadn’t imagined taking other passengers, but she insisted, saying, “Aye, good Sir, please help me. I haven’t family here because I am Irish, and we fled my country due to famine. I will repay you dearly. “She grabs a bagful of coins from underneath a shelf.

My heart grows warm. “Yes, of course, I do not need the money. Keep it yourself and feed yourself and the poor as you see fit. Hurry, we must go now!”

Margaret laughs and kisses my hand. “Thank you, good Sir. I will repay you so much.” But she stops talking to pull a wriggling body from under the counter. The child, who looks close to eight years old, strokes a crow that begins chirping loudly.

“Please, sir, I cannot leave my husband and this child. Please take us, too,” she pleads.

I look around and see only her, the child and the bird.

“Aye, sir, I joke that this crow is my husband, but this is no fairy tale. I raised him as a small bird when he fell from a tree. Many times when I am alone, this bird has raised my spirits. He is much like a husband –even more so because he does not smell or burp so much like my late husband. This child, sir, is none of mine. The kid is an orphan because the dad was killed by a punch to the head by a drunk patron in my tavern. I feel responsible, so now I must be the caregiver. Please, sir, take us!”

I say nothing first; when I nod slowly to give her permission to come, the group clamours noisily onto the carriage.

“Boy, what is your name?” I ask as my newest companions sit next to me on the carriage, which rocks back and forth due to the wheels scraping against pockets of dirt and muck mixed with sharp stones and rocks.

The waif looks up at me with defiance.

“Lancelot, “ the child declares, “defender of truth and justice.” I laugh out loud, remembering my mother's stories about the Arthurian legends read to me as a young child. Margaret looks at me and takes off the child’s hat. “He is a she. Her name is Mary, and her dead father raised her to be strong. Please do not mind her. She wants to be a boy.”

I smiled at Mary, who grabbed her shoulder-length brown hair and tucked it back up her cap. “Who am I to say if she claims to be Lancelot?” I think. Then I almost cry out in surprise when I look behind me, and my body tremors as my eyes see a plume of hellish red smoke and fire spiral up to great heights from the banks and the city of London. Had the Wopzingers arrived already?

End of Chapter 1