

For King and Country

(By Oliver Ma)

To my parents, who helped me walk the first steps of creative writing, and to Dr.Robert Bowman, who gave me endless suggestions and inspirations, and proof read my work without pay, simply because of the goodness in his heart.

Table of Contents:

Part 1:

Chapter 1: A surprise Trip

Chapter 2: Roche Castle

Chapter 3: The Earl

Chapter 4: The riot

Chapter 5: The Calm before the Storm

Chapter 6: Bishop's War

Part 2;

Chapter 1: Parliament's betrayal

Chapter 2: Prince Rupert

Chapter 3: Edgehill
Chapter 4: The War proper
Chapter 5: The War lost

Part 3:

Chapter 1: King in Exile

Chapter 2: The Hague

Chapter 3: Rebellion in Scotland

Chapter 4: The Grand Escape

Chapter 5: The Throne

Prologue

I sat on the furnished throne that my father sat on for the last time almost 20 years ago, my hands grasping the same golden hand rests that my father grasped in frustration many times during his reign. The warm knobs connected me back to my father, who was executed 11 years ago. I held on tightly, not letting go, letting memories of my father flood my head. How close I had come to never being able to sit on this throne! The years in exile that I endured had been painful and harsh, yet I cannot help but look back at the period of anarchy in England with a certain fondness.

A petty merchant bowed in front of me, stuttering while he begged for the royal pardon. I stared at his drooping grey robes, his shivering, rotund form, smiling as I moved my finger back and forth across my face. A movement in one direction or the other spells the fate of all England. These rough, callused fingers, though originally meant for the throne, are used to hard work; they now command almost as much power as my father once commanded......almost.......for I kept Parliament.

Everyone that sided with the king during the great conflict, those that had a direct hand in my restoration, urged me to do away with the hated house that signed the death warrant of my father. They do not understand, of course, that I no longer hate parliament. Rather, looking at my road to the throne, my transformation from a young lazy fool of a prince to the quick, energetic and able King that I am now, I have learned to love my enemies. I kept parliament, I allowed many of its chief members to live, even those that spoke against, and acted against my dear father. Many that should now be feeding the fires of Satan are instead simply exiled, or fined a certain sum of money. I do not hate the Parliament. Without them would I be the powerful, able king I am now? Or would I be another ignorant and incapable Stuart King? Someone easily tricked by flattery, incapable of making solid, strong decisions? The fires of pain, bitterness and lust for vengeance have melted the soft, weak iron core that was inside me into hard, unyielding steel. Had the civil war not happened, I would probably be married to a spoiled maiden of my father's choosing, basking in the ooze of my own spoiled aura. The civil war had strengthened the royal house, not weakened it.

And yet, proud and high that I sit now, I must remember what was my father's undoing, what caused him to fail, and be careful not to follow the same path he took. I remembered all the way back to the first days of the conflict...late 1638, when I was 9.

Chapter.1; A surprise Trip

I was in the second floor of St. James palace, the Yellow Room, taking geometry under a certain Sir William Hobbes. The room seemed much smaller back then, warm, cozy, bright. Mr. Hobbes would always sit away from the door near the board, and the three of us, Thumbs, my sister Mary and I, would sit on the little benches, ones that were colored a different, bright color each week.

"Thumbs!" I screamed, startling Mr. Hobbes and interrupting him in the middle of a sentence regarding different useless geometric postulates. "Thumbs! Stop doing that!"

"Charles! I am in the middle of____" Mr. Hobbes retorted with some frustration but no anger in his voice.

"Thumb's acting like the devil again!" I complained, pointing at Thumbs.

"Charles! We do not use that word in class! Your mother would not approve!"

"Devil!" Thumbs yelled as he put that offensive little thing away. Next to us my sister Mary put down her head. "Here we go again."

Thumbs was the son of George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, a favorite of my father the King and the royal court's most able advisor. Thumb's real name is also George, but I call him Thumbs because he was a year older than me when we met and still sucking his thumb. He is short boy, around my height, jolly and round with grey brown hair, a cute pug nose and a plump face.

"You two! Do you think either of your parents would be proud of you if I told them what you do every day in my class? You two need to learn!"

"Pssh....why do I need to learn? I will one day become the King of England! I will have hundreds of servants to wait on me and do my daily biddings. I will need to learn to do nothing but enjoy!" I smiled.

"Yes, Charles, you will grow to be the King of the Isles, and you, Thumbs, you will be his great advisor......great men such as your fathers did not come from boys wasting away their learning years, but by dedication and hard work! If you two continue like this, you will grow up into despicable beings, ruined peasants if you don't change. Now hurry up and get back to the lesson. Your fathers would probably have Master Verney whip you if I tell them how you behave in my class!"

"Oh....you won't do that!" We giggled. Mr. William Hobbes was, although sometimes a boring, weird character, someone who we generally consider to be our friend and who we trust will not purposely try to make trouble for us.

Suddenly, from behind us, the door to the classroom creaked open. I thought it was a servant or some otherwise unimportant character, but I noticed Mr. Hobbes, who was facing the door, open his eyes in surprise and then quickly bowing.

Thumbs, Mary and I snapped around in our chairs. "Hello Sir Hobbes," She said, her familiar voice sinking into my years. There, standing tall and elegant in her royal Robes was my mother, Henrietta Maria of France.

"Charles? Mary? Come here." She said, beckoning to us. "Thumbs...go find your father. I am sorry Mr. Hobbes, but the King requires their presence."

Mr. Hobbes reddened. "Ah.....it's all right your Majesty...I will.....resume my classes with them on the morrow." He gathered his books and quickly exited the room.

I noticed my other siblings were gathered behind mother's laced satin apron. There was my brother James, the Duke of York, 8, who we all think is my father's favorite. Next was my sister Mary, 7, who followed Thumbs and I out of the room. Then there was my sister Elizabeth, who despite being only 3, already has the beautiful, dignified manners of a Princess. Huddled with them was the Court Dwarf, Hudson, who stood less than 3 feet tall. Finally, with both hands tight around her, mother held my baby sister Ann, who had just turned one.

"Your father has just gotten back from Newcastle today, and he wishes to see you all. The past few days had not gone so smoothly and I need all of you to be cheerful around him." Mother said rather emotionless. From her tone I can tell that they have quarreled already. She turned around from where she stood, a swirl of satin dress and grace, and walked towards the center of the palace, beckoning us to follow.

It was morning, about an hour before lunch. The last few weeks had been chaotic as father had been off somewhere else with his ministers. All over the palace there had been mutters about the Scots and their constant how angry they are with father's Book of Common Prayer. I don't see how the innocent little Prayer book that sits on my shelf could cause so much harm or make the Scots so unhappy. Can't they see how they are ruining the atmosphere of the palace? Why can't they just accept my father's plans for them and strive toward the unity and tolerance in England my father so desires?

The palace of St. James was divided into two main parts: the outer section, which consists of a courtyard and a garden, and the inner section, which is a large hall that serves as the home to the Royal Family. The hall is extremely decorate and ornate, with multifarious rooms ranging from libraries to astronomical observatories. It also serves as the home of father's court, where the King meets with all his important ministers. As we walked through the palace, oblivious to the white marble floor, the gold encrusted columns and the giant, glazed windows, (which simply fitted in as part of our environment) servants scurried about, bowing to as they went. Gentlemen that we met on our way tipped their small black hats in our direction as did the pike armed soldiers with their big, plumed hats. Again I wondered why father needed to keep soldiers inside the Royal Palace. After all as Homer once said, only a tyrant needs to be afraid of his subjects. My father is certainly not a tyrant, he is God's chosen and beloved by the people of England. Why would anyone want to harm him? Thus why does he need to keep armed guards? As I pondered this again, Princess Anne let out a delighted squeal. She had spied father through the window outside, in the royal courtyard, talking to several well-dressed men. Quickly we descended the great staircase, bursting into the courtyard and inside father's opened arms.

King Charles is of no great height, but aura of power radiates from him like a charm in a peddler's sack. A mere 5 feet 6, he is barely taller than my mother, but he more than makes up for it with his elegance. It was said that in his younger days his grace impressed even the most aged diplomats from other states. His handsome hair, long face, well-kept mustache, warm, sharp eyes and face lined with the wrinkles of worry all added to his Kingly features. Dressed in a rich, sweet smelling coat, black leather gloves and a stylish black velvet hat with a white plume on top, large black dress shoes and high stockings, my father was truly the trademark symbol of the nobility.

Some days my father is sad, others joyful, and still others easily angered. Today he seemed shaken and depressed, his kind eyes dropped and his brows pressured. The men around Father acknowledged us by stopping their conversation and lifting their hats in our direction. Instantly I knew they were back from the Privy Council, my dad's inner circle of his most trusted advisers. Immediately my eyes landed on the familiar face of Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, Thumb's father. Villiers wore his hair in shoulder neck length, black, curly locks. His eyes showed cunning intelligence, and he wore a handsome mustache. Father's second in command, Buckingham was known all over St. James as polite, cultures, and a hall mark of a modern Gentleman. His skill, speed and prowess with a sword are unmatched, and yet he is known to be loyal and a great friend of father.

Next to Buckingham I recognized William Laud, dressed in the white robes of a bishop. He was a fat, jolly figure, familiar to the Royal palace. He had small round eyes, a small white beard, and large bushy eyebrows. It was he who baptized my siblings and I in St. James, and he is also the archbishop of England and has the final say in religion in my father's inner circle. The other two I knew to be William Cavendish, who use to be the primary manager of my education and is one of my father's favorite advisers, and Lord Goring, a chief general in my father's army.

One last shadow loitered in the back ground, observing the scene quietly and taking no part in the discussions. His face was slightly hidden by the shade of his black hat and he was dressed in bright and well-ordered cloth, but he hides thick steel armor underneath. The man is of gigantic height, and I know underneath his long back sleeves there lay thick cords of steely muscles. This man stood easily, leaning on a huge long sword taller than father. It's a strange sight, seeing an uninformed man holding a weapon right next to the Royal Family, but it is no odd sight at St. James. The man was Edmund Verney, father's bodyguard and champion. Skilled in the use of the pike, the carbine, and wooden clubs the size of trees, Edmund is at his finest with his signature weapon, a two handed, 6 foot long bastard sword of tempered steel. During the Thirty Years' war, which Verney volunteered in, he was a feared member of the Emperor's forlorn hope, leading an assault by barging through walls of pikes, knocking down scores of enemies with one huge swing, and disrupting the enemy's formation so that friendly companies are able to exploit the damage and push through. Now, although he is in his early forties, he is still a formidable warrior and no man in England can match his ferocity.

Upon seeing us arrive, father took off his hat in greeting. I saw his face lined with worry, but he attempted to hide it with an easy smile and carefree questions. "Hello Children! James, did you have fun in the field with Master Sackville today?" He asked.

"Yes father! He taught me how to fence from a horse!" James, my younger brother cried out, excitedly.

"Oh really? I wasn't aware that was possible!" father laughed, throwing glances at the stammering master Sackville, who was standing next to James.

"And Charles! How are you today?" My father said, bending down and looking me in the face, his powerful hands resting on my shoulder.

"He is as he always has been, my Lord. What more than pestering "your lover" Buckingham for tales of more great battles fought against the Spaniards?" Mother laughed and rubbed my cheek with a finger. "He spends too much time learning about history and none studying about God."

Father laughed at mother's joke, then sighed and looked away. "Excuse me, my lady, but we are in the presence of Archbishop Laud."

I noticed mother frown, her mouth lifting up a slight bit. Seeing this, Father quickly walked over and led my mother by the hand back to the palace. All of us followed in a line like little Ducklings, Hudson the Dwarf last in line.

"How is my baby girl Anne?" He asked.

At this mother smiled. "She is healthier than she usually is.....today she seemed voracious and ate much. Perhaps she will not be sick this winter after all!"

Father smiled. "God bless her...Buckingham, order a meal laid out for my family. I wish to dine."

Buckingham gave a bow, leaving in a swirl of elegance, his curly locks drifting behind. Thumbs looked at me, whispered something I didn't catch, grinned, and followed his father, walking around to the back of the palace.

As we walked back into the palace I jogged over to Uncle Cavendish, the Duke of Newcastle. When I was younger, Cavendish was in charge of my education, hiring tutors and buying me great texts from libraries in Rome. However when I was 7 Cavendish was made the Duke of Newcastle by my father, and the Duke had to leave to manage his estate, and my education was left to Villiers the Duke of Buckingham.

"Hello dear Charles!" The Duke said, laying a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. "I miss you very much. Is Buckingham as effective in teaching as I was?" Cavendish asked.

"Yes Sir.....he knows even more history and military tactics than you do!" I said, excited.

"Oh really? I ought to challenge him someday...I'm sure he does not know as much as Lord Goring does!" Cavendish joked.

Lord Goring walked over. He was a short, heavily built man with spiky black hair and a slightly disfigured face. His eyes looked small and mean, though the Lord is as generous as any of my father's more fashionable advisers, though not nearly as polite. Still, the Lord is reputed to have the belligerence of a bull dog on the battle field and reportedly has 7 scars on his chest, all received while defending the king.

"Aye, and what do gentlemen like him know about military doctrines?" Goring scoffed, clearly vexed.

At the gate of the palace Goring, Laud and Cavendish left for their permanent visiting room in St. James, while Hudson the dwarf left to sulk in the garden, as he was not allowed in the dining room. The Royal Family and Buckingham lace, where footmen undressed father from his elegant court clothe into simpler clothe. Of course, Verney brought up the rear, silent yet looming, each step he took resulting in a huge tumult of clanking steel. Walking up a great staircase, we entered through a great oak door into the dining hall, on the second floor of the palace with huge bright windows and gold encrusted roofs. Lunch was not yet laid, but we sat down. I expected father or mother to start a conversation, but they just kept silent, eyeing and mouthing each other. After a few moment of silence Thumbs walked in, bowed to father, and also took his seat. (Thumbs, though not a royal Children, is every bit as much a member of the family as father himself is. His father Villiers was captured at the siege of La Roche, France, during the first few years of Thumb's life, and thus my father, Charles took over and raised Thumbs till Villiers was freed. Since Thumbs and I were only 1 year different in age we bonded quickly and became best friends. As a result I usually request his presence everywhere and we share the same bed room.)

Before our meal was laid, father rose from where he sat and excused himself.

"Children, keep on eating. I need to talk to your mother." He said, leading mother by the hand and exiting the dinning hall. I eyed Thumbs and he grinned. We got up, following father, intent on eavesdropping on him. My sister Elizabeth buried her face in her arms.

"You guys are so mature..." She groaned.

Next to her my younger brother James giggled and copied what Elizabeth said. Thumbs and I simply shrugged and ignored them, following after the disappearing figures of my parents.

The chase finally stopped outside the Prayer Room. My parents were inside, and was waited behind the closed doors, attempting to catch bits of their conversation.

"Well, anyways, I have recently received a letter from Hamilton.....no not that one, James Hamilton. The letter says the Church of Scotland is to meet on the 2nd week of November, in Edinburgh, Scotland...3 weeks' time. I need to attend, as with my Privy Council. I must convince the Scots to accept The Book of Common Prayer.......I am to leave on the morrow." He Sighed.

"You know I don't approve of your dealing with those Protestant heretics....go if you must, why tell me?" Mother asked.

Thumbs and I looked at each other, confused. Throughout our entire lives, especially the last year or so, we have been constantly hearing of a Presbyterian and Anglican business. To me the words are no more than complex vocabulary, but to adults they seem to symbolize something very important and often something worse fighting and bickering over. Indeed, my mother always have me wear a little, golden cross that supposedly represents the word "Catholic" but my father warns me to make sure no one ever sees the little cross, or the world around me will collapse. Perking our ears we listened even more closely to the conversation.

"My dear, you know I will do anything to gain your favor," father said, pausing. I can picture father kneeling down and kissing my mother's hand. "But this is of matter more than religion.......and we of the Royal Family must put one thing before the welfare of our own, and that is the welfare of our state. All of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland depend on me......and so I must leave." Father sighed. "I tell you of this because this time I wish to bring Charles, as he, no doubt, will be confronted with the same.....repetitive and useless affairs when I pass away."

I was thrilled but also confused. Finally, a day out, and by the sound of it going to Scotland! No useless drabs of geometry and literature! I can't wait to finally see some subjects of my father, learn of their function and how they contributed to the well-being of the Isles! I perked up my ear, eager to hear mother's response.

"King Charles....I have worked hard....for many years, to install a righteous Catholic faith among your children.......and I have received no help of any sort from you. You remain a Protestant, and now you attempt to undermine my efforts? Charles needs to remain here, where his studies are, not running off to some conference to see the righteous faith condemned by unworthy highlanders!" I can hear mother crying. Realizing father will no doubt stop the conversation immediately since he cannot tolerate anything that will make mother cry, Thumbs and I ran off, barely avoiding detection.

When we returned back to the dinning room, lunch had already been served. Mary and James were drinking a light yellow soup, while little Elizabeth and baby Anne were dipping sweet bread into milk. Thumbs and I took our seat as we waited for my parents return. I could hardly sit still in anticipation of the grand trip tomorrow, while Thumbs seemed a little less excited and a little more thoughtful. I understood though. Thumbs knew a bit more about the world than I did. He had traveled outside of St. James quite a few times and even outside London once. He probably understood more of my parents' conversation than I did.

Mother and father returned a little while later, both of them wearing innocent looking faces as if nothing has happened. Father was half smiling, and mother was completely blank in expression. I looked expectantly at father, seeing if he will say something about the trip to Scotland tomorrow. He didn't mention it till after our lunch, when he told me to go to my room where he will help me pack for the trip. Immediately I jumped up from the table, excused myself, and ran up the my room. Thumbs followed behind me. As we left, however, I couldn't help but notice mother's faint sigh.

As we started to pack, I asked Thumbs

"What are we going to do in Scotland?" I asked. "I do hope Scotland will be fun. We'll finally get a break from Mr.Hobbes and his postulates....." I sighed.

"Careful! We may actually need them when we grow up!" Thumbs joked.

"You two best start packing." Father said as he entered the room. "We'll leave early tomorrow so you'll have to sleep early."

"Father, why are we going to Scotland?" I asked innocently. I hoped father's explanations would make what Thumbs and I overheard clearer.

"Ah....father has a small meeting with some Scots....you two are welcome to join me in that meeting to meet several important Scottish nobles....but we are heading north mainly to visit and have fun in Scotland..."

"Visit and have fun? Why don't we bring James and the others then?" Thumbs asked.

Father looked at Thumbs slightly suspiciously.

"I mean...what can possibly be fun in Scotland?"

"Ahh you will see....Scotland is a land of exotic wonders and beauties...I'm sure you boys will like it." Father said with a smile. "Now start packing or you two will both spend the trip north asleep!"

The next morning I was awakened at 5. After nearly two hours of fuss and turmoil I was smartly bathed, oiled, perfumed and dressed in the finest cloth. A black velvet cap with white ostrich plum covered my combed and oiled hair. A rich coat and breeches covered my bathed skin and small black dress shoes covered my feet. As the two ladies carefully put on gloves for me the oak doors leading into my room opened. My mother curtsied in.

"Is he ready?" She demanded. "He must leave soon for an infidel's realm, where mercifully may he be guided away from the vile influence of heretics." She looked up and glanced over me, gave a nod of satisfaction, and led me to breakfast hall of the palace after I waved goodbye to all my sleeping siblings. The breakfast hall was a spectacular sight, with silver encrusted glass chandeliers and silk covered tables. However I dined here almost every day of my life and it seemed little remarkable to me. I had no idea of course that the rest of England is not decorated in rich velvet and encrusted in Silver. Breakfast was a large meal of ham, ale, bread, milk, eggs, sandwiches and a delicious soup. I gulped it down as quick as I could, excited about what is to come. After I was finished eating mother and I were led outside to the courtyard by servants. Father was already there, standing next to 5 carriages, painted bright shiny red and pulled by 4 white horses. Dragoons, cavalry soldiers armed with carbines and swords and dressed in light armors trotted back and forth all over the courtyard, warming up their horses for the long journey north to Scotland. Ahead of the entire convoy rides Verney, bearing the great standard of England, a spectacle of a flag displaying the rich red and Golden Lion of the King.

As I greeted father, butlers and footmen carried our baggage onto the carriages, each big enough for 4 people to sit in. I spotted Thumbs among them, and fetched him out of the mob of servants to the carriage I will be riding in. When all the luggage were loaded I said goodbye to mother and my siblings. As I stepped onto the carriage mother broke her mask of coldness for an instant, rushing over and giving me kisses on both cheeks, before giving me a boost onto my carriage.

The inside of our royal carriage was very customized and cozy. Father's carriage is all orderly and packed, but ours more resembled a bear's den on wheels than a carriage. Furry blankets cover every part of the inside of the carriage except the windows. Several large pillows are littered above. Daggers hang on the walls, as with paintings of battles that Thumbs and I have drawn. Snacks hang from sacks dangling on the doors, and our favorite driver Mr. Scott, a red haired man with a walrus mustache, good at telling stories to put us to sleep, is driving today. We are ready and packed for a trip to Scotland!

The procession began to roll out of the palace. Tall Verney rode in the front, a bright red riding cape flowing behind him. Along and around us gallops 2 companies of the Royal Dragoons, father's body guard.

I was very interested in military affairs and thus had already begged and researched much about England's military force. England possess no standing army of substantial size, but every village and town has a force of trained militia, ranging from 10 men (the smallest village) to almost a 1000 in the largest towns. Furthermore, most of the nobles of England keep a small retinue of around 50 professional soldiers. Father, at the thick end of the stick, keeps a professional army at London, composing of about 300 musketeers and another 300 pike man. In addition he commands an elite corps of 2000 dragoons, who serve as his personal bodyguard. Each dragoon is a gentleman of noble origins and carries a pistol and sword to combat mounted on a horse. The 2000 men are divided into 20 companies of 100 men, each commanded by a captain. The two captains that will escort us on this trip are Sir Waller and Sir Hopton, both of whom I am familiar with. The two men are known all over St. James for their prowess in battle and their friendship with each other. The two knights has volunteered together in the Thirty Years war and saved each other numerous times. When they sailed back to England they were so famous that father employed them in his royal dragoons immediately. Now, the two knights, dressed in bright clothe and no armor, rode on either side of father, who sat in his carriage with Villiers, the duke of Buckingham.

Thumbs and I sat in the second carriage, and the latter 3 carriage were for three nobles accompanying us to the Council, Archbishop Laud, Lord Goring and the Duke of Newcastle, respectively. On both flanks of the procession gallops dragoons, mounted men at arms clad in bright clothe, some armor, and armed with pistols and swords. As we rode through the streets of London, I noticed again a pattern that had been evident for several years now. Usually when the royal procession rides around the streets of London people joyously greets the King, even rushing up to the carriages to throw gifts and words of bless through the windows, but now it seems whenever we travel outside St. James, the streets of London becomes deserted. Whatever fellow we do pass on the streets bend down and look away, not showing the least enthusiasm that the King's carriages are passing by.

Of course I had known about father's Book of Common Prayer.... mother made me memorize it, but I had little idea its effect on the common people of the Kingdom, or how unpopular it made my father. I was shut inside the perfect and never changing walls of St. James. Why, the whole of England could be washed under the sea, and my life as the Royal Prince would still not be affected. Father would not allow anything to impact my life unless it impacted me the way he wanted it to, even though England outside St. James was slowly turning for the worse.

After half an hour of traveling we exited London for English country sides surrounding the city. We kept silent for the beginning of the trip, to stare at the things outside and to enjoy the stone paved streets before it gave way to the dirt roads of the country. I have only been out of London on a few occasions, and every time I was under escort by a huge number of bodyguards so that I was not able to fully look upon the field. Thumbs has had a few more trips outside London than I have had, but he is still as much as a pariah as I am. Men who stayed at the royal palace for a brief period of time, ranging from exiles, claimants to estates, and lords, all found themselves plagued by us for stories of the outside world. We even made friends with a few of them, including a young soldier named Wilmot, and a man with strange ideas named Cary. Even so, now, at the leisure of our own carriage, Thumbs and I were entranced by what lay around us. We saw rolling green hills, farms, little creeks and isolated patches of forests that mark the boundaries of different farms. The rustic and familiar sense gave me a warm feeling all over and I envisioned a proud and safe future for this land, a land sure to be under my control when my father goes to the heavenly Kingdom.

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 said, 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 Scotland 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 knowing 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 the 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.
Chapter 6; Bishop's War

By late May, father's army was almost fully assembled. He had worked hard on this army, but with much less enthusiasm than he had before. His dream of a grand English army was shattered with Parliament's refusal to grant him funds, and the royal English army planned for the invasion was much reduced. The army, though not as grand as it could have been, still generated much hope in the royal palace. Everywhere people talked of the army and of the war. Rumors were abounding, and nearly everyone wished to see the army in action against the Scots. On the first of June, the army left for the north, and again father asked me to come along. Although I was excited to depart on this journey, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous. Less than a year ago I was presented with the same choice and had decided to go north to Scotland, but the trip resulted in more harm than good.

I hoped this second expedition would mend the wounds of the first, and result in a victory over the Scots. As we left St. James I noticed a small glimmer of hope. A few commoners lined up outside the gates of St. James. As our carriages and dragoons passed before them they cheered and tossed flowers in our path. It pleased me to see that the Scottish rebellions have made father at least a little bit more popular with the London general public.

The second trip was even more boring than the first. Thumbs had not wanted to go, still disillusioned from the death of his father, and the massacres in Ireland, but after much begging and joking he agreed to tag along. Mr. Scot told several more stories, but the gloom generated by Thumbs depression radiated throughout the entire carriage. Last time at least we were able to spot peculiarities in the countryside. This time there was nothing new, nothing strange we had not already seen, and thus both of us slept most of the journey. When we arrived at York, in northern England it was already Early August, 1640. I was 11, and Thumbs 12. The situation had rapidly deteriorated for father. Without the funds, father was unable to pay for ships or even to equip much of the new levies. There will be no sea borne invasions of east and west Scotland by ship, and no money to support the northern Scottish clans that declared themselves royalists. Indeed, most of the royalist Scots have been pacified by a lightning swoop commanded by Argyll. Father must face the full Covenanter army with no support from any other direction or faction. Even more direly, of the 20,000 soldiers father has levied at the northern border, only a thousand were trained, professional men. (These made up father's cavalry force, the dragoons.) The rest were levied; peasants with little or no training, disorganized, and ill equipped. Armies fighting in the modern fashion would be composed of organized regiments of well drilled musketeers, pike men, and cavalry, with some artillery to provide support. However much of father's army was in unorganized masses of men, some armed with primitive bows and arrows! Even more caustic to our cause, the Catholic and Protestant soldiers were often hostile against one another, causing an aura of fragileness to surround father's camp.

Thumbs and I were given a little log cabin next to father's main headquarters, which I quickly grew bored of. I spent much time roaming in the camp, staring at the soldiers and wishing I could put on their arms and armor. Thumbs, meanwhile, was becoming a menace. I would have felt sorry for him if he had continued to grieve for his father, but he wasn't even doing that. He spends his days in our cabin, reading and praying instead of joining me in my adventures. It was hard even to start a conversation with him, and as a result, many of my adventures were with local lads instead of with my playmate Thumbs.

By roaming through the camps, I was able to find out much of what was going on in terms of the war. While all the infantry forces of father's army festered in the camps, ill paid, ill fed and fighting amongst themselves, the cavalry force, the only professional or elite part of father's army, was busy responding to Covenanter pressure, which consisted of ever larger raiding parties of Scottish cavalry men making ever bolder foray into England. Father's cavalry thus screened enemy incursions and skirmishing when possible. Throughout this whole process father and his advisors were planning a successful way to invade and defeat the Scottish army. Finally, one day, this cycle of intrusions and counter intrusions ended rather abruptly. I was wrestling in a patch of grass near father's cabin with several local boys when we witnessed a messenger ride up to father's cabin, a letter in hand. We quickly ran up to spy, and we found out the messenger was dispatched by a certain Captain Monke, and he had brought a dire message; the Covenanter forces are crossing the border en mass!

Goring quickly put out an effective war plan. The road from the border to Newcastle has been fortified with crude earthworks and even has a few cannons set up. The professional element of father's army quickly filled in those positions, as their muskets would be deadly in combination with the earthwork. The rest of my father's army, the untrained portion, would mill around behind the fortifications, waiting while the Scots tired themselves on the earthworks and attacking and hopefully winning with sheer numbers when the Scots are significantly weakened.

The plan was a good one, and would have likely have won the war. There was good progress on the fortifications, and the work getting done motivated father's levies, who put aside their differences, stopped deserting, and joined in on the construction of the fortifications. After all it seemed like the war was won. We will sit in our defenses and wait for the Scots to attack and break like waves on the stones of our fortifications. However, while the plan sounds good on paper, it was easily cut apart by Montrose. During the night, on a full moon, I was in father's cabin, reading on a table. Father and General Goring sat nearby; drawing maps on the ground with sticks while Verney on a nearby chair with his great sword in hand. All the other senior officers had gone to sleep. Suddenly, the doors to the cabin burst open, moonlight flooding in. A panting man rolled into the room. In a flash Verney was up, and with only one hand (the other hand was gripping his 100 pounds sword) pushed the man to the ground. In the next second Verney had his knee on the man's chest and his sword resting on his neck. Suddenly the man spoke up in a raspy, frightened voice.

"May the lion dance eternally!" Immediately father ordered Verney off the man and beckoned a servant to light an oil lamp, for that was the secret password. The bright rays of light cut through the darkness and I gazed upon the face of the messenger. He was obviously scared, his hair was messy, and he does not have his hat. On his chest I recognized the insignia of a captain.

"Sire! I have grave news!" The man said.

"What is it?" father asked, horrified.

"My company of dragoons was patrolling the west bank of the Tyne River. We heard clinking of armor a bit north of us, and rode forward, where we met a unit of Covenanter pike men. My unit rushed upon them, swords out, but they leveled their pikes and beat us back. After we lost nearly a third of our men we retreated. Along the way we were met and had to go around two more blocks of enemy pike men, and also suffered from several volleys of enemy musketeers. Finally, as we were fording back across the river we were ambushed by a Covenanter cavalry force. We fought them off, but by the time they were defeated there were only sixteen men of my company left."

The King nodded. From left of him Goring spoke up.

"Sire; this news commend little. Perhaps the men have patrolled too far north and ran into the picket lines of the Covenanter army." He explained nervously. I couldn't help but notice his small eyes darting back and forth nervously. The message was clear. The message the captain brought has unsettled even the trenchant General Goring.

"Sire, we saw at least 500 enemy soldiers during our midnight foray. This is no random Covenanter raid. They are redeploying to the west, they intend to march around the northern defenses and strike our armies from the west."

Goring opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He too was afraid of that. All of father's regiments were dug into earthworks in the north. If the Covenanter outflanks us before the royalist army could redeploy, then the King's army will be utterly destroyed in one overwhelming blow.

"This seems to me a logical course of action." Father said, more disappointed than worried. "After all Leslie is no fool. He knows the futility of attacking such well-fortified positions. It makes sense for him to march around. Goring, how do you think this threat will play out? How long do you need to redeploy my men?" Charles asked, managing to keep his cool.

"It depends, Sire. If they cross the river at the earliest ford possible, they will be hear by noon on the morrow. If they cross at the largest ford they should arrive late in the afternoon. Either way they will strike by tomorrow. Even if I wake up the soldiers at six and force march them, the soldiers will not be able to get organized and dig in by the time the Covenanters show," Goring said grimily.

"So are we doomed to die in this? To lose now and see the royal army chopped apart by a brilliant enemy maneuver?" father demanded angrily.

"I can try to deploy as many troops as possible...I don't know if it will be enough.......I have 2 regiments of musketeers within 10 miles from the ford. If they are wakened now they can arrive at the ford and finish with basic fortifications before morning breaks out," Goring said, his eyes eager for action, the sign of a brilliant general. Father nodded.

Goring pointed at the officer.

"What is the nearest crossable ford? The one your company crossed?" He asked.

"The one we crossed was the Green ford....but the nearest crossable ford would be the Newburn. All other nearby fords will freeze in the night and be too hazardous to cross." The officer said after a pause.

"Good...Send word, tell Conway and Wilmot on the Newburn Bulge to march west and fortify Newburn ford as soon as possible. Tell them they may not receive reinforcements until the following day, and thus they must hold the ford for as long as possible!" Goring barked at the officer, who bowed and left the room.

Goring looked at his crude map, drawn on the ground. His beady eyes rolled left and right. My eyes focused on his bald, scarred forehead, red under the dim lamp light. It was glistening with sweat. After whispering to himself and jabbing his finger at the ground several times, he sent a messenger off into the main camp, barking for him to "Send for all officers of regiments and up. Order them to come here immediately!" The messenger promptly left for the camp. Suddenly Goring must have remembered he forgot something, for he bowed to the King and ran out, following his dispatched messengers.

I looked at father. During the last week he was actually happy and confident again, leading his army, acting like his kind old self. Now I can envision him regressing back to the bitter, frightened King that he was after the triple shock of rebellion, the death of Villiers, and the conflict with Parliament. I cannot bear to see him disappointed and defeated yet again. He is a loving father, a kind man, and he deserves better! When father laid his head on his table, overwhelmed by disbelief and pressure, I quietly sneaked out of his cabin. I will go with one of the infantry companies, and make sure they do not route, and rally them if they do. Father cannot be disappointed again today.

The night was dark, and because I was wearing only my night shirt, I was very cold, but inside I still felt safe and warm. The camp was still alive with celebrating levies, believing the war will soon be won and they can avoid any major action. I was going to take Thumbs along, but analyzing his state of mind, I knew it was more likely for him to tell father what I'm doing than tag along. Thus I traveled toward the ford alone. Walking to the west, where I can hear the bubbling of the Tyne as it snaked through the silent forests, I stumbled upon a band of cavalrymen. Trying to look like a mere pilgrim I walked on, but was confronted by a tall man with his sword out. When he asked who I was, I countered and asked who he was. He must have recognized me by the sound of my voice, for he said

"I'm Colonel Wilmot, leader of the 12th musketeer's regiment. My men are marching to defend the ford....Sire. I do not think your father would like you to come to the scene of the battle, for it would be far too dangerous." Wilmot told me.

"But Wilmot, but I really want to see the battle!" I begged. Wilmot is only a decade older than me. His father was a noble of London and thus often visited St. James. As a result, Wilmot spent much time at the royal palace and naturally played with us, the royal children a lot. I remember numerous adventures Wilmot had lead us on, throughout St. James and even out on the London streets. Even though now he dons a mask of a young, polite and disciplined military officer, I know his true, innocent self, which is loyal, charming, polite and kind. After much pleading and persuasion I was able to get the better of him.

"Very well, you may come along. However you must not make yourself know, for I do not think your father the King would be happy to know that I exposed you to danger, and you must remain with my bodyguards the entire time." He demanded. "And put this on...you look terrible in that night shirt." He said, tossing a grey garb at me.

I promised eagerly, putting on the shirt and climbing onto Wilmot's horse, where we rode west to the ford with the company of musketeers. As we rode, I realized how lucky I was to meet Wilmot. Not only do I have a unit of dragoons for protection, Wilmot, who received a military education, could explain much of the news of the war to me that I otherwise would not have been able to learn.

Lord Goring had ordered 2 companies of musketeers, (the nearest companies to the ford) to march towards the ford. The rest of the soldiers he would have to slowly redeploy, pulling them from the trenches in the north and organizing them again to face the enemies on the west. That will take the better part of the day, and possibly extending into the next day, thus we must hold the ford until Goring has redeployed the English army. Our little army of around eight hundred musketeers is led by Lord Conway, while Wilmot is second in command. An artillery corps was also ordered to march to the ford, but only the light cannons could be expected to be removed from their fortifications and rolled to the ford before the Covenanters arrived.

We arrived at the ford at noon, 2 hours before the first Scots arrived. The Covenanter force was expected to be anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 strong, thus morale among our men was very low. I knew there was a high chance of defeat today, yet inside me, I hoped there was a chance that the series of unfortunate evils that befell the royal house would be brought to a stop today. After all, the men know they are fighting for the King, they know how crucial their actions today would be to the royal house and England in general. Surely they will not route, but instead fight to bitter end, and hopefully cripple the Scots so that they will eventually lose the war.

The ford was very beautiful. The river, about 500 yards wide, flowed slowly and smoothly through the heavily wooded Northern England. A tiny strip of shallow water, the ford, about 5 yards wide, ran across the length of the river. The little, under Water Bridge of mud is knee deep, which we could just barely see under the glistening surface of the water. On our side of the river, where the ford rises to become the land, there were two small hills, each one conveniently looking over one flank of the ford. These hills, Wilmot explained, would form the bastions of our defense. 400 musketeers would be stationed on each hill, where they would dig in and attempt to erect breast works, or small piles of wood and mud. From these positions they would use their superior height and position to fire upon and hold up the Covenanters as long as possible. On the other side there was a relatively flat area where the river rises to become land, but further away from the river, about 500 yards to the west, a bluff rises up, dominating the entire ford.

Just as our musketeers finished piling up the breast works, a small company of Scottish horsemen arrived. The scouts of the Scottish army. They were all riding white horses, with fur caps and robes of blue. Their faces were masked with wild war paint, and each one of them held a long pike in hand. Real pikes, made of hard, cruel steel. Pikes that could take the life of a man, that could even kill me! My stomach growled at the thought of it. The Scots prowled about several times on their side of the river, before riding off. There was no doubt now that blood will be shed today. This little unit of Scots is going to report our location to the main Scottish army, which will probably hasten in its march.

Morale throughout our army was fairly low. These soldiers were levied in southern England, and many had never held a musket before. They are now going to face an enormous Scottish Army, veteran from its campaigns against royalists just months earlier. Just as we thought we would receive no more reinforcements, and that we'd be on our own to fight off the Scottish hoards, my hopes were rekindled when the two light cannons were rolled up onto the two hills. They were light, and Wilmot had told me they were good for nothing, but I still couldn't help but feel a bit of pride and security with these guns overlooking the ford. They made an already durable position impenetrable.

About half an hour later, near 2 after noon, I noticed dust on the other side of the river to my left. It was raised by the opposing army. My eyes picked off the glints of the soldiers armor and the blue banners of the Scots. I counted 4 companies, all musketeers.

"These will probably be hurled at our positions first, soaking up our fire before the closely packed pike men push through to the ford," Wilmot told me. I noticed he was fairly nervous.

The enemy musketeers formed ranks on the other side of the ford, each individual soldier spaced out from the soldier next to him. Wilmot told me this is to minimize the damage of our cannon and the musket volley. Another hour later the main Covenanter army arrived. I counted unit after unit, company after company, regiment after regiment of Scottish soldiers, some armed with pike and some with muskets. Among their ranks I also saw several shiny black cannons, which seemed to scare the men greatly.

When all the Scots were deployed, and the dust from their moment settled down I found their army divided into three great lines of men. The first line was the four original companies of musketeers, in loose formation. The second line consists of alternating pike men and musketeers, and the last line was made purely of thickly bunched pike men. A small detachment of cavalry loitered in the back with the Covenanter cannons; Leslie and his retinue. It was now near 3 in the afternoon, only 2 hours before sun down. Victory was just out of our grasp. I felt increasingly apathetic, like one does when the score is tied and there is only a minute left in a game of rugby. Wilmot confirmed my fears.

"The Scots also know what you're thinking. If they do not force the ford in the next 2 hours they will have to delay their attack till dawn on the morrow, when they will be facing 20 companies of musketeers instead of 2. Their attack this day will probably be extremely desperate and ferocious, for no matter how unlucky the odds are today if they delay till tomorrow the odds will be ten times worse." He told me.

Below us, Conway rode his charger back and forth, from one hill to the other, shouting for men to close ranks, to hold their fire. They were not to fire until they saw the Banner of Conway raised.

As the Scottish musketeers advanced, their blue kilts dampened by the river, great plumes of smoke exploded from the Scottish positions, followed seconds later by great splashes of mud as the Scottish Cannon balls sank into the ford. Several musketeers on our side started laughing, for the Scots had completely missed their targets. I was somewhat happy but also a bit nervous. If the Scottish cannons failed at what they tried to accomplish, our Light Artillery pieces may be even more of a failure.

When the Scots advanced half way across the ford, our light cannons opened up, their booms resounding from one side of the river back to the other. The entire earthwork, where the musketeers were stationed, was engulfed by smoke, and I felt like the battle would be won for sure, with victory springing from this gigantic show of firepower. To my utter bewilderment, however, when the smoke cleared the Scots with their muskets on their shoulders, seemed only to have advanced further from where we last saw them. Not a single shot has pierced the rank of the Covenanters, leaving their men scattered on the ford. Alas, the shots have missed completely. My confidence in the cannon was shattered. So much work and time it took to haul them to the location of the battle, and yet they completely failed to kill a single enemy soldier. I had much hope pinned to these black bastions of the King. Now that they failed our lines of musketeers looked awfully thin and fragile.

So deep was my feeling of despair, lamenting at such a loss of fortune, that I failed to notice the bright Banner of Conway as he staked it into the ground. The captains among the musketeers, seeing this, barked fire, their orders resounding all across the line. The musketeers around them obeyed eagerly, the bright flashes and the sharp cracks lifting me from my depression. Smoke again concealed the trench works, and when it cleared, to my absolute elation I saw many in the Covenanter rank stumble and fall, their blood staining and drifting down the river, mixing with the glistening water. The rest marched on, but their neat ranks were not uneven, and gaps had appeared in several places. A second volley torn away half of the first Scottish company, resulting in even more carnage than the first, as muskets gets more accurate and more deadly when shot at closer targets. The first isolated Scots were now almost across the ford, but their ranks have been heavily decimated and they are near breaking point. Bodies littered all behind them, felled by well-placed musket balls. Finally I saw Conway give the order to fire at will, and the well timed volleys became single, but rapid cracks. Here and there shots would go off, several every second. The Covenanters fell one by one, until finally one of the leading Scots, clean shaven and with an arm wound, turned back and ran, clutching his arm and screaming in pain. All around and behind him, at the sight of their companions running the other Scots turned tail and ran, until the entire wave of Scottish soldiers were routed from the field, the back of their blue kilts looking like fat, juicy targets for musket balls. The cannons were reloaded and fired again, this time one cannon ball striking the ford and resulting in a huge splash of water and mud, but by chance it did not strike down a single Scot.

The musketeers all cheered from their earthworks. The battle appeared to be over, and victory appeared to belong to us. I couldn't wait till the celebrations at home, and the proud look on father's face when he learned the Covenanters had been routed. I knew father would be angered that I went to the battle and risked my life, but hopefully the victory and the reverse of royal fortunes will more than make up for it. I looked over at Wilmot, expecting his face to be as jubilant and enthusiastic as mine. Unfortunately I found his face painted with worry.

"Wilmot! Are you not happy that the Covenanters have been routed? That the northern campaign is now over?"

"I wish that was true, but look more carefully and you will see that the battle is far from over."

I squinted my eyes first at the ford. There I saw nothing but dead enemies and a few wounded men limping through the water. Looking further I happened to glanced over to the Covenanter side of the river. Hundreds, no, thousands more Scots wait, their pikes still up in tight formation and bright against the sun. The Scottish banner floats ever brighter in the wind. The Scottish army stretches as far as eye could see, and even now I see some Scots, apparently drunk, enthusiastically waving their bottoms at us.

"I know what you are seeing right now. Look even more carefully, look further back."

I was about to retort that I have seen the Scottish army, when my eyes caught the black glint of a large iron tube; cannons. I spotted about ten cannons, and they were all being pushed by several Scots, pushed uphill, to find a dominating position to shell our positions.

Wilmot must have read my face. "Ay, you are right. They are hoisting their guns onto higher positions. If they are positioned correctly, such as those bluffs further back from the ford, they will be able to shell our positions and our cannons will be too light and ill positioned to return fire." Wilmot sighed.

I eyed the enemy guns with fear. They were indeed being pushed toward the bluffs overlooking the ford. However there is still hope in me, for I remembered how ineffective the cannons were. Large, cumbersome, and three shots killed no enemy...why, they are useless.

Inside me, however, I could not help but feel a deep sense of fear, as the determined Scots pushed the cannons up the bluff, little by little, step by step. Their determination seemed to hint their confidence in their cannons.

Half an hour later, 2 hours until dusk, the first Scottish guns opened up. Since Wilmot did not know where the Scots will aim, he ordered me to get out of harm's way, lying down on the reverse side of a slope to be shielded from the enemy shots. Luckily for me, and not so luckily for father's army, the Scottish Guns were not aimed at me, but at the earthworks of musketeers instead. The first shot thudded into the dirt directly in front of the musketeer's breast work, bounced up, and ripped through the pile of sticks and mud, decapitating 2 men and knocking down a handful others, of which only half had their wits about them and were able to get up again. The fire continued, incoming shots again and again raking the musketeer's lines and kept going until there were several holes in the earthworks. Then, the carronade ceased.

I was afraid the enemy would charge us now, and overwhelm us with sheer numbers, but the Scottish army made no such move. Conway rode up and down the lines, shouting encouragements and pleading the men not to run, that they need only to hold the ground till nightfall, which would come in only 2 hour. I looked at the musketeers. Many of them shaken from the carronade. It takes a whole different kind of courage and determination to hold fast while cowering from an unseen, non-distinguishable enemy than to stand against another, weapon yielding men. It was only the charisma of Conway that kept the men in their ranks. As I surveyed the scene nervously, a large, cracking noise of shattering debris erupted from my right. I looked over, turning my head so fast that I strained my neck. The right corner of the line of earthworks, covering about 20 yards and about 40 men, was in disarray. Men were crawling around, screaming. The earthwork, if messy and hastily constructed before, was now a pile of debris, with mud and wood splintered all around.

I figured a cannon shot had struck the devastated area, but how was one cannon ball able to inflict so much damage? All the previous shots only damaged a single point, a meter wide chunk of the earthwork before. How did 10 meters of fortifications become so devastated by one shot? Unless.....the shot had come parallel to the earthworks, that the enemy had somehow maneuvered cannons to our flank and could now shoot horizontally into our ranks.

I felt fear down my spine, looked right with jutting fear. The bluff had ended to the right; there is no advantage position for the enemy to place their cannons....yet how did they shoot so accurately into our ranks with great devastation? Such fire could only come from a dominating position. I looked more closely to our right. There was a white church, with oaken doors and great painted windows, but it was not the church itself that drew my attention. One small tower to the front of the church was shrouded in smoke. No, I thought to myself. It must not be. We would be ruined if it was true. However my worst fears were true. The enemy has somehow hung a cannon on the bell tower of the church, creating a firing platform where there was none, and now has the entire army at their mercy. If they so pleased they could wreck the army in 10 shots.

I looked at the men. Most of them have figured out the same things I have. Many looked left and right nervously, and some looked like they were ready to drop their weapons and run. Conway rode desperately to the scene of the disaster, attempting to rally the wavering men. I looked at the general, moved by how brave he was, to ride into great danger for___. Suddenly, another shot, coming vertically from the bluff, slammed into the area, engulfing several men, including Conway, in a black mountain of uprooted dirt. My heart lurched. When the dirt fell and settled, Conway lay on the ground; his horse run clean through by a cannon ball. With the sight of their commander on his back, more likely dead than not, the soldiers broke. Several dropped their weapons and ran off, and fear spread among the ranks. From the Scottish sides there came a trumpet note, the signal for general advance. The entire Scottish army now massed into the ford, attempting to cross. The sight of the swarming Scottish hoard marching toward our unorganized ranks was too much for any soldier to bear, and their morale shattered. The English army had started to rout.

I felt faint. The sight of all these red dressed English troops, proud soldiers under the sacred banner of my father, routing from the field in shame and disgrace, while at the same time chased by the filthy and victorious Scots would leave a lasting impression for the rest of my life. Masses of Scots are now coming over the river, probably to chase down our running soldiers and to storm our artillery.

I looked around in desperation, tears forming in my eyes. I had expected Wilmot to share my grief and fear, but when I looked at Wilmot, mounted next to me, I found his face enclosed by a steel helmet and a sword gripped tight in his hands. I could only see his eyes, blue, determined. I looked at him, confused, my mind not comprehending what he was about to do, for I thought he was not so crazy as to do it.

"Form ranks!" He shouted to his bodyguards. They obeyed, silent, slowly and gloomily forming two lines. Even the horses were nervous.

No....I thought to myself. It's not possible. He is not so stupid, so vain. He may be a soldier under sworn oath to the King, but this is certain death.

"Wilmot! You won't really charge the Scots will you? There are thousands of them!" I begged him.

Wilmot grumbled a bit.

"I am a captain to your father's armies, and it is my duty as the second in command of the battle to rally its soldiers when the first in command falls."

"But Wilmot! To charge now is to charge into death! They have pike men!" I warned him.

Wilmot didn't reply. He raised his sword and cried "To the King!"

From the left of the small group of horsemen came a short, trumpet note. The horses began to trot.

"But Wilmot! Think of your old father, think of your future! You are only in your 20s, you have your entire life in front of you." I called after him. Wilmot seemed so stubborn, so different. When we were young, playing throughout the maze like structures of St. James, everything was so carefree, so simple. We could do whatever we wanted. Wilmot also had a great future planned for him. He wanted to become a scholar, a man of literature, joining the great writers of the Renaissances, writing finely crafted works of the word. Now he seemed determined to kill his own future and die on a battle field, I thought, as I looked after his shrinking figure. Then, as his words resounded in my mind, I suddenly realized the true meaning of his futile charge.

He did not want to die on some deserted battlefield, but he had to. Wilmot is an adult now, no longer a playful youth, enjoying the perfect life in St. James. He is a soldier now, and he has responsibilities. His duty demands he fight for his King, and he is willing to sacrifice his life to fulfill his oath.

As the small red group of horsemen charged into the crescent formed by the Scottish troops, like a small sliver of meat being thrown into the gaping mouth of a blue dragon, my heart shuddered in awe and fear for Wilmot. His sense of duty, his code of honor is so completely different from my self-centered, selfish ways. My eyes focused on his tiny figure with admiration.

The dragon breathed fire, the smoke of powder obscuring its cruel lips. The horsemen charged on. The mouth opened wide, the long teeth of steel braced against the ground. The horsemen fell, one by one.

Part 1 Epilogue

If the Rebellion of the Scots, the death of Buckingham, and the Parliament's refusal to grant funds seemed bad before, they are nothing compared to what would ensue. The route at the ford was not complete. The Scots, admiring Wilmot's courageous charge, did not pursue the routing English, for they did not want to anger the King more than they needed to. In fact, an English Lieutenant named Monke was even able to secure our useless artillery, rounding up the routed army and leading them back to Newcastle in good order. However, though they had allowed the English to flee, the Covenanters were quick to press their advantage. By the next morning they were upon the throat of father's army. At that time, only a small fraction of the Royal army and none of the guns were facing the correct position when the Covenanters arrived. To make matters worse none of the companies that were actually in position were entrenched, making them vulnerable to encirclement and destruction by the Scots.

Father was forced to submit to the Covenanter's demands. I did not learn what the exact terms of the peace treaty was, but I could tell they were severe, for although Scotland is officially a part of Britain again, father was gloomy and unmotivated the entire trip back to London. When we arrived back at St. James, he locked himself up in his bedchamber, not allowing anyone to enter.

Although things were far from calm, for a while it seemed like they have returned to normal. Everything was almost the same as the way it was before. I was back in St. James, father was still King, and Scotland was still (at least nominally) a part of my father's domain. Buckingham was dead, and Thumbs had changed from being fun loving to being bland and realistic, much like the change I observed in Wilmot....and of course, I myself had changed immensely. I had realized that the world was completely different from what I had been taught, or what I had imagined. The trips connected me with some reality, and I realized that my life should not to be taken for granted, that my safe home in St. James would not always remain the same. For the first time it occurred to me that perhaps I would have to work hard, and improve my overall competence to avoid disasters like the ones the royal house had recently encountered.

On another note, mother has given birth to a little boy while we were gone. They have named him Henry. I felt sad for him, knowing he comes at a time of bad fortune, and he will probably never be king of the Isles, (as both James and I will have to die for him to succeed) thus I was resolved to treat him responsibly, and act like the grown up figure that Buckingham, or Wilmot, was to me. Little did I know, however that loose ends from the past would continue to haunt us in the future. The Earl had promised a war. The Bishop's War was a war, but it was not what the Earl had promised in scale. The treaty had seemed settled and a thing of the past, but its legacy would cause a behemoth of destruction in England that would make the war in Scotland seem like a tiny Skirmish.

Part 2

Chapter 1; Parliament's betrayal

We all knew father's money problems had become worse. Even little Henry, always happy and playful, stared out of his bed with wide eyes filled with fear and confusion. Before the war father had lacked the money to levy an army, but after completely exhausting his treasury (scraping out every last grain of gold dust from the royal coffers in the process) he somehow managed to create one. Now the army was destroyed, gone, leaving father and all the royalists of England confused as to how such a tribute to tireless effort and meticulous planning could be cut apart as fast as autumn leaves by cold gusts of swift, winter winds. Even worse, the treaty with the Covenanters would no doubt be extremely taxing on father's bare coffers. They certainly would have demanded huge sums after so lopsided a victory, and they probably know father has no way to pay them. The lost war has changed father from a weakened king to a broken man, desperate for money. He was so desperate that he put aside something he has kept with him through all these trying times: his honor. Hard headedly, he summoned Parliament again, well aware of how stupid, how weak he must look now, summoning the body again so soon after he had dissolved it, this time literally begging for money.

On the third of November, 1640, father planned to recall Parliament. The Scots are doing their part of the bargain, even returning Captain Wilmot, who was knocked unconscious and captured during the skirmish at the ford. Now father must do his part by paying the Scots. When I approached him the day before in the royal library, intending to find out how father planned to ask for more taxes this time, he instead, gave me a fortuitous answer.

"Would you like to come with your father tomorrow to Westminster? In order to see how this body functions?" He asked me with careful, searching eyes.

I was exuberant. "Go see your meeting with Parliament? Of course!" Then I gave a pause. My words were too similar to what I said only 5 months earlier, only last time it was to go see Scottish Nobles instead of the English Parliament. As I thought about this, I wondered if this meeting with Parliament would turn out to be as big a disaster as the meeting with the Scots.

I looked up at father's face. He was handsome and well kept, but his eyes were dull and his face worn. I realized how shaken he was by the maelstrom of events that had left him frail and weak, a tired old man instead of the proud young king he had been. Suddenly I realized why he had asked me to go along with him to Parliament. He did not want me to see how Parliament worked. Why would he? Father hates Parliament! Instead he was afraid of meeting Parliament again, which he had disbanded so recently, afraid of their anger and attacks against him now that he comes back begging for money. The recent crisis which we have witnessed together has strengthened our bond, and now he looks to me for help and support when facing his adversary. Looking at my father's worn and lonely eyes one more time, I put on a smile, nodded, and pretended that I couldn't wait to go to Parliament with him. His eyes relaxed, and he nodded in thanks.

On April 13th, 1640, I was again awakened early, fussed over, and dressed in my nicest clothe, a tight suit of velvet black, gold encrusted jewelries, an elaborate white laced neck piece, long socks and nice shoes, as well as a pair of white pants. My hair was combed and perfumed, and before long we were riding to the House of Commons.

When we arrived we found a small number of men waiting for us at the entrance. Upon seeing us arrive they bowed and took off their hats. Seeing this, I received much solace, knowing that we have support here and hoping today will not turn into another crisis that will rock the Royal house, and the Kingdom, to the core. The doors of the house were opened and we stepped in. Verney was forced to wait outside as Parliament will not have weapons capable of taking the life of men in its sacred boundaries. When I entered I was greatly surprised at the scene. The room was large and rectangular, about twice as long as it was wide. Two great benches sat on either of the longer sides of the room. In the middle there was an elevated platform, on which sat a great, gold encrusted chair, so tall it almost reached the pointed roof of the building. The entire back of the room, the wall opposite of the great door from which we entered, is a gigantic window, lighting up the entire room. Everywhere there were men, some sitting, some standing, and some walking around, but all were talking, their voices mild and soft in hushed tones. About half of the men were dressed in tight black suits, long white socks and small black hats. Another half were dressed in rich, elaborate satin over flowing with rich, bright, blooming red, violet, yellow, and purple. Many of these brightly dressed men also wore powdered wigs.

Upon father's entry, there was a general hush around the room. Most of the Parliamentarians took off their hats. A brightly dressed man, whom I heard others address as Speaker and Lenthall, standing near the great chair quickly shouted out,

"The house acknowledges his Majesty King Charles." He said bowing. Slowly, noisily, on both sides of us the great mass of ministers all stood up and bowed to my father before walking around to find their respective seats on the benches. I noticed that the brightly dressed men sat on the right side, and the black dressed men sat on the left, and guessed one side was the House of Lords and the other the House of Commons, the division in Parliament Wentworth has mentioned.

Father took off his hat in response and took a seat directly opposite to Lenthall. I sat in a small, cushioned stool immediately behind father. Looking around, the richly clothed lords sitting on one side, the plainly dressed "commoners" sitting on the other, I thought this Parliament would surely not make trouble for us as father and Wentworth are inclined to believe. After all, they have already shown their respect and allegiance to father without being asked. Surely, this body would be no more than the advising body, the tool, designed to help my father make responsible choices, which it was supposed to be.

Mr.Lenthall opened up the discussions, standing up from his great chair with his booming, rich voice.

"In the year of Our Lord 1640, April 13th, his Majesty, Charles the First, the lord of all Britain, called forth Parliament to discuss issues that arose again since the last cession of this house. On duty here this morning are: John Pym, Arthur Haselrig, Denzil Holles, William Strode, John Hampden, George Digby, Lucius Cary, Edward Hyde, Oliver Cromwell....." He went on, listing all the people who sat in the room, ending with "and of course, his Majesty King Charles, who will now present his case." Lenthall said, bowed, and sat down.

Father stood up, bowed, and began his case in a fluid stream of courtly words.

"I have called upon this house again today, to discuss a very serious issue; one which has evolved into something more complicated than last year's. This matter has become dire and now concerns the welfare of the entire state. As you all know, my attempts to unify the Isles have.....gone awry, and the Royal house now owes a fair sum to repay for the lost war." Father paused to add weight to his words. "While I would gladly pay the sum owned, my royal coffers are empty because this house has refused to grant me taxes. Thus I ask this house, as humbly as my royal self-permits, to grant me new taxes from which I can pay the amounts due to the Scots." Father said, before bowing again and taking his seat.

For a while the entire room was silent while father's words echoed back and forth, then, suddenly, a man from the common side stood up. His face was plump, but his eyes were sharp rather than dull, and his hair brown and straight. Seeing that his hand was up, Mr. Lenthall remarked

"Yes, Sir Edward Hyde? What do you have to say?"

"I for one sympathize with the King's plight, but I think the house's problems ought to be answered first!" He said promptly before sitting.

His words were immediately followed by cheers and boos as the house erupted into rival factions, some supporting the man's position and others disagreeing.

Another man, also from the Commons side, now stood. Lenthall gave him permission to speak.

"Hyde speaks sense! We cannot move on to help the King in his misfortunes until this house has a stable platform upon which to stand!" Before this man even sat down, another one popped up from the side of the Lords. Lenthall beckoned him to speak.

"Must I remind you gentlemen, that it is the King who summoned us? If we do not return the King's favor in allowing this house to exist once more, we are no better than the lowliest of curs, burning a bridge as soon as one has walked across it!"

The noble's accusations send the house into chaos. Even more arguments erupted after the noble's speech. The entire house was filled with bickering, with men standing up all at once, trying to add their say, while others waved, cursed, and spat at their rivals.

"Silence! Silence in the house!" Lenthall shouted, pounding his golden staff on the ground. Gradually men on both sides seated once more, and the room was quiet except for the clearing of throats and the shuffling of nervous feet.

"Gentlemen, we are here to accomplish something, not bicker! Our immediate duty is to secure for the King his necessary funds....let us ponder what taxes to raise!" Lenthall besought the house, his voice hoarse. I decided that I liked Lenthall.

"I object, honorable speaker! Until this house has the security it needs, that is, the ability to work without the constant fear of being disbanded again by the King, it is extremely unlikely anything will be accomplished here." An old man wearing a small black hat spoke. He gave a pause, waiting to see if anyone would challenge him. It seemed that this old man is one of the most powerful men in the room, for no one interrupted him. He spoke on.

"I motion for a law guaranteeing this house to meet at least once every year, and that the King cannot disband us as he will, but that the house disbands itself with its will!" The old man paused again, looking left and right, his eyes fiery, before sitting down.

Again the house exploded into shouts of anger and support. Another man got up before the situation grew out of control. This man, by the name of Pym, also seemed to have the support of many of his fellow Parliamentarians. He was an old man with sharp, greyish beard that appeared singed, coupled with small mean eyes, and indeed his words were the meanest possible coming from the cruelest of tongues.

"This King before us, my fellow Parliamentarians, disbanded this sacred house, champion of the common people of England." John Pym shouted with a booming voice. I noticed a striking similarity between his tone and those of the Earl at Golden Groove.

"11 years he ruled in tyranny, forgetting his promise and his duty to the people. While he stands in power, England suffers. While he rules, the Kingdom fades." Pym said angrily.

Father stood up in anger, his face a flurry of red. He was about to speak, however, when almost the entire left side of the bench, all the black dressed members of the house of commons, stood up to voice their support for Pym. Opposite of them, at the right, the ranks of colorfully dressed nobles of the House of Lords stood up to voice their angry objection.

Mr. Lenthall pounded his staff again and again on the granite floor. When, after much bickering, order was again restored, he sighed and looked at father.

"Your Majesty, I am deeply sorry this house cannot function as well as it used to. This is, after all, our first day back," he said carefully. Father nodded slowly, sensing something way coming next. "Because of that, I must plead your Majesty to step outside, for this house cannot function properly with you here. You shall have to remain outside," Mr. Lenthall said, raising his voice to make himself heard over all the uproar that had erupted from what he just said, "Until this house has a chance to settle!"

I know this was a deep blow to father. He stammered for a single moment, and then realized that much of what the speaker said was true, and, with his head bowed, left the room, followed closely by Verney and me. When we got back to St. James father was more or less cheerful.

"Now do you see the trouble I face? You cannot blame me for acting against this body in the past. They do nothing except to bicker; they pretend to have the interest of the people in mind when in truth they care for nothing but their own power. Every time I summon this body they do nothing but attack me."

I was feeling much less cheerful. I had pinned much hope on Parliament, believing they would end the plague that struck the royal house recently, warmly granting us sums of money to help father rule and strike down his enemies. Now I see they will more readily join father's enemy instead!

Luckily, a surprise waiting at St. James cheered me up. When our carriage stopped at the courtyard of the Royal Palace, I noticed another carriage off to the side that was not there this morning when we left. To my surprise it bore the green and red banner of Wales. "Lucy!" I thought as I jumped out of the carriage.

Indeed, as soon as I entered the palace I saw a lone man sticking out like a sore thumb among the many royal soldiers, servants and gentlemen walking around the palace. It was no one other than my brilliant friend Anthony, staring nervously at everything around him, properties of the man who Anthony's adopted father, and indeed himself, despises so much.

Upon seeing me recognition as well as relief lit in his eyes. He rushed over to me, happy at the sight of a familiar face at last.

"Prince Charles! Finally you are back! I do not fit in well with the rest of your royal friends..." He said sheepishly.

"My royal friends? They are not friends, Anthony, but servants!" I said, pointing at the pages, squires, chefs and soldiers littered all around the hall. TO my disappointment, however, I saw old hate and coldness return to Anthony's face.

"Hurrmph....royal house and royal servants...." He grunted. "Oh well, I suppose you'd be eager to see Lucy and...Digby again....they're playing with your royal siblings....royal pain in the ass......I'll lead you to them." He said, turning around and walking toward the royal gardens, his shoes clanking against the stone floor as he walked perfectly at ease through a score of royal servants. I looked back to my father for permission, but he was walking upstairs to his court, followed by a stream of servants. Thus I followed Anthony, who, of course, became lost in the grandeur of the royal palace half way, (growing bitterer in the process) and was forced to hand the lead over to me.

My siblings and my friends from Roche were all in a small secluded groove near a stream inside the vast royal gardens. Lord Walter sat sleeping on a chair next to the stream, while all the royal children and Lucy sat in a circle. Digby prowled around, watching over the entire group, while Wilmot stood in the back, thinking to himself. As I joined my friends I noticed Lady Walters was nowhere to be seen. I'll ask Lucy about her later.

The group had their lunched laid out across the blanket inside baskets. I caught sight of chocolate, white bread with cinnamon, loaves of meat crusted with black and fried in the juice of its own grease. I watched each of my siblings as they ate, their faces blank and innocent except for delight. How fortunate they are to live my old life, full of happiness and enjoyment, a life purged of responsibilities and worry! I would give anything, even my title as crown prince, to be able to live my old life again!

Lucy had turned around to look at me now, but when I looked at her face, deep into her eye, I stopped dead in the dirt path. Her face was beautiful. A cascade of dark blonde hair slightly curled at the bottom surrounds her smooth round face, large eyes and small, red lipped mouth. However, her eyes were sad. There is no longer a playful smile on her face. Her expression was all too similar to those of my father; depressed, inundated with stress, and giving up. I was completely shocked. What has happened to turn her from an angel to a soul lost in purgatory?

"Lucy, what's wrong?" I asked as I collapsed in the soft grass next to them.

For a moment a small sliver of joy filled her face again as she focused on me. Then it was gone again and she reluctantly answered my question.

"The past month or so, things had been extremely hard at Roche. My household was torn apart by arguments and chaos." She sighed. "My parents want to divorce. That's why father came here, to beg the King for his blessings."

"You sound like you want them to separate!" I pointed out in surprise.

"I do, actually. It's better for them to go their separate ways than continue staying together and always arguing." She told me.

Gingerly, very delicately and carefully, I picked up a small sugared fig with two carefully placed fingers. So carefully that not a single crumb of sugar fell off the fruit. Lucy eyed the fig intently.

"I still don't understand. I could never imagine my parents divorcing." I told her as I gently popped the fig into my mouth, smearing sugar all over my face such that little crumbs rolled off and fell into my sleeve. To my relief Lucy made a face instead of acting horrified.

"Don't worry Charles...your parents will never face the same issues my parents faced....after all, how can kings divorce?" She said, giving a little giggle.

I shrugged, keeping silent. Her face was always pleasing to behold, but now it was beautiful. The wind blew her hair into a golden river, and the sun glinted off her smooth skin.

James broke my trance.

"What happened today?" He asked boldly.

I looked at my siblings. They have all changed so much. My sister Mary was now 10. Recently she has met the prince she was betrothed to, a boy my age named William. James was eight, and very full of himself. My sister Elizabeth was now six, graceful, beautiful, and extremely cultured; she can now speak 2 different languages, and is devouring the royal library faster than a street dog devours scraps of meat. My sister Ann, a baby when we left for Scotland, was now three. She likes to giggle around me and asks many questions, but despite her nature is quite sickly. Finally there was little Henry, staring at all of us from where he sat clumsily in the grass.

"Yeah, what new things have happened to you after you left? As you have seen, my story is not so pleasing." Lucy asked me, elaborating upon James's question.

"Neither is mine. As you probably know, my father's war with the Scots ended in disaster, and he is now twice as much in need of money as he was before. Today he was forced to call on Parliament again, but they seemed much more eager to increase their own power than to answer the crisis for which they were summoned. Father believes they want to trade power for taxes, giving him funds only if they gain something from it."

From behind me Anthony walked up.

"Your father's views are ill founded. Parliament has nothing but the people's rights in mind." He said, his face bright red. "And if they seem like they're grabbing power, it's because they want a safeguard for their existence, something your father denies!"

"Hide your forked tongue, cur! It was under the King's will that Parliament exists at all, God bless his majesty. He was lenient and magnanimous, but Parliament responded with stealthy attempts to undermine the King instead of give thanks humbly!" Said Digby, quickly turning the discussion into an argument, overly eager to defend the Royal Family.

"What do you know, you filthy liar?" Anthony countered. "Who was it that cursed the Royal Family in front of the Earl when he was in need of a few pennies, just days before the King's arrival at Roche?"

All eyes turned to Digby, who stood in awkward silence for a moment. All my siblings were entranced by the argument between the two. Most of them have never seen hot words exchanged at all.

"I know not of what you speak. Do not listen to him young Lord," he said, walking over to me, gradually gaining confidence. "He words are hideous poison, and if you listen to him perhaps they will rot away at your royal brain!"

I looked at Anthony again, eager to find who spoke the truth. Anthony, however, countered with a witty remark.

"All charlatans are exposed when the fortunes of war turn against them. When a strong wind blows across the plains of Yorkshire, does the weak grass not change to the direction the wind blows, while only the strongest and noblest stand against the tide?"

Digby simply shrugged. "The prince knows who stands behind him and who stands against him," he said, looking rather intimidatingly at me. "Even the strongest tide will not budge the firm branches of his champion Digby!" He swore.

"That tide may change very soon!" Said a white figure, striding toward us. It was Chamberlain. "Parliament had made its decree....a direct challenge to the King. We will soon find how things play out. Now where do I find your father?" He asked me.

"What is their challenge?" I asked Chamberlain, nervous for father.

"I will tell you, for everyone here is the King's ally. Parliament has just passed several laws. The first one says Parliament has the right to meet once every three years. Then they went further by reinforcing that the King cannot levy new taxes, and also declared that the King cannot impose past taxes without Parliament's permission. Lastly, directly challenging the King's power, they even proclaimed the King cannot dissolve Parliament when he pleases, and that the house may only dissolve when it itself decides to do so!" Chamberlain screamed hoarsely, his face looking very much like the hideous face of a butchered goat's severed head.

"You see?" I pointed at Anthony. "the members of Parliament are nothing but power hungry cabals! They do nothing for father; they do nothing for the state; and they do nothing for the people!"

Anthony was at a loss for words, and I can tell he is attempting to excuse Parliament for its actions.

"Yes, Charles, you are brilliant!" Digby declared dramatically. "Parliament wants nothing more than to confront the King. Anthony, you damned speaker of filth! To herald support for traitors within the Kings own house! Your lies and deception are for nothing but to protect your celestial____."

Lucy interrupted him with a loud, audible groan.

"Look at how loyal Digby here has become to his new friend? Or at least, the most powerful man that currently allows him to suck up to?" She sighed.

"Why you fat lipped sow, I'll__" Digby threatened.

"Haha! Only a few days before you came, Charles, Digby was busy calling me Lady Bird and flattering me with many lovely names, but as soon as he heard of the Royal Family coming he calls me a whore! Why, if the King of France advanced upon England, would you not immediately start flattering the Dauphine?" Lucy said, staring at a blubbering Digby.

"That....you has gone too much! I draw!" Digby screamed, his hands grasping tight around the handle of his sword as he drew it out into plain sight, its polished steel glinting brightly. I looked around. Lord Walter was deep asleep, apparently drunk. Chamberlain, though an apt swordsman, does not have his sword, and none of the royal guards could find us in this vast garden. If Digby indeed makes good his threat and attacks, things could get out of hand quickly.

Indeed Digby did advance, murder in his eyes, darting his sword in menacing little jabs as he made for Lucy.

"Draw on a little girl will you?" Wilmot said, springing from the shadows where he had been and drawing his sword. "I am not familiar with your skill with your sword, and doubt I will be the final victor of the match, but I should rather die than see you put your act through!"

Digby laughed. "So says the chicken on the gutting rock! Have at you!" He called, and charged forward, his deadly sword up in the falcon position. Wilmot met him, blocking Digby's attack with his own sword, and then, swinging faster than the eyes could follow, cut at Digby's leg, but alas, Digby is much better in the fight than with his morals, and he easily dodged aside.

"Hah! You fool," Digby yelled, his sword deadly flashes as he advanced upon Wilmot. "There is no man in all England that can withstand my wrath if I let it loose!" Indeed, he was closing in on Wilmot, who was sweating already and could only remain on the defensive. I looked on, not believing my eyes. Everyone here, even the royal children, is in great danger. Digby was using a real sword, which could maim and kill, and I have my doubts about his chivalrous values. The enraged man had murder in his eyes, while Wilmot was just trying to save his own life. I might even have stepped in between them, risking myself to stop this fight had Anthony not also drawn his sword to confront Digby, who took on both of his assailants.

The three duelists were fighting in the clearing, about 10 meters from the stream, their feet trampling the laid out picnic. Their swinging, flashing blades were coming dangerously close to where we sat. When one of Digby's blows snipped of the top of a flower 6 inches from Henry's twitching little nose, I stood up.

"Rise! Get up!" I said, beckoning to my siblings. They looked at me with fear and uncertainty, petrified with fear. Half of them have probably never seen a drawn sword before. "James, grab Henry!" I pointed. Without a word my brave brother dived in between the duelists to where little Henry sat. "Are you all dumb? Com'on, come with me!" I said, running to Ann and picking her up. The rest of my siblings all got up, following me as I walked to the other side of the stream, where we can observe the fight from relative safety. Chamberlain ran off to call guards, and Lord Walter was left where he slept, for he was fairly far away from the duelists. Once we were all safe on the other side of the stream, we watched the fight with interest once again. Thus I was extremely surprised when I turned around to see father standing behind me, in the shadow of Verney.

"That lad Digby is a fine swordsman...." Father said, stroking his little beard.

"None finer." Agreed Verney. "If he was my size I would have a hard time beating him."

Indeed, Digby was now advancing mercilessly upon his opponents, whose swings were now wild and not concentrated. I knew both men were on the fine edge of defeat, and looked up at father to see if he was going to let this happen.

"End this fight now, Verney." Father commanded.

With a roar the six foot tall giant rushed upon the fighters, his sword overhead in the menacing falcon position. All three duelists quickly stopped their fight to acknowledge this new threat. Digby was good. He was fast and agile. Anthony and Wilmot are not bad either, but nothing could match the unstoppable wall of pure force that was Verney. The loyal champion was an ox, a bear, and a lynx, a true masterpiece of swordsmanship, and despite being in his forties now he managed to defeat the duelists. With one sword swing he knocked Anthony's sword out of his hand, and with a kick he crunched both Wilmot and Digby bodily down onto the ground.

With all of the duelists helpless, Verney turned to us to make sure we were all safe and sound. Then, he strode back to where we watched with wide eyes, father proudly surveying his champion's performance. Wilmot and Anthony were humble and gracious, but Digby, who sat groaning in pain, and had a look of vengeance in his eyes.

"What is your name?" Father said, pointing at Digby.

"Digby, your majesty. I am part of your son's retinue." Digby replied with as much dignity as possible.

"Ahh....is that so Charles?" He asked me. I gave a shrug. "You must be a talented man then, since you are the first member of my son's retinue. I already know your skill with the sword. What other talent can you boast of?" Father asked.

"Ah sir, I have many talents. I can make eloquent speeches, I can spin great tales, and my skill with politics is not to be underestimated!" Digby boasted.

"Is that so? Well then, Digby, I am in need of a minister right now...perhaps you can fit the job. Charles, I will need to borrow your "retainer" for a while," he told me. I shrugged. Father turned back to Digby. "Come to court tomorrow morning and we will see if you speak the truth," Father said, before walking off toward the palace. Digby grinned from ear to ear. Lucy rolled her eyes.

Digby's boast was soon put to the test. The very next day things began to heat up again. My little sister Ann, who just started to walk and blubber incessantly about everything she saw caught a cold and died after a week of fever on December 6, 1640. The Royal Family was shocked. No one will forget the look in her eyes when she asked mother why God wanted her to die. Meanwhile, Parliament, after passing several bills which secured its survival, saw the Royal Family's tragedy and, interpreting it as a moment of weakness, started to go on the offensive, accusing the King of wilder and wilder things. Several members of the House of Commons who declared themselves to be royalists were attacked and denounced until it was unsafe for them to remain in Westminster, and they were forced to resign.

Father welcomed these loyal men into the House of Lords, and it seemed that, after so much unnecessary conflict, Parliament would finally calm down and grant the King the taxes he needed, but alas, once a beggar has tasted a rich man's food, he will always be ravenous for it. In a direct challenge to father's authority, the House of Commons arrested poor Wentworth at his home and made him stand trial for treason! Father was furious, but before he could intervene the House of Commons had unanimously voted on the execution of Wentworth. According to the law, however, they need the compliance of the House of Lords to execute ministers of the state. The House of Lords, obviously, did not consent. Thus after a few days of debates the House of Commons produced an old law that had not been in effect since the Italian Renaissance. That law claimed the House of Commons could arrest and execute ministers of the state if they receive the King's consent. Father, obviously, would not consent to the execution of his favorite minister. For four months, things remained the same while tension built up. Then, things exploded. The Irish, hearing of the arrest of their generous and charismatic governor, had decided to rebel. This set a wild fire through the benches of the House of Commons, as they were now certain that Wentworth was in league with the Irish Catholics. In desperation they sent father an ultimatum. Either consent to the execution of Wentworth, or face hell. Father, however, was not going to relent. He ordered the dragoon to keep their horses saddled and warmed up, in case they should be called upon to fight. For a day things seemed to be at a standstill. The House of Commons was openly debating whether rebellion and treason was needed, while father was preparing his dragoons to strike down the House. At a time when a full blown rebellion seemed certain, Wentworth made the ultimate sacrifice. In a noble, persuasive letter addressed to the King he argued the peace and stability of the state is more important than his own life, and that Charles should consent to his execution in order to prevent War. After much debating Father finally complied, and the next day Wentworth's handsome head rolled off the wooden block at a square in the center of London.

Tensions could have abated now, but the Irish, infuriated by the execution of their favorite governor, rose up in full, unrestrained rebellion. Soon all of Ireland dissolved in chaos. Realizing their mistake of executing Wentworth too late, the House of Commons was resolved to cover up the problem and blame it on someone else. A few weeks later Archbishop Laud's head rolled off for the greater good of peace. Seeing their success, the House decided to issue the ultimate challenge. They issued a public notice condemning her Majesty Queen Marie Henrietta of France and ordering her to stand trial for treason. This rash action, declaring war on both England and France, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Although most of father's ministers, including the new Edward Hyde and Lucious Cary urged father to wait a while until the situation became more clear, and Cavendish sent an express note from York urging father to remember Wentworth's sacrifice and proceed carefully, father, urged on by Digby and a few other ministers who gained their position by flattering father, decided to arrest the 5 most influential member of the House of Commons. I still remember that fateful night.

I was awakened by father's angered howl. "How dare this.....commoner," he said, his voice wavering, "this insolent excuse of a man....Chamberlain! Tell Sir Hopton and Sir Waller to prepare their company of dragoons for duty.....," Father said. Then, pounding his fist on the table in rage, he shouted again:

"Make that four, mobilize four companies of dragoons!"

In half an hour, four hundred dragoons, armed with pistols and swords, galloped down London's streets, led by father, with an arrest verdict in hand. Verney and I followed behind on a black charger. We arrived within 20 minutes, and the house was caught completely unprepared. Father's troops surrounded them on all sides before dismounting, the encirclement so tight that not a small beetle could have slipped through. Then, the doors were opened by Verney and the Soldiers marched inside in two lines, one on either side. When all the soldiers were inside father walked in, followed by Verney and me, flanked on both sides by saluting dragoons. The house was absolutely furious. It was especially full today, and the stadiums were absolutely packed with men. Both members of the House of Commons and the House of Lords stoenod up, yelling and cursing while throwing whatever they had in hand at father, whether it be paper or hats. Father came to a stop directly in front of Lenthall, who was seated on his great chair.

Father looked around, scanning the benches. None of the five men he wanted to arrest was present. I felt a giant void growing in the middle of my confidence. We were winning. Parliament's little rebellion had seemed sure to fall, but now they have escaped our trap!

All was quiet except for the loud breathing of the furious king. On both sides, the packed benches, men nervously shuffled left and right.

"I have here a warrant for the arrest of five members of this house,. I demand you to hand them over to me, Mr. Speaker." Father ordered.

Lenthall's ratty eyes flitted left and right. I noticed him concentrated for a long time on the House of Commons. Then, clearing his throat, he replied "May it please your Majesty, I have neither eye to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as the House is pleased to direct me..." He paused. "Whose servant I am here."

Everything was silent as the man's words sunk in.

"I'll have you hung for treason!" Father threatened.

Lenthall didn't move, keeping his head bowed in silence.

Looking left and right for one more time, grunting in the process, Father turned and left. The soldiers behind him followed. As we rode back through the streets, the townspeople that had to dodge out of the way increased. They also seemed much angrier than before. Several cursed and swore at us. Others threw rocks. The situation only worsened the next day, when a large crowd gathered outside the gates of the palace, shouting and screaming obscene expressions at father. By afternoon the crowd had swelled to thousands, who began pushing against the gate. All of London was rising against us.

That very night, father ordered us to pack our belongings and prepare to flee the city. Many in the palace were deeply distraught by this, as we still had the upper hand in this contest with Parliament. Digby, in particular, went to great length attempting to convince father that the royal dragoons could easily disperse the rioters and burn down the Parliamentary buildings. I sympathized with father's decision, as poor as it was, however, because I knew father loved his subjects and refused to shed the blood of any citizens of his Kingdom. At the same time he could not tolerate the danger the rioters posed to his beloved family, and as a result we prepared to leave London. Mother, her retinue of courtiers, maids, bodyguards, Hudson the dwarf, and my little brother Henry of Gloucester would go to the port and secretly leave by ship for France, while Father would take the rest of us, his generals, army, and ministers to his western stronghold of Oxford.

As the servants prepared our carriages for the long trip ahead, I sat on a large stone near the gate of St.James, cursing Parliament. What right do they have, to evict father from his own house? What a faithless body they are, taking advantage of the trusting nature of their benefactor?

Everything around me was in chaos. The royal house was reduced to heaps of disorderly servants, heading left and right. Soldiers trotted around on horses nervously, some still fastening on their breast plates. Suddenly someone approached me from behind.

"Parliament forces this upon you only because you have attempted to force Parliament from its house." He said, sitting down next to me. Anthony.

"Anthony! You know of our plight?" I asked him. Looking at his kind, sympathetic face I felt a bit calmed.

"Yes I am informed..." He sighed. "It saddens me."

"Will you not come with us? We are going to Oxford, where father will reorganize and come back in force." I told him. "You'll enjoy our little vacation there. The city is supposed to be beautiful....a golden valley." I said, attempting to lift my own spirits.

"No....I must take my place next to Parliament, where my allegiance lies. I understand you, I know your side of the argument.....I'm sorry Charles, but I cannot go with you." He apologized. "We'll still be friends though." After a pause he added "And you won't be without friends. Thumbs will go with you, right?" He asked.

I gazed at him sadly. "Yes, he will, but I would hesitate to term him as my friend. He's too gloomy now days....." I sighed. "My friends are disappearing one by one. If only my father had more friends." I sighed. "What will you do now? Join Parliament in their condemnation of father?" I asked.

"I fear I have little choice. My guardian would want me to join the Parliamentary army, which is sure to look for recruits soon...I fear we may meet again, but on the battle field." He told me. "But, you have no need to fear me....your friend Digby is a much better swordsman than I, and if we do meet on the battlefield I will be the hunted." He grinned.

I did not join him in his laughter. "Villiers has often told me how glorious war is...but Wentworth, who your friends have recently murdered, is often against it. He said war is too pointless, too random. Even the greatest genius, the most brilliant of men could be struck down by one stray bullet. If we meet on the battle field, it would be more likely for us to be killed by a stray cannon ball than by each other's swords." I signed.

"And cannon balls hits everything except what they are aimed at." Anthony agreed. "Still....I must leave now...stay close to your friend Wilmot. He is a good man." Anthony said. "Good luck....may the best man win." He grinned, patted me on the back, and walked for the gates of the palace. I looked after his retreating figure. Another friend, walking away from me.

Half an hour later, a huge procession of 30 or so carriages, including 2 Welsh ones, flanked by some 900 dragoons exited St. James, squeezed through the rioting crowds, and left the vicinity of London. Father led the column on a great white horse. As we left, I sadly looking at the disappearing palace of St. James, I did not realize that I would not return to the city of London until 20 years later.

Chapter 2 Prince Rupert

There had been a great change in father the past 4 years, which I have observed and took note of. When the first "disaster" broke out, father had been depressed, almost traumatized. Now, as the shocks gradually sunk in and he grew more used to them, he often tried to fix the problem instead of just sitting in stunned surprise. Even as we drove away from London in the night, father was planning on how to take back what was rightfully his. Father rode on a great horse instead of in his carriage, flanked by his dragoons and ministers. Throughout the entire trip to Oxford, western England, father made plans with his captains and ministers, several of whom won over from the House of Commons, including Edward Hyde and Luscious Cary, who was always preaching to the King about his strange ideas. I spent the trip in my carriage with my brother James and Thumbs. Everyone was silent the entire journey, avoiding each other's gazes.

One day, about half way between London and Oxford, a lone horseman clad in armor encountered us on the paved road. When we drew close I saw the man to have a dark, swarthy composure, with large lips and warm, dark eyes which shone with intelligence and cunning.

Verney, who led the column, brought it to a stop. Seeing this, the man dismounted and bowed.

"Sir Fairfax here, at your service." He said to father.

Father nodded. "I have heard of you. What is your business, such that you stop the Royal Procession?"

"I came, sir, to stop you from continuing a grave mistake!" He said.

"If you come to halt my procession to Oxford, I will have you arrested, for it is well known that Sir Fairfax values his Parliament over his king." Father told him blandly.

"Sir, please listen to what I have to say." Fairfax begged. "You must give in and make peace to Parliament! If you do not, the___"

Father gave his horse a light kick. The courser began to walk forward.

"Speak not of peace. I shall never give in to the rebels. I will either be a glorious king or a patient martyr!" Father swore.

"Sire! Lord, I am trying to save you from the road of that Martyr!" Fairfax begged.

"If you are indeed, you would not try to stop me from going to Oxford. Everyminute lost now is precious, for I need to organize my court and draft troops there." The King shouted back has his horse picked up speed into a trot. The whole procession began to move forward again.

"If you will not hear my pleas, perhaps you will read it at your own leisure later!" Fairfax said, running forward and sticking a white letter into father's boot. Father pretended not to notice, only nudged his horse into a gallop. Fairfax was left in the mud as the procession stormed past. As I passed the man I thought I would look upon the ratty, cunning face of a rebel, one who has renounced his sacred oath to the King, but alas I saw only disappointment and genuine sadness as we passed the knight.

After a week of traveling, our flight finally ended at the royalist stronghold at Oxford. The city was truly a wonder. Built with a taste of classical Greece in mind, it had no walls and all the houses had roofs of red tiles. The renaissance has influenced Oxford in many different ways; there was a museum, a library, and even a university. The city was set in the middle of a large ravine covered with the colorful trees of autumn and located near a large numbers of little streams that snake their way through the ravine. Not only was the city beautiful, but it was easily defended. All the paths that lead to Oxford are narrow and windy, and should they be fortified would be impenetrable to large armies. Adding to the perfection of our new home was the huge Royalist population of Oxford, who welcomed father's arrival with cheers instead of jeers, upholding their sacred oath of loyalty to their king. Why, my father's enemies could never touch this haven!

The very first day we arrived father began to build his foundations. The Royal Family, (now down to father, Mary, James, Elizabeth and me) settled in the city hall, which was quickly converted to a palace for our stay. Father established his court in the meeting room of his great hall, which was quickly renovated to look like father's court back in St. James. Here, the House of Lords and the Privy Council were combined to make his governing body. All of father's main ministers are relatively new. There was Edward Hyde and Lucious Cary, one who was friendly and the other strange. There was Digby, who received his post through careful words of flattery, and then there were several generals who had served father for years, including Goring, Wilmot, and Hopton, who father made a commander. Hopton's sworn brother Waller has refused to flee with the King and "betray" his country, and has instead defected to Parliament. Hopton, of course, still wishes to maintain his friendship with Waller, despite the near certainty of the two Generals meeting on the battlefields, for both would likely be sent to their native Wessex. I am glad Anthony and me will probably never meet on the battlefield.

With his foundations set, and a wartime capital established, father began to prepare for total war. He dispatched letters to all his nobles, great and small, asking them to declare for him. Many did, as father treated his nobles justly, but a few in Eastern England refused, as they had been heavily taxed during the last few years when father had no money, declaring instead for Parliament. By the end of March, the situation that faced England has gradually become clearer. Much of Southern and Eastern England had fallen to the rebels, surrounding London with a large, protective ring. Northern England, however, under the control of Cavendish in York, declared for father, as did Wales, which pledged it allegiance to the King before we even fled London. Wessex was engulfed its own little war, with part of the region declaring for father and parts of it declaring for the rebels. Seeing this, father dispatched Hopton with a small army of 200 dragoons south, promising the unsettled man title and nobility if he can win it over for father. Hopton agreed hesitantly, knowing full well that Waller would likely have been given a similar task from Parliament.

England was almost divided evenly in half, but it was Parliament that held the initial advantage. The body of traitors had made plans for an army even before they ousted my father from London. They had bribed many nobles of Eastern England to side with them, and thus as soon as open hostilities began, the rebels had ammunition contributed by the nobles as well as land on which to draft soldiers. What's more, the rebels has also bribed their way into father's navy, which shrewdly declared for the rebels, adding about 100 ships to the rebellion and allowing those men in Parliament naval superiority throughout the war. The true advantage they held over father, however, was that the traitors were almost rolling in money. They had refused to impose any taxes when father asked, but as soon as father was ousted they laid heavy taxes on the people whom they claimed to represent. At the same time Parliament also boasted of an effective array of Generals, including Essex, Fairfax, and Sir Waller. Parliament's army was now recruiting at full speed, swelling every day.

Father, on the other hand, was in a much narrower straight. Much of the royal army was in Ireland, putting down Irish rebellions. Other than his 700 bodyguards, (now down to just 500 men) he must rely on the troops committed by those nobles still loyal to him, as he had no money to hire soldiers otherwise. Those nobles and their relatives would often arrive at Oxford with a small force of trained men, ranging from 20 peasants to 500 trained musketeers. However, while our army also grew continuously, it was much less coherent than those of the rebels, as each noble wanted to be the commander of his own company. This problem would remain unsolved until May, when father moved north with a small force to meet Cavendish at York and encountered a small fleet of Dutch warships.

They were already nearing shore when scouts ahead reported back to father, who was greatly surprised and unsettled, not knowing what to expect. One advantage we had over the rebels was foreign relationships. England's allies before the rebellion had all refused to recognize the rebels and pledged to help father. The King's allies included Spain, the Netherlands, Sweden, and even France, which, though a traditional enemy of the English, was won over with the help of mother, Marie Henrietta, the sister of King Louis the Eighth. None of the countries, however, had the extra resources to promise to send an overseas force into England for father; at least not yet. Thus for all that father could guess, this fleet could be the harbinger of a foreign invasion.

With our motley army of 500 dragoons, about 5,000 royalist volunteers that joined on our march north and the unruly mess of 4,000 professional soldiers lead by the nobles, father moved toward the beaches to contest the landing. By the time we arrived, the flagship of the fleet of nine Dutch men-of-war was already beached on the shore.

"Who dares violate the sacred shores of England?" Father demanded, attempting to sound intimidating.

A man emerged over the side of the ship. He was dressed in a colorful shirt of red, brown and dark green, wearing a ridiculously large brimmed hat, and treading in huge boots. In his hand he gripped a strange sword, Longer and more thin than the swords of England, but curved so it cannot be a French sword.

"Who am I? Alas to the day that I was captured at Linz, when the world in all its wretchedness forgot my name! I am the commander of the fifth Palatine regiment of horses, the destroyer of the walls of Breda and of Rhineberg, the son of fair Elizabeth and her dear Frederick, and the noble friend of Gustav Adolph, and yet to have one's name so low that his dear uncle asks him who he is!" screamed the man. From his left a little white head peered out suspiciously at us. It was the head of a small white poodle.

"Oh my noble Boye, my friend Boye, those men down there have no hearts!" He pointed at us. "But we shall meet them anyways, for we are wanted neither in Spain nor France nor Wonderful Germany." He said, jumping off the side of the ship and into the waist high waves even as his crew extended a plank off the side for him to walk down. His dog followed.

"Rupert?" Father asked, still suspicious, as the man splashed toward us.

"Ay, tis me!" Said the man, running at father while his little white dog swam after him. "Back from the Dungeons!" He laughed merrily as he stumbled out of the waves and onto the sand, sheathing his sword. I took a closer look at his face. The man was handsome, with long curls of brown hair, sharp, piercing eyes, a sharp nose and a handsome mustache. He came to a stop directly in front of father. No one moved to stop him, for it seems that father's staff had recognized the man.

"Sire, here I have almost a thousand trained horsemen, fresh from the Spanish prisons to join you in your war!" He said jokingly.

"A thousand men is a thousand, and I trust they have to be rightfully veteran to survive the Siege of Linz" Father replied.

"Ay they did. These horsemen will make the Knights of King Arthur tremble in fear!" He boasted.

"That is good news! I trust you can command these men with little effort?" Father asked.

"Yes!" The man said. "Why? Are you so afraid of the furies of my dogs that you force me to put leashes of them?" The man bent down to pet his poodle, which had caught up after shaking itself dry.

"Well, that too, but you see, I have myself a fine force of almost 10,000 men, but no one to lead it and train it." Father signed.

"Ahh! I see your problem. Uncle, you are like the French, hiding their true intentions behind questions and hints. I would love to take command of your army, but I fear I am sorely unfit for the job! Although I have marched with the men for nine years now, I am still only twenty-two, and most of my experience in the Thirty Years War was spent leading regiments of dashing cavalry rather than whole armies. To be frank, Sir, I fear I have as little experience managing campaigns as has that infidel John Pym!"

Father hid his disappointment behind a smile. "It is well then....you shall be the lord of all the horses in the Royalist army, and should my men doubt you because of your age, send them to me, and I shall tell them stories of your heroic victories in the Thirty Years War!" father declared.

"Oh you flatter me, Uncle. They are but raids." Rupert blushed. His dog yelped from where it stood, attentively listening to the conversation.

"And of course, my Boye here" Rupert said, picking up his dog "contributed more to those victories than I myself did." He gave a wink.

Father laughed as he turned to face the ships.

"I hope you do not speak of witchcraft, for there are many religious men in my ranks!" He joked. "Oh well. Unload your ships, and we can march north towards York in one body!"

Rupert bowed deeply, a flourish of grace, motioning to the men on his ships to come ashore. They did, walking down the planks from all three ships. None of them had armor or weapon, but all of them were large, burly men that carried themselves upright, their eyes bright, so different from the drafted peasants, who slouched and looked only at the ground on the march. Rupert was true to his words. These men were veterans straight from prison.

Our march north quickly resumed after Rupert's men joined our ranks. I was very interested in his dog, who I found playful and intelligent. Instead of being carried by Rupert on his horse, the small dog ran tirelessly next to its master, barking at the joy of being off the ship. Throughout the trip north I rode near Rupert, asking him many questions and found the young man to be brilliant, innovative, and positive. It's refreshing to finally talk to someone who does not disguise every word in flowery language and sew their intentions with flattery. For example, when I asked Rupert why he credited his successful career in Europe to his dog, he smiled and asked me a personal question.

"The stink of Emperor Charles's prisons have befuddled my memory. How old are you now Charles?" He asked.

"I just turned 13." I told him, confused by his strange response to my question.

"Ah...then no doubt you will be present when we confront the rebels. Follow me disguised as part of my retinue if you'd like, and you can participate in some of my less risky raids.....that is, less risky because I chose when to attack." He said, before cursing good naturedly at his dog, who yelped in objection.

I frowned at Rupert's answer at the same time as I inflated like a balloon from excitement.

"Participate in your raids! I'd love to! Will you give me weapons, and armor, and let me pretend to be a member of your horsemen?" I beseeched him.

"Yes, of course. But we will have to be careful to make sure you fit in with the rest of my band, so that the enemy does not know who you actually are and put less priority on shooting you. You will, of course, be strictly forbidden from engaging any enemy!" He told me. My balloon deflated a slight bit, but I stilled grinned at the thought of the opportunity I had just been offered.

When we arrived at York Rupert started to whip the army into shape. He immediately contributed his own sums to father's cause and asked others to do the same. Many nobles did gladly, with Cavendish going as far as renting his estates and throwing his entire fortune at the King. With this new sum Rupert began recruiting volunteers from Royalists regions throughout England. These men were equipped with pikes or muskets and trained by veterans of past war from whatever village they came. To expunge the noble's stubborn insistence of leading their own men in battle, Rupert put all the nobles, father's dragoons, as well as some of the trained horsemen contributed by the nobles, into an organized body of horsemen, which would be known as the Cavaliers throughout the war. They would later build up a reputation of being stylish, well dressed in plumed hats, laced shirts of bright colors and large boot, frivolous, bold and daring, capable of being polite, and extremely well-armed and well trained. (Most nobles were trained in swordsmanship at a young age, and could afford quality armor and chargers.) Every single member of father's cavaliers would copy Rupert's wild, shoulder length hair. These men would indeed be a hammer for the King in the coming war, putting to shame the Parliamentary cavalry, (which consisted of little more than drafted peasants given weapons and put on plow horses).

With father's army continuously growing and training, a war plan began to form. I was allowed to attend father's council of war, and learned much as a result. Since the rebels drafted peasants to bolster their ranks, they could call upon a force of 20,000 men with ease, while father could only boast of 10,000. However, it was said that the Royal army is of much higher quality and had higher morale, with Digby (in a fit to please the King) claiming the royal army consists of honorable men wanting to maintain their loyalty to the King rather than join Parliament's army of slaves and hired cut throats. Regardless of the truth behind Digby's statement, all of father's generals opted for a quick, decisive punch at the Parliamentary army, fracturing it and capturing London, putting the war at end with one pitched battle and a few sieges at best. Thus, on the 21st of August father and his army of 9,000 men departed from Oxford and forced marched straight for London, intending to bypass the Parliamentary army, (getting between the Rebel army and London) and thus force the rebels to attack on grounds of our choosing. The force march worked. Near Nottingham our scouts reported the Parliamentary Army to be garrisoned in the Town, led by Devereux of Essex, one of father's rebellious Nobles. Rupert led his force of cavalry, numbering in the 2,000s, circling around Nottingham before heading north. Rupert's move paid off, and Essex led his army north to follow Rupert's cavalry. Father's army gave the rebels a wide berth as they slipped past, and before the Earl knew it, we were between his army and London, and a desperate race began. If father's forces can outrun the forces of Parliament and capture London with the rebels behind us, then the war was as good as won. If the Parliamentary army does catch up, a great pitched battle would have to be fought.

Try as he might, however, father's men were slowed down by the baggage train and the artillery pieces, and soon Essex's cavalry was nipping at the tail of our column. Seeing this Rupert led 1,000 horsemen to confront the rebel vanguard, a force numbering about 1,500. I slipped away from father's side and confronted Rupert, asking if I will be able to go along with him. He consented, and found me a small sized uniform/armor, and gave me a pistol. (I had wanted a sword, but he told me I would never be allowed to get close enough to use a sword.) As he helped me onto a juvenile charger, he warned me seriously (the first time I have seen him behave seriously thus far) to stay at the back of the squadrons and not to do anything to attract attention. I promised, and the band departed.

For two hours we galloped west, attempting to seek out the enemy band of pursuing cavalry men. Rupert sent several scouts about two miles ahead of the main column, and they would contributed partly to our eventual victory, but only Rupert's (and Boye's) talent gave us the decisive victory we were able to achieve.

Near the little town of Worcester, at about five in the afternoon, our scouts found the main enemy column setting up camp and preparing to rest for the night, probably intending to get a good night's sleep before rising early and striking father's army the next da. The swift scouts quickly reported their findings to Rupert, who's eyes glistened like any good tactician's would when they find an enemy's blunder.

"Men, ready your weapon, don your armor....we are about to strike at some infidels!"

The horsemen, all of whom have taken off their armor in the heat of the march, began to dismount to replace it.

"No no, you understood me wrong! We have no time to loose. Put on your armor while we charge!" He commanded. "Right now we make for the enemy camp."

Reluctantly, the men all mounted their horses as the squadron began to gallop again.

Rupert divided his column into two squadrons of 500 men each. He personally led one, and handed command of the other to his old mentor, Sir Jacob Astley. With his squadron Rupert rode to the other side of the rebel camp, so we would be able to attack the rebels from both sides. We were about 500 yards from the enemy camp, and they still hadn't noticed us.

The camp was actually fairly heavily defended. There was a ditch surrounding the rebel tents, and several musket armed sentries were on guard, walking around the camp. Near the center of the tents I can see the parliamentarian banner raised. It was very simple, blood red with a white cross in the upper left corner. It seemed so barbaric, so over looked when compared to father's royal banner.

Rupert smacked his lips as if the enemy camp was one ripe plum, but he did not give the order to attack. I was very confused, as to me, everything seemed to be in order. Our men were lined up, the enemy was as prepared as he would ever be...I looked at Rupert, my eyes silently asking "Why aren't we attacking?"

"Now you are about to find out why they in Europe call me the "mad cavalier".....where my reputation for recklessness and boldness comes from." He chuckled, glancing down at his feet.

My eyes followed his and rested on the dog Boye. As crazy as it seems, the white poodle seemed to be concentrating intensely. It had one foot lifted, and it kept on tilting its head left and right, as if it was making a tough decision. It must have finally contented itself, for it gave a yelp and started trotting forward, right towards the enemy camp!

"The raid shall succeed!" Rupert shouted, giving his horse a kick and sending it into a gallop for the camp. All around him, the other horses picked up speed. I was bewildered. Rupert lets a dog decide whether he will attack or not! To our left a trumpeter blew several notes on his instrument, signaling our attack. Hopefully Astley on the other side of the camp will also launch his attack. All around me, the air was filled with the clop clop sound made by galloping horses. I even heard the flapping of armor, as many of the men had not had time to fully strap on their armor. As we galloped toward the enemy camp, I couldn't help but wonder at the dog. It was extremely small and looked so fragile, but it charged forward bravely, running ahead of all the horsemen, yelping the entire way. Surely, I thought, the dog would be killed in the coming fray, but somehow I know it would not. This dog has survived hundreds of skirmishes, and each time it came out smarter than the last.

Up ahead we saw the sentries running about, and rebels beginning to pile out of tents, desperate to form a line. It was too late however. The horses of Rupert's cavalry easily leapt over the ditch surrounding the camp, and they fell upon the rebels in seconds. Sabers flashing, pistols firing, the horsemen cut down enemy after enemy. I stayed well in the back, truthful to Rupert's orders, watching the fray. The chargers spread great havoc among the enemy, knocking down tents, kicking down men, while their riders hacked left and right at their virtually defenseless enemies.

As I watched, however, I heard footstep near me.

There was a fair sized man standing behind me, dressed in a green shirt, which is smeared with yellow dirt. His face was red, and the skin of his neck wrinkly. His hair was loose and light in the wind and his face winced in pain. I guessed he was knocked down by horses. Indeed, his left arm hung awkwardly. I felt sick looking at it, but my eyes were drawn away to his, which glared at me intently. It was glassy and desperate. In his right hand he held a blade, one of cheap quality that you would find in a farmer's cottage, but a blade all the same. He held it menacingly as he advanced. I felt rooted to the spot.

"No...No.." I whispered under my breath. He continued his advance, stubbornly intent on running me through, taking his time as he made his approach. Within 3 feet of me he lifted the sword and prepared to swing. I couldn't move, but my horse probably felt the man's evil intentions, and, feeling nervous, attempted to leap forward right when the man swung his weapon. The horse's last second action saved my life. The sword swing, originally to hew off my vulnerable arm, instead glanced off the high quality armor on my back. My horse jumped away in fear. This series of actions jolted me to attention, and hastily I produced my pistol, which hung around my belt. Shakily, without thinking I leveled it at the man, and, not even bothering to aim, discharged the weapon at the surprised man. There was a tremendous boom, and I dropped the pistol. My horse and I were shrouded in smoke. The man stalking me was gone. He lay on the ground, writhing on the ground like a fish out of the water. Blood was oozing out of a peanut sized hole in his chest, flowing away into the ground. His face was pale white, in stark contrast to the crimson blood that was smeared all over him.

I lost track of time after that. Perhaps it was a minute later, or half an hour, but Rupert sounded the horn of retreat, and our great throng of horsemen began streaming out of the camp and jumping the ditch once again. I didn't know how to make my horse turn, but luckily it followed its fellow horses, and we rode out of the half burning camp.

I met Rupert outside as our band rode away. He was cleaning his sword. Boye was near him, his white fur covered with dirt. We had lost only two horsemen and twenty three wounded, most with fairly minor injuries. Rupert was rightfully merry from his feat.

"Ay, my little friend? How many rebels did you slay?" He asked me. His eyes were full of joy, but I also glimpsed a bit of triumph, of arrogance in his eyes.

"I....I think I killed someone." I said remorsefully. Another wave of vomit was building up. Trying to take my mind off my disgust I turned to Rupert. "Why did you retreat though?"

"Ah....Boye decided when to retreat....he realized that if we lingered too long our horsemen would be bogged down and destroyed by the enemy infantry, so we must leave before the enemy could get organized....still, I'd say we killed fifty of them and crippled another 200 out of the war." He gave a slight laugh. "Now, tell me about this kill of yours!"

"I.....he was advancing on my with a sword, so I produced my pistol and shot at him.......but....I hope he's not dead!" I cried.

"Not dead? You wuss, you should be jolly at your first kill. You are now a man! I'll tell you, that was an awfully nice shot. Dead center in the stomach. No man can survive that!" He chuckled as he rode away.

An image of the man, falling flat on his face flashed through my head. How could I kill him? What right do I have to take his life? He was once a boy, playing happily in the field. He had a mama that loved and cared for him. He was a well polished thing, fed, cared for, loved, a master piece of his parents and his clan. He had thoughts, beleifs, passions, he was so big, so much, so overwhelming. How could all this be brought to an abrupt stop by a pull of a finger, by the innocent flight of a ball of lead? As he lay there dying, he must have took note of everything around his final resting place. The dirt, the blood, the smell of powder in the air. What a terrible way, what a terrible place to die!

My eyes trailed after the disappearing figure of Rupert. How could he digest taking a man's life so easily, with so little thought? Does he not feel the guilt crushing him? How can he still maintain a jolly demeanor immediately after he executed a maneuver that led to the death of so many people?

Then I jolted to reailty. Something didn't add up. Rupert's laugh, as he left. It was jolly, it was lighthearted, but it was also pretty cocky. Rupert had said I shot the man in the stomach. How could he have known that? It was as if he nearby when I shot. I looked down at my belt. My pistol! I reached for it, then groaned when I realized I had dropped it in the camp. It came flashing back to me. I had never loaded that thing! Rupert had told me when he handed it to me. He had put some powder in the gun for me, in case I get lost or fall into trouble, so I could use the gun as a flare. He didn't put a bullet in it though, cause he told me he never expect me to use it. If there was never a bullet in the gun, then....

I looked up at the retreating form of Rupert. He was chatting with a soldier now, a jolly smile on his face and eyes twinkling. They seemed as innocent as those of my brother Henry, so different from the cold eyes I would expect on the face of a murderer. Is it possible? Rupert was a full 20 feet away when my assailant was shot. There was no way he could hit him from that far away. But then, I didn't shoot the man.....it could only be him!

Rupert was so humble! I realized shockingly. He puts his brilliant victories on his dog, and he doesn't even boast about saving my life! What a star, what a genius! With him leading father's army, victory would always be in sight, I thought to myself. This would be put to the test in less than a week at Edgehill, the "decisive" pitched battle father's staff had dreamed about.

Chapter 3: Edgehill

Rupert's raid had been even more successful than he himself had guessed. 400 Rebel horsemen had become the first casualties of Parliament's rebellion. The raid had stunned Essex so much that he halted his army for two days so that it would be in one bunch rather than spread out before continuing the march. By mid-October it was clear father's army was going to reach London before Essex caught up to us. The men at the camp were elated. The rebellion was about to be snuffed out almost as soon as it began, and they were about to go home with their lives, a handsome pension, and the right to boast of being a British soldier.

Quite unfortunately for them, however, father's staff decided differently. En route to London, near a little village known as Edgehill, the army chanced upon a series of natural ridges that, as if crafted by God, formed perfect redoubts, bastions and interlocking fields of fire. Rupert and most of his fellow generals, as well as several older nobles, with their eyes fastened on the bigger prize, London, urged father to continue the march, while many of the younger nobles and junior officers urged father to postpone and wait for Essex here. Digby, who was eager for political as well as military recognition by the King, sided with them and patronized their arguments. I chanced to hear their fateful conversation that day, riding a small charger behind the two.

"My liege! These positions, if manned, would be like rocks on which the waves of rebels would break on." He told father.

The King hesitated. "Yet we can secure London if we continue the march!"

"Yes, but think of the prize here. We are between Essex and London. He will be forced to assault these positions. Then, we can have not only London, but also destroy the rebel army. Then we can hunt down all the traitors like wolves take a deaf farmer's sheep!" Digby exclaimed, excited at the prospect.

Father still hesitated. "Rupert tells me to hurry for London!"

Digby's face turned red. "Rupert is a fool, a retard in the art of leading men! He only wants glory for himself. He came to England just to build up his fame and wants to return back to the continent as soon as possible," Digby told father angrily. I thought it ironic that Digby, who lacked military education and had no experience in leading men was accusing Rupert of being militarily retarded. Seeing that father still hesitated, Digby whistled into the air. On both sides of father the men who support taking position on the ridges rode up to father. In unison they begged the King. I saw my father grow tense.

"Sire...these men can see the true prize, the destruction of Essex's army." Digby paused, and his face tightened. "Why, give us but 500 men, and we would stay behind and engage the entire rebel army!"

Father sighed. "Very well.....tell the men to stop the march and resume for Edgehill."

Hearing this I peeled off from father's column, desperate to find Rupert. He would be extremely angry when he hear the news. I figured he would try to persuade the King to resume the march on London, and the sooner he knows about what just occurred, the more likely he will be of succeeding.

Rupert and his cavalry were faithfully screening ahead of the main army when I found them. He greeted me enthusiastically and offered me a drink from his water bag. I drunk and got a mouthful of ale, which I spat out.

"Ahh young baggage, what's this, ruining my good ale?" He asked, pretending to be annoyed.

"Rupert! Drinking is forbidden in the army!" I informed him, surprised.

"God's guzzard, is it not okay to celebrate before the army gets disbanded? The uprising will be put down in a few days' time, and when it does I will treat you to a barrel of the finest ale in all London!" He laughed merrily.

"It will not be over in a few days." I told him quietly.

He didn't get my meaning, and laughed. "Oh, I don't know about that! You doubts my military skills. I admit it, cavalry raids are my specialty, helped by Boye here," He pointed at the playful dog. "But my skills at sieges are not lacking either!"

"No...we won't reach the walls of London until at least a weeks' time. The King has ordered us to turn back, to take up those positions at Edgehill!" I told him, feeling like God informing Noah he is about to flood the world.

Rupert turned white, then red, and finally a fine shade of purple.

"Ahh, baggage. Those who are bad at lying should not lie so much! We are two steps from victory, and you intend to tell me king Charles gave up and ordered us to walk away. Hoho, that is a good joke." He said, turning away from me and drinking from his drought. "King Charles may know little about leading men, but he is no fool!"

I stood at a loss of words to say. I tried to tell Rupert, but he completely refused to believe what I had said.

"Rupert! I'm not lying! The King is making for Edgehill and intends to confront Essex's army! If you do not ride back..."

"Give me one good reason to believe you." Rupert snorted. "Wait, I'm going to get Astley. We'll hear your joke together!" He said merrily and called for Jacob Astley.

"Digby and all the young nobles ganged up on father and claimed they can hold the ridges with just 500 men." I told him.

Rupert looked at me. The merry orbs of his eyes were penetrated by fear. "But....oh blast their eyes.....I can capture London just with my cavalry. Why, if he intends to stay at Edgehill, so be it. I'll capture ride fast and capture London!" Rupert vowed.

"And leave the King unsupported on the field of battle? What have I taught you Rupert?" Old Astley said as he rode upon the scene. "The King will be cut apart by Essex if your horsemen do not support him. Horsemen are a hammer on the battle field instead of a rapier." Astley said, using the quote that Buckingham often used. Perhaps they had known each other in the past. "And then, once the King's men are defeated Essex will surround you in London. Your cavalry are effective on open plains, not behind walls and being shelled by artillery pieces. What makes you think you can hold London should it fall?" Astley asked.

"So you would rather see us abandon our prize and let the city build up its defenses? I hope you choose carefully whose side you are on, Astley." Rupert said coldly.

"I am simply suggesting you support the King in his decision, and not doom yourself to walk down the same path the rebels have. Remember, the armies you command belong to the King." Astley said, equally adamant but also soft at the same time, realizing how much his word will shake Rupert.

Rupert gave a loud sigh. "Very well, I will march back...but only after I cut off the fat head of that swine Digby!" Rupert vowed.

I was about to inform Rupert what a good swordsmen Digby is, but then I remembered that shot Rupert had made in that camp, defending himself on a prancing horse, and sniping off the head of a man twenty meters away. Thus I kept silent, even as Rupert lead his 2,000 horsemen galloping angrily back to Edgehill.

We arrived to find half of father's regiments of infantry already entrenched, and the rest were rapidly deploying. Several teams of horses are struggling to set up the artillery on nearby hills, father himself supervising the progress. He must have felt extremely proud at the sight of his spirited army at work, but his joy quickly disappeared when Rupert approached in big, angry strides. Verney must have smelled Rupert's intentions, and his hands loitered suspiciously near the hilt of his great sword as the champion stood firmly in front of father.

"Yes Rupert? I see you found out my intentions to meet Parliament in battle!"

"Sire, I am aghast, absolutely aghast, at your decision to entrench your men here!"

"Hold brave Rupert. I know your point and I understand your anger. My course is set, and I only beseech you to support me in my decision and lead my army to victory. Surely you can do it!" father told him.

Rupert gave a small pause. "I cannot do it, as no mortal man can!" He finally declared. Father frowned. "Is their army so powerful now, that my loyal regiments will melt under their overwhelming, uphill attack?" He remarked sarcastically.

"No sire. What makes you think Essex is a fool and would attack your impregnable positions? I was the first to come upon these ridges. I was scouting ahead of the main army and realized the potential of these positions, yet I decided not to tell you to entrench the army here, for Essex is no fool. He will never attack. Instead he will wait out of the range of your cannon balls and wait for us to disperse from attrition! One must never play the waiting game with an enemy in their home territory. Here, Essex will continuously receive supplies and new recruits from the nearby villages, while we will receive none." Rupert stopped his speech abruptly to let his points sink in. "We will be forced to attack, and these positions will be as useless as the Turk is when he forgets to pray!"

Father turned white. "What must we do, resume the march on London?" He asked desperately.

"It's too late now. Essex was 2 days behind us, but now he is only one day behind. We will never be able to capture London in just one day." Rupert sighed. "I'm afraid we will have to commit to this decision." He said quietly.

"Very well....tell the soldiers to make camp." Father said, dejectedly.

That night we were welcomed into the large house of a Royalist family by the name of Crachovit. They were very generous and seemed genuinely pleased to have the King stay in their homestead.

Early next morning Essex's men arrived. Like Rupert predicted, they stayed well out of the range of our cannons and waited until the entire Rebel army was deployed before sitting there and waiting out the day. Both sides were equally bored as the classic waiting game began between the two armies.

At around noon father finally realized he cannot win this game, and decided to launch the attack. Our entire army advanced 100 meters forward, so that we made one great line directly beneath the ridges. The cannons remained where they were, probably because everyone knew how useless they would be in a pitched battle.

Seeing that the rebels still did not advance, father held a war council to plan his eventual attack. I was allowed to observe, and again, Rupert had an argument with most of father's officers.

"Musketeers in loose formation in front, a line of bristling pikes in the back, and cavalry on the wings," said Astley, citing the standard deployment of troops in England.

"No, that's preposterous." Rupert remarked. "England's fashion is like that pickled fish in my jar. It's so old I can't believe it hasn't rotted away yet. Here, gentlemen, is the latest, most successful and tested fashion of the Swedes, used by them in all their stunning victories throughout Europe." Rupert boasted as he drew marks in the sand.

We will deploy in a single line of infantry, composed of alternating squares of pike men and musketeers, with the regiments of musketeers deployed about ten meters behind the blocks of pike men, much like a chessboard," he said. "That way, when the enemy pikes engage, our pike men will hold them at bay while the musketeers will continuously pour devastating volleys at close range into their ranks." Rupert said confidently.

There was a silence among father's staff. "I don't know....Swedes...how do they know their fashion is better than ours?" One general said skeptically.

"And what's stopping the enemy pike men from breaking ranks and charging forward to engage our vulnerable musketeers?" Goring asked uncertainly.

"Ahh, if they do break rank their formation loses their coherence, and my cavalry will ride them down," Rupert boasted. "Look at the Battle of Breitenfield! Gustavus led his Swedish army to a grand victory, didn't he?"

"Your words are poison!" Digby accused. "Gustavus is dead, and his army rots in the fields of Germany. I, personally, will have none of your lies of unorthodox methods of deployment. Our army is superior to our enemy's and if we deploy in the standard fashion we will be able to achieve a solid victory no matter what the circumstances are!" Digby said.

"Ay, you may do that, and you may win, but tell me, you pig, what if we lose? What will you stake as you send gamble with the lives of thousands of soldiers?" Rupert asked coldly, knowing Digby has convinced the King yet again.

"I will stake my head that we can achieve victory this day," Digby promised confidently. I shuddered for Rupert. Digby has every right to feel confident. Our infantry, though outnumbered, are highly motivated and better trained than the rebel draftees. At the same time, our cavalry is twenty times superior to the enemy cavalry, and in almost every single pitched battle to date, except for some rare and chanced cases, armies with the superior cavalry always win. Alexander conquered all Asia with the help of his Companion cavalry, and even disciplined Roman Legions melted under the attack of the superior Numidian cavalry. Although the battle of Pavia showed the world that knights are a thing of the past, cavalry, in its many, immortal forms, still dominate the modern battlefield.

Father, attempting to pacify his in-fighting staff, made a compromise. The army would deploy in the standard, English fashion, but Rupert's mentor, Jacob Astley, will be given over all command. Rupert was given command of his 1,000 veteran cavalry, while Wilmot was put in command of the 1,500 cavalier nobles on the other wing. Verney, father's champion, was given the honor of bearing the royal standard, a gigantic banner of brilliant yellow and blue, with important symbols of the isles such as the Scottish lion, the lyre of Wales, and the Fleur de lis of my mother. It would be his duty to make sure the banner is up at all times to coordinate orders among the different battalions. The compromise of generals and their commands, though satisfying all the staff at present, would lead to dire consequences later on the field of battle!

The battle opened up with a lengthy artillery duel. Essex sent his field guns forward and hammered away at father's ranks, who ordered his cannons, entrenched on several hills, to hammer back. Most of the shots missed, but those that did hit left swathing gaps of blood where they passed through, pressing closely bunched man into ground meat. The cannon fire particularly unnerved some of the raw recruits, who began to fidget in their line and had to be encouraged by Rupert's veteran cavalry to stand their ground.

Then, the rebels launched their attack. Their musketeers advanced forward in loose formation, while their cavalry rode forward to engage our cavalry. Father and his officers were eating a hearty lunch prepared by the Crochovit women when the news arrived.

"Ay, so the old dog comes from its hole." Rupert laughed. "A smart trick. He uses his cavalry to screen his musketeers so my cavalry can't ride them down. Oh well, he does not realize how superior my cavalry is to his!"

With that, Rupert drew his sword and went to find his horse, intent on meeting the enemy cavalry head on. Father gave the dashing young commander a pat on the back and a quest as he left.

"My dear nephew, send your uncle the head of Essex!" Father smiled, for the first time in days. His spirit was noticeably up and he almost seemed his old self again.

Rupert sent a message to Wilmot, who commanded the other wing of cavalry, to launch his attack simultaneously for the maximum shock. I would have asked to go along with Rupert, but father outright refused and even Rupert admitted it would be a little too dangerous. Thus James and I were put under the watchful eyes of Digby, on a black horse, Lucious Cary, on a grey horse, and Edward Hyde on a white horse. These three were father's favorite ministers, who have no knowledge in the art of war, and with them, we loitered in the relative safety at the back of our army.

The Parliamentary cavalry advanced on both flanks, crossing the mile long distance between the two armies at a trot. From the distance they looked like two giant black carpets, rolling through the landscape, hazed by the dust the horses stirred up. As they drew closer I could see that each mass of enemy cavalry (on both sides) was divided into four distinct squadrons, probably of 200 or 250 men each, amounting to almost 2000 men in total.

In the center of the battlefield the parliamentary infantry advanced, and, although our cannons raked them with shots, their loose formation meant the cannon projectiles inflicted relatively few casualties. When they were within range they opened fire on father's musketeers and pike men, both packed in tight, compact formations. We were beginning to take casualties. Astley had finished his breakfast at this point and rode down to command his infantry. As he rode downhill past us I heard him mutter

"O Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not forget me" He prayed.

Meanwhile, from both flanks, our cavalry advanced. On the right the daring Rupert commanded his 1,000 veteran horsemen and on the left, the stubborn Wilmot led his 1,500 cavaliers. Our cavalry looked amazing. Each cavalier was a brilliant display of fashion and gentlemanly manners, their bright clothes looking fantastic under the golden sunlight, drawing the eyes of both armies to them. I focused on the right flank, however, which Rupert led, because he seemed to be slightly outnumbered. If a rout started among father's army, I figured it'd start with Rupert and his men. As the opposing squadrons of cavalry neared one another, Rupert's men,(who were deployed in five squadrons of 200 men) came to a stop and spread out so the length of their line was longer than the Parliamentary line, though a lot thinner. The rebel cavalry, already picking up speed in preparation of the charge, could not stop to meet this maneuver, and they continued charging with their flanks exposed.

Rupert's men also began picking up speed, and both bodies of horsemen crashed and seemingly merged into one. From the distance it was difficult to discern who was who, for both sides looked brown in the distance and the glint of their armor made them look alike. Rupert's men, however, were generally clocked in brilliant red while the rebels were dressed in black. Even from the distance I can see the wider lines of the Royalist cavalry surrounding the exposed parliamentary lines. Within minutes the rebel horsemen were much decimated, and they soon fled, dogged by Rupert's cavalry. At the very front of Rupert's pursuing column of horsemen I could see a small white dot; Boye, leading on Rupert and the right wing of father's army.

To the left, Wilmot was still engaging his opposing horses, but his cavalry was far superior to that of the rebels, who had no training and had saddle horses instead of chargers. As a result, after about twenty more minutes of fighting, Wilmot's cavalry also prevailed against the opposing cavalry.

On both flanks, we were victorious, chasing the routing enemy cavalry from the field. Everyone around me cheered, thinking the battle won. Digby drew his sword and would likely have joined the battle had Hyde not cautioned him about leaving his post. James was bouncing up and down on the back of his horse in excitement. I looked up at father, expecting to see him beaming at our victory. I was surprised to see his face wrinkled, and his eyes sad.

"See how much blood glory, and victory costs?" He asked me. "The blood of the enemy is still the blood of men. The true glory is to preserve it." He sighed. I looked back at the battle in confusion. Here we are, at the helm of a great victory, a change of the increasingly ill royalist fortune, yet father is sad! I looked again at the battlefield below me. In the distance I can see the bodies of dead men, lying on the ground. Perhaps father was right. The blood of the enemy is still the blood of men. The death of so many in a struggle so political in nature seemed pointless. Still, most of father's advisors and body guards were openly celebrating. From my left Lucious Cary rode up, a rare smile on his face.

"When the war is over, you will help me create a new society won't you?" Cary asked me. "I've served your father despite of my back ground. Don't you think he will listen to me?" He asked.

I looked at him. "What order?"

"England is a bright Jewel. It has great potential, if only it is led right. The rebellion will make the King more humble and perhaps he will listen to my theories to create a fair, intellectual state!" Cary declared. I smiled. It felt nice, just thinking about when the war is over and everything returns to normal. I knew I would feel pity for the rebels, and I might even persuade father to spare their lives.

Cary, meanwhile, continued his lecture.

"Imagine, if there were no classes in this society, in which every man had a God given right just to enjoy life!" He proclaimed. "Like Robin hood, the rich will give to the poor, so that everyone will be equal!" He would have continued, I guessed, had not a large horn blow interrupted his words.

Everywhere on the flanks, the enemy cavalry are in full retreat, and Rupert's horsemen have chased the retreating enemy all the way to their camp. The infantry battle in the center of the battlefield, however, soon turned out to be a whole different story.

Our infantry had already taken heavy casualties from the numerous and spaced out rebel musketeers, and so when the thick blocks of enemy pike men advanced upon our ranks, father's infantry was at a huge disadvantage. The bristles of pike, erected from each block of pike men in the Parliamentary square bunched together in the distance looked like one giant, black block, 4 meters high, and from the distance their line seemed twice as thick as ours, and just as wide. Our pike men rushed forward to meet theirs, in a giant pushing game at the center of the battle field. The force of the Parliamentary charge, their numbers, and their morale, which is boosted by the carnage their muskets were able to inflict on us, made them the superior force, and they pushed, driving our center back slowly. Our men did not break, however, bravely holding the line even as they suffered horrific causalities. Looking at the giant banner held by Verney, the men fought valiantly on, shouting cries like, "God save the King," and, "save the banner!"

I knew that if Rupert took his cavalry back to the fight, hammering the unprotected rebel lines, (which was busy fighting our infantry,) we would easily be able to win. Why, look at the Battle of Cannes, when the Carthaginian infantry was almost broken, but the Numidian cavalry rode back and hammered the back of the Roman legions in time to save the battle and win a decisive victory for Hannibal. All Rupert had to do was show off his cavalry in the back of the enemy lines, and the inexperienced Rebel troops would start routing. However, to my consternation, Rupert and his cavalry were nowhere to be seen. They were probably still chasing the opposing horsemen which they routed, caught up in the fervor of the moment.

When I next looked back at our center, the fighting had turned for the worst. Small bands of broken parliamentary cavalry had returned to the fight, and, maneuvering around the fighting pikemen, they struck at father's musketeers. It seemed to be impossible odds, as the parliamentarian horses numbered less than 100, and they were attacking some 5,000 musketeers. However, the musketeers were not armed with melee weapons, and when attacked by cavalry, had to rely on their muskets as wooden clubs. These were relatively useless, and we were losing hundreds of musketeers for every enemy horsemen killed. At the same time, father cannot afford to pull back any pikemen from the main melee, as that would probably cause our lines to collapse. Thus we could only watch as our musketeers were eaten by the enemy horsemen.

Meanwhile, our center was so stretched that father's main line, thousands of pike men, was held together by a thin thread of a few men. Verney was among them, driving back the rebels with the huge banner, making it shimmer in the wind and its bright flashes of red rallying our shaken men. Then, calamity struck. I saw the dark figure of Verney, still large despite being in the distance, stumble. He righted himself as well as the banner, but his slight moment of tribulation has let the enemy pikes, which he had kept at bay with his great sword, advance forward and crowd him. I screamed with fear. Verney shuddered a few more times in the distance, and then fell, the red banner falling with him, its sacred satin soiled by the bloody ground. Seeing this, all hell broke loose. Our men, whose resolve was only supported by Verney and his proud red banner in the very center of our line, now shattered. The center of our line collapsed, and the routing fever spread outwards, until much of our infantry were routing from the field, pursued by the victorious rebel infantry! I gasped in surprise. The fight is not yet lost, I told myself. How could it? These men here are rebels! Surely they cannot triumph over the proud army of the King! Surely, somehow Rupert will know what has occurred and ride back with his cavalry to save the day! As I waited, father sprang into action, and begun to bark out orders.

"Hyde! Take my sons and ride back to Oxford. If I die in this battle, take my sons to France and put them under the care of Marie. If I should live and the battle be won, then I will come back and inform you personally of my victory, now go!" He shouted.

Hyde took off his hat and began to stammer, but father would have none of it. Thus Hyde took off his hat, bowed, and began shouting at his retinue of 20 men.

"Ride! Flee from the battle field, ride for Oxford!" He screamed. "You three, come with me!" He said, pointing James, and me.

"But father, where are you going?" I asked, calling after the retreating figure of the King.

"I will attempt to rally my men....pray for me to be safe!" He said, before riding off to the fray with his bodyguard looking remarkably similar to Wilmot's little charge that day at the ford, a small body of horsemen charging into masses of enemy pikes. Despite the apparent weakness of his unit of bodyguard, however, father looked roused and ready. His sword was in the air, and his warm, rallying voice seemed to extend over the entire battlefield, over the ghastly crack of musket, and the clank of pierced armor. Why, the sight of him riding bravely into the heat of battle was as inspiring as the charge of 1,000 knights.

As we rode away, I silently cursed Rupert. That fool, he is funny, he is flamboyant and has style, but his sophomoric behavior has lost us the battle and probably the war! Perhaps it was because he will get Digby's head if we lose the battle....perhaps that is why he is fighting this way.

I was so caught up in my angry, crazy thoughts at our loss of fortune, that I did not hear Hyde until he had repeated his words several times.

"God's Beard, they're onto us!" Hyde cursed. I looked up at him. His eyes were twinkling and his beard smashed with sweat.

"Who?" I asked. He pointed to his right. I looked. A band of Rebel horsemen were indeed chasing us! They numbered about 70, and indeed a man carried a blue banner in front, the banner of the rebels. All of the men had shining, steel lances. They had definitely sighted us, for the whole column turned and began galloping for our direction.

"Could we fight them?" Digby asked uncertainly.

"No, they outnumber us by too much. Fire your carbines at them!" Hyde ordered his retinue, who discharged their pistols at the pursuing enemy horses. Unfortunately, pistols were inaccurate at best, and when fired from a galloping horse became almost useless. Thus the enemy continued to gain on us, and we could do nothing other than continue running.

I hugged my small charger as tightly as I could, my short arms not even going all the way around its stout neck. The up and down movement of the galloping horse, and the hard, bony saddle pressed into my bottom, and I knew I would fall off before long. The thought of it was terrible, because if I fell off the enemy horsemen would likely ride me down and gut me in the dirt. Thus I hung on with all my life, knowing my charger is falling behind the rest. Next to me poor James was having the same problem as I. Some angel must have made his arms into steel so that he did not fall off! When I next turned around and looked back, however, the rebel horsemen were gone. Quickly I shouted to my galloping companions, who slowed down after they too noticed our relative safety. One of the captains of the horsemen, with an experienced, battle field eye, spotted the enemy troopers engaging a unit of our horsemen in the distance.

Even Hyde, who knew nothing about warfare, recognized this golden opportunity and shouted to his bodyguards.

"Now is the time! Ride back and help our benefactors!" He shouted. The regiment couldn't be more happy to pursue their hunter, who now became the prey.

The retinue charged into the back of the engaged, rebel horsemen, and a slaughter began. The entire rebel regiment was soon gutted, and Hyde demanded to speak with the captain of the allied horses. A tall, burley man with a broken helmet rode up.

"I'm officer Orf." He said, taking off his helmet to show the proper greeting due to one of father's ministers.

"Orf? I know no cavalry officer named Orf." Hyde said suspiciously.

"Ay, the original officer was Officer Handson. He fell in battle and I was his captain." The man replied.

"What happening at the battlefield?" Hyde asked, his fears pacified.

"We do not know, but I fear worst for the King. I was the captain in a regiment of 200 men under the command of Rupert." He said. "We routed the rebels opposed to us and pursued them all the way to the camp, which was too heavily fortified for us to attack. Rupert finally checked our enthusiasm and informed us that the battle may not yet be won. We rode back to find the banner of his majesty carried by a unit of rebel pike men. My unit charged them and the rest of Rupert's horsemen rode back to the battle to help what remained of the King's infantry. I do not know what happened to them, but from where I was it seemed all of the King's infantry had been routed. Prince Rupert and his horsemen are probably annihilated." The man sighed, discarding his useless helmet.

"But the banner?" I asked.

"Ay, we charged the enemy unit, who were not in formation as they were jovial from their victory. We cut down a good number of them before they leveled their pikes at us. We had to fall back and charge, again and again. By the end of it we routed them and recaptured the King's banner, but the officer was killed and I was put in command. My squadron has been reduced to half its force." He pointed to the survivors behind him. I noticed several horses held 2 or even 3 injured horsemen. "The banner was a bloody sight. Here it is," the captain said, passing it to Hyde. "I figured you should have it, since the Prince of Wales here has more business carrying that holy object." The officer sighed. "When we recaptured it we found only a hand on it, gripping it so hard that when the limb was severed the hand hung on. We had to cut off the fingers to make it fall off."

I looked at the banner, terrified. Was that Verney's hand?

"But what of the battle?" I asked Hyde. Hyde thought for a while. "Join my column and gallop back. We'll inspect the battle and then decide what to do." Hyde ordered. "Ay sir. Glad to do that. Better than our original course, deserting the battle field." He said.

We observed the battlefield from the nearby ridges. I feared for the worst. Perhaps it was deserted already, and we'd see nothing but broken bodies. After all, the rebel army was probably pursuing ours in every direction. However, when we arrived we found the battle still in progress. The flanks of our infantry were still fighting, albeit heavily depleted and much smaller than they were at the beginning of the battle. Several regiments of musketeers and broken pike men had been rallied by father and they too had joined the fray. Meanwhile in the back of the Parliamentary column I could see cavalry prancing among masses of rebels. Rupert's horsemen, and perhaps Wilmot's too. They were leaving great carnage on the back of the enemy lines, but I knew they would not last too long. Only until the rebels level their pikes at our cavalry.

"Raise the banner!" Digby suggested. "Show the rebel scum the proud symbol of the King!" Hyde nodded and planted the great banner on the ground. Its red satin, although soiled and dripping blood, fluttered proudly in the wind. Below us our men rallied, gaining heart at the sight of the banner, while our enemy hopefully trembled. The battle was too bloody already, however, for one side to gain a decisive victory. Father's men were too depleted to hope to rout the Parliamentarians, and the rebels had no cavalry force, and thus they were doomed to duke it out with father's army without any hope of out flanking and out maneuvering us.

The battle hung on like this, both armies shrinking, with no clear winner emerging until nightfall. By that time victory was turning into a distinct possibility for us, as our cavalry had the rebels partially surrounded. If the battle is allowed to continue it would probably have ended in a royalist victory, but at the cost of much of father's beloved cavalier horsemen, who could not maneuver and charge in the fog of the night. Father apparently believed preserving his cavaliers were more important than victory, for when the parliamentarian forces begun a fighting retreat back to their camp father ordered the cavaliers to let off the pressure and let the rebels do so, unofficially ending the battle of Edgehill. We picked up the banner and rode back to our camp, which was filled with the wounded and those routed from the battle field who had gathered in the relative safety of the camp. All night, broken regiments of men continued to float into the camp, as well as the artillery crew, who rolled their guns slowly back into camp somewhere around 2:00 am.

I found father in an abandoned house, with about 20 dragoons, the survivors of father's bodyguard of 200 dragoons. He was sitting on a bed laid out for him, head cupped in his hands.

"Father!" I said, running over to him.

He looked up. Life relit in his eyes and he stepped up. "Charles! Bless Mary, you are safe!" He said, jubilantly.

"I am safe. So is James! We're all okay. Did you see the banner raised again where our fortifications were? That was me! I was there!" I told him proudly."

Father smiled. "You three are all safe?" He said. His eyes shone like the eyes of a prisoner rescued from the executioner's block. I felt like an angel lifting him from hell up into heaven. He seemed so content by the news that we were all safe that he did not listen to anything else I said, just nodded to the tune of my voice. Finally I gave up telling him my adventure today and asked him,

"What will we do tomorrow?"

"I don't know. I still have no idea of how the battle went. If we have more numbers than they do tomorrow we will attack and destroy what remains of their army, but chances are we took more casualties this day. If that is so we will have to retreat back to whats left of our fortifications." Father sighed. "But I don't know. Survivors are still straggling in. I suppose the enemy took a good deal of my men prisoner, and those can be exchanged tomorrow for the prisoners that we took." father shrugged.

"What of Rupert?" I asked.

"Rupert?" He replied. "What about him?"

"Will you not condemn him for purposely dooming us to lose the battle?" I asked. "If he had struck against the enemy pikes when he drove off the opposing cavalry we might very well have won the battle!" I reasoned.

"Charles, you do not understand. Men born to be generals are different from men born to be officials. You must judge officials by what they had the potential to do, but you must judge generals by what they actually did. After all, generals are the men that are bold and easily carried away by the moment. I cannot blame Rupert. What he did today contributed over all to the battle. That is all I ask." Charles said.

I sighed in relief. "I was just seeing if you were angry with him. If you were I was going to beg in his favor. After all it was his dog Boye that persuaded him to chase the routing rebel horsemen." I said cautiously.

"His dog? What of this?" father asked, confused.

Two soldiers walked into the room. Father looked at them and sighed.

"Charles, I must sleep now. I have to get up early tomorrow morning to deduce what our next action will be. Good Night Charles!" He said, as he began undressing into his night shirt and lying down on his bed. Father looked so tired and so worn, so different from the brave charismatic man he was this morning in the battle.

"Good night father!" I said, walking out, surprised for a moment at not seeing Verney's figure guarding father's door way. Verney has perished in the battle.

The next morning all the results of the battle became clear. Father's army of 12,000 men lost about 1,500, while Essex and his rebel army of 15,000 men lost about 2,000 men. While the battle of Edgehill ended with no clear, tactical victor, since both side lost a similar percent of their total force. (Thus Rupert was not allowed to have Digby's head, since the battle was neither a win nor defeat.) Strategically, however, father gained more from the battle than Essex. The turn coat General's attempt to stop father's advance toward London has failed, and he again played the cat, stalking and trailing father's army, which was busy scurrying toward London, the golden apple.

Digby, meanwhile, rose higher and higher in father's council. First he clung to an unwilling father like a fly on a lion. Later, as his flattery became more flowery, agreeing to everything father believed and disagreeing to everything father disliked, father began to prefer and even request his presence, which he found much more comforting than the presence of Wilmot or Rupert, who constantly objected to father's many decisions. Indeed, within striking distance of a defenseless London, with Rupert's cavalry vanguard under its very walls, Digby, against the wishes of the entire army, convinced father to engage Essex's army first before taking the city. After all, he claimed, if Essex's army were not destroyed they will always be a thorn to our side.

Father listened, and turned back to confront Essex's army, leaving London yet again. Unfortunately Essex was no fool, and did not attack, waiting as reinforcements arrived from all over Eastern England. Hundreds of militia from all the neighboring villages joined Essex's army, bringing trains of supplies with them. Half a thousand trained men also joined Essex's army from London, until the rebel army has swelled to almost 20,000 men and father's army to less than 10,000. (Due to desertion, attrition and loss of morale.) Finally, Essex slowly moved forward to attack. At this point victory was no longer realistically possible, and father escaped through a gap in the north, preserving his army and eventually marching back to Oxford.

Hyde, who was keeping documentation of all the events of the war in his little black book, called this a definite turning point in the war. He said these few months that had just past were the first real chance either side had of ending the war. Now that the first campaigns of both sides had ended without a decisive victory for either side, he predicted the war would drag on for several more years as both sides begin levying taxes and building up secure foundations, such as easily defensible fortresses and large, trained armies.

Indeed, father's decisions seem to reflect those of Hyde's. After the first campaign aimed at London was turned back, he settled in Oxford where he ordered the city and its surroundings fortified. He gave Cavendish command of the northern theater of war, based near York, gave Hopton command of the southern theater, and placed himself in command in the center, at Oxford, with Rupert in command of his main army. At the same time he began to ask for help from all over Europe. Hearing bits and pieces from gossips around the palace, some eavesdropped from father himself, I learned he was making peace with the Irish rebels, giving in to their terms, so that he could withdraw parts of his army from Ireland and at the same time hope to levy Irish troops. This sent Parliament wild, and they began accusing father of conspiring with the Irish Catholics, sending their accusations to all the princes of protestant Europe. Perhaps this was why father was given little when he begged his protestant allies, such as the Dutch, the Swedish and the northern Germans, for help. In the end, France turned out to be father's real ally, lending him a fair sum of money to support his campaigns.

Finally, from the Edgehill campaign on, those among father's camp no longer referred to the situation as the rebellion, instead referring it as Civil War, and they stopped calling the enemy side Rebels, referring to them instead as the Parliamentarians. I do not know whether I should find these news woeful or full of solace, but all I hope is that one day the troubles will be over and we can return back to London, where my life will return to the way it used to be.
Chapter 4: The War Proper

By late 1642, almost one year after Edgehill, the war was toning down on both sides. Mother had come back from France and the Netherlands with a small mercenary army, (purchased by selling her jewelries) and has settled in Oxford, much to the delight of father, who grew noticeably more relaxed, especially from the bubbling laughter of my youngest brother Henry, who was now a cute, well dressed little boy of 3. Indeed, the entire court found relief in his good natured questions about everything around him, including the war. It struck me how similar I must have been to him when I was his age.

Since it was now clear that the war will drag on for a good while father began stabilizing his court. He set up governors and administrations throughout royalist England and even made me a member of the Privy Council. I didn't attend any of its meetings, but because of the duties I received from the council, I missed many of Rupert's fantastic raids. Nevertheless, I made good friends with Boye, who eagerly jumps on me every time it saw me, licking my face and gazing at me with large, loving eyes. It is hard to imagine this same dog is feared all over Rebel England as the devil's familiar.

Meanwhile, there had also been noticeable changes in father's cabinet of ministers. At the start of war, his prewar generals, including Rupert, Hopton and Goring, as well as some outspoken men, like Cary and Hyde, helped father make much of his most important decisions. Now, however, Rupert and the other military generals, who spent much of their time campaigning away from Oxford, found their position in father's court increasingly undermined by men armed with darting tongue, most notably Digby, who had a hand in all of father's important, albeit reckless, decisions. Luscious Cary, for example, so outspoken at the beginning of the war about his utopian, post war society, fell into recluse, unused by father. Meanwhile, disagreements between Digby with generals such as Rupert and Wilmot grew increasingly common. Despite the rift in father's staff, however, the war was turning for the better. In the south Hopton showed as little mercy as father would allow to his nemesis Sir Waller. In several bloody battles he was able to drive Waller back and conquered all of Wessex, linking the region with loyal Wales. In the north Cavendish, helped by Lord Goring, advanced south, where, despite a few minor defeats, was able to defeat several Parliamentarian armies opposed to him. Meanwhile, in the center, Rupert, helped by his dog Boye, who had become a celebrity on both sides (Royalists paint Boye as a good luck charm, while the rebels claim Boye is the Devil's familiar), tied up the main Parliament army and preventing it from confronting Hopton or Cavendish. Rupert must have fought hundreds of engagements now, both major and minor, capturing towns, destroying isolated regiments of enemy reinforcements, and once burning a major rebel supply base in a brilliant raid behind enemy lines, halting all rebel operations for several month. His success culminated in the storming of Bristol, the second richest town in rebel England, (after London.) Parliamentarian England was shrinking day by day, until they were pushed all the way back to south Eastern England, the heart of London. Father and his generals are now planning a three pronged attack upon the rebels, where if any prong of attack penetrates, London will fall and the war be won. Again, it looked like the war would, be over soon.

Morale at Oxford was extremely high. The citizens had never been more loyal and supportive of father. Prince Rupert was greeted like Christ every time he rode down the streets. Father's court at Oxford was now equal, if not surpassing, the grandeur of the old court at London. Diplomats, merchants, nobles, and different leaders of different groups all sought an audience at Oxford. They were the most exotic and motley bunch I have ever seen. There were Turks, Russians, Jews, Catholics, protestants, and even 2 captured African warriors, but none drew so much attention as the savage man from the new world, which colonists of the new world has sent back for father's pleasure. However, much as I liked listening to these men tell their stories, my attention was always drawn irresistibly to another frequent member of father's court, the beautiful, 14 years old Lucy Walters.

The years since our last meeting had not gone so well for Lucy either. Her father had died soon after the civil war begun, and Lucy moved back to Roche with her mother. Earlier this year, however, a band of foraging rebels laid siege to the castle. It was very lucky that Lucy was not home that fateful day, else death or worse might have befallen her. The rebels looted the castle and took all the Walters family had, and as a result Madame Walter and her family could only turn to father and his court, to whom they had pledged their allegiance at the start of the war.

Lucy's large green eyes were always filled with a staggering amount of sadness, the dark orbs like a swallowing, black sun, but it only added to her beauty. She was medium height, and fairly thin. Her skin was like ivory, but much softer in texture, her head a beautiful, golden cascade of sweet smelling hair. Her voice, always soft and quivering, was like the sweet bubbling of a gentle stream, and a small, delicate nose sat in the center of her comely face.

Father greatly liked Lucy, both for her beauty and her manners. When around father, (usually at the tables when she dines with us) she ate with the delicateness of a little spider, and made my manner of eating look like those of Boye's. When outside the watchful eyes of adults, however, she is a completely different person. Many of the Royal Children's shadier adventures at Oxford were led by her. One trip I remembered quickly evolved from a raid to the kitchen into the exchange of the royal dinner with the dinner of the poor Parm family. Father was very impressed with the dry bread, slim cabbage soup and spoiled meat that the Parm family would have ate that night, and as a show of compassion ordered all his ministers to eat some of that meal.

For several months my life in Oxford was normal, albeit boring. The war had come to a halt during the winter months as both sides quit fighting to retrain, and reorganize. Then, spring rolled around and father made ready to execute his campaign plans for 1643. Better yet, since I was now 14, father put me in command of a regiment of musketeers.

"You would be like Alexander," father assured me, "leading King Philip's companion cavalry and helping the Macedonians achieve victory."

My regiment was soon put to the test. In late spring, father finally proceeded with his campaign. The royal army, over 30,000 men strong, marched out of the walls of Oxford and made for London, led by father, his generals and me. Cary accompanied us on the campaign. I found solace in this, since Cary seemed nonchalant to anything for the past few months. He wore grey every day, his eyes dimmed and even his hair greys more with each passing month. He seemed like he found no purpose in life. Now that he showed interest in the war again, perhaps he has snapped out of his depression.

The army marched east for many days before stopping at the key fortress of Gloucester. Gloucester was located on an important road between Royalist Wessex and Royalist Wales. If Gloucester could be captured, the two theaters could be joined into one single front. At the same time, father also had a less political reason of capturing the fortress. Henry was named the Duke of Gloucester when he was born. Father wants to recapture my little brother's fief before the boy's third birthday. However, Gloucester is defended by high walls and thick moats, and its elaborate system of intelligently placed defenses would make it a nightmare to attack. Still, if the fortress falls, London would be like a bright fruit ready to be plucked from a branch.

Upon arriving outside the thick walls of Gloucester, Rupert's vanguard force of Cavalry immediately surrounded the fortress and captured any soul that was too slow to retreat within the temporary safety of the walls. A few merchants were captured, and several farmers detained. The rebels shut their gate and watched Rupert's men.

With the gates closed, and the rebels beginning to eat from their precious storage of supplies, Rupert began surveying the fortress's defenses. The town of Gloucester was defended by a mere 3,000 men, as opposed to father's army of almost 30,000. However, its walls are intelligently build, and very, very strong. The fortress itself consisted of two layers of defenses. An outer layer of curtain walls and ditched were manned by musketeers, screening the thicker, inner walls from our cannons. Thus, the outer walls have to be stormed first before our cannons and be brought to bear upon the inner walls of the fortress.

On the morning of August 10th, father's main army began entering the vicinity of Gloucester, regiments after regiments of well-dressed musketeers and pike men. By August 15th, the artillery train slumbered into our siege camp. Immediately all the soldiers got to work, preparing for the siege. My regiment and I was put beside father's main camp, and I was given the honorary but empty duty of defending the king's lodging if the enemy sally out from the walls. Every day father's cannons blasted away at Gloucester's stout walls, and every day I dreamed about the day I could lead my regiment into battle. I had expected the battle to turn into another glorious battle ending in a decisive royalist victory. How wrong I eventually turned out to be!

Father put batteries of artillery at the South and the East gate, and they began shelling the fortifications of the city. Meanwhile teams of soldiers, armed with picks and shovels instead of swords and guns, diverted streams from the city. Other regiments burned houses and trees around the fortifications to create a clear view of the battle field. All was set for an assault.

The shelling continued all the way to the next day, when the enemy walls were near collapse, but then disaster struck. Father, confident of victory, had not installed regiments to guard our artillery batteries. Overnight several teams of rebel soldiers infiltrated our camp and spiked many of father's cannons, making our batteries useless.

With all possibility of knocking down Gloucester's walls gone, father must now resort to slower, costlier methods. Attempts to fill the ditch with rocks and bags of dirt, (so that siege towers could be erected over the walls) were fruitless, for many men died in the attempt, (under fire from the walls) and what little part of the moat that was filled quickly sunk and had to be refilled the very next day. After almost a thousand men, and 3 weeks were lost in attempting to fill the moat, father looked for other options. Our men began to tunnel under the walls of Gloucester, and they seemed to be making good progress. Then, however, disaster struck again. The rebels sallied out and filled the tunnels with moat water, making our efforts futile. We are now 14 days into the siege, had lost almost 2,000 men, and there were news of a Parliamentarian relief army forming in London. Every day we glaze upon the hated walls of Gloucester, walls we are unable to breach.

Finally, father, growing desperate, ordered Rupert to find more artillery pieces. Rupert responded by raiding several nearby Parliamentarian fortress, but found them all empty of the much needed guns. Finally he reported that a friend of his, a certain prince of a small German state had, in his procession a huge cannon, of black monstrous proportions and so powerful it can knock down most walls with one hit! Father was amazed. If he could acquire that cannon, then Gloucester would finally surrender, or be pounded into submission! Immediately he sent Rupert to Europe with 500 pounds to borrow the cannon. The trip should have taken only days, but the Parliamentary navies control the channel and it took Rupert a week and a half to have the gigantic cannon docked on the shores of England. Finally, on August 25, Rupert's large cog docked on the shores of Gloucester. A team of 40 men slowly rolled a monstrous black thing down a plank and onto shore. The gun was huge. It was as wide as 5 men, and it fires stones the size of small huts. 2 entire barrels of powder was put into the behemoth before its appetite its filled. After that it took nearly 2 hours for the gun to be adjusted and aimed. (father aimed the gun at the Gloucester Cathedral. He hoped to show off the Gun's tremendous power with the first shot, and if the rebels still did not surrender then he would demolish the walls with the second shot.)

As both armies watched, two soldiers, with a flaming rod, slowly lowered the stick into the powder chamber. For a moment there was a loud sizzling, and then a huge explosion. The cannon and its vicinity was surrounded with smokes, and several trees nearby were flattened. Everyone's eyes went over to the cathedral, waiting for it to collapse into dust as if struck by God. When that did not happen, slowly all the eyes turned back onto the cannon. It was gone. There was a huge crater where it once stood, and in the middle of the crater was a desolate black wreck. The wheels have fallen off and were lying flat on the ground. The black steel of the cannon had been shattered and lay around the wheels like broken pottery. The engineers that fired the gun were all gone.

While our army stared at the black behemoth where all our hopes had been gathered, the relieved rebels let loose jeers and mockeries from the walls, jeering which had to go unpunished for times being. By August 26, morale at father's camp was at breaking point. The men were tired of the long, fruitless siege, they were aghast at the heavy casualties suffered against the bloody wall so the city and they were depressed at the dwindling amount of supplies at the camp. With only 2 options, one in which we retreat, and likely lose all our baggage, artillery (what's left of it) and wounded, or the other in which we launch an all-out assault against the walls. Father chose the latter option, and on the morning of August 26, all the soldiers in father's army except for Rupert's 6,000 cavalry left as reserve charged the cracked walls of Gloucester, attempting to overwhelm it with sheer numbers. Father's men obeyed, perhaps understanding this is their last chance to take the city before Essex's relief army arrived. As they charged murderous musket fire poured from the walls, each little puff of smoke signaling another one of father's tightly packed men fell. Cary, leading his regiment at the front, riding on a tall white horse, made himself an obvious target. Rupert had told him the foolishness of riding a horse at the charge, but Cary insisted upon it, saying he was weary of the times and foresaw much misery to his own Country and did believe in victory for either side. He had murder and madness sin his eyes, so much that even Rupert backed off and let him go! Indeed, Cary had fallen from father's favorite minister to a recluse, and was far overshadowed by the less talented Digby. Indeed I saw him thrown from his horse in a mist of red, joining the many of his soldiers that lay dead around him.

Although father's men fell by the hundreds, the charge was too desperate, too ferocious to be turned back by the equally tired and demoralized rebel musketeers, and finally regiments began overwhelming the defenses and squeezing between cracks and small holes in the wall made by the initial bombardment. I was caught up in the fervor of battle, and with a shrill cry, ran forward toward the breaches in the wall. My regiment followed, and then ran after me. I didn't know whether father would feel pride from my bravery, or fear from my recklessness, but he sent a general, Sir Compton after me.

There were bodies everywhere, some half rotted, others fresh, a few screaming for water or help. I would have stopped along the way, but I had no water and I knew others would be better suited to help them, and thus I rode faster and faster toward a large gap in the wall, ignoring the wounded around me. Once I fitted through the small hole, (Compton followed close behind me,) the battlefield turned into hell. The streets were filled with the bodies of soldiers and unfortunate civilians that had gotten in the way of the fighting. There were several houses burning, and muskets were firing from everywhere in every direction. Scattered men fought with swords and clubs in the streets, with a surprisingly large number of civilians picking up arms and fighting against father's uniformed soldiers. Teams of musketeers stormed houses after houses, clearing it from partisans firing at royalist soldiers through windows. I watched the fight for a while, and realizing the battle is bloody and jaunty, wanted nothing more than to escape once again out of the walls to the safety of father's cavalry. Unfortunately, my regiment of musketeers was now pouring in from the few holes in the walls at such a rate that there is no way I could go against the flow and exit the walls. What's worse, several of the towers in the walls have yet to be stormed, and they pumped balls into the congested entrance from where men poured through. A handsome captain, with white hair and stubble was encouraging his regiment as it poured through the wall when a random bit of lead struck him down. He gave a gargle and started writhing on the ground. No one made a comment, as the soldiers just pushed past him. Father's old physician had told me that a man can still think for minutes after he was dealt a mortal blow. Heads can blink and even bite after being chopped off. I wondered what the captain saw, what he thought at the harsh world around him as he lay dying. Wouldn't anyone wish for a nicer place to be laid at rest? A warm bed with soothing soup and surrounded by one's loving family is so much better than rolling on the ground, trampled by feet and covered with blood.

As I was still in my thoughts, I heard a horn note in the distance; a great deep note that vibrated again and again, as if it was attempting to draw us back. I looked at Compton next to me. The man was dead white.

"Go!" He pushed me. "Leave! Your father has sounded the retreat. Essex's men must have been spotted. Go!" He said to me again. "Get out of the city!"

I looked at Compton in surprise. Essex's men spotted? How is that possible, that Essex shows up right before we take Gloucester? I looked around, confused on what will happen next. To my horror, my regiment of musketeers was routing! Men had stopped flowing in from the hole in the wall but were instead flowing back out. From behind the rebels put up a halfhearted chase, themselves having taken heavy casualties.

I struggled to run to the hole in the walls, but men around me, in their desperateness to get away with their lives, pushed me down on the ground and ran over me. I tasted blood in my mouth. Compton had drawn his bright sword.

"Move! Stop! Make way for the prince!' He shouted, helping me up and warding off desperate solders, intent on saving their own skin.

"Go!" He said, his eyes fierce. I looked at him in gratitude and admiration. This man, who had not known me at all before this day, was so loyal to the crown that he would risk his own life to save that of the King's son.

The rebel army had begun to catch up to our retreating soldiers. It composed not only of soldiers, but also large numbers of wrinkly old men with muskets or clubs, or carving knives, who have turned out from their homes to strike out against father's forces, which besieged the city for so long. Our soldiers, too busy running, was unable to form a battle line in time, and many were slaughtered. I even saw a rebel make for me, murder in his eyes. He had a long knife strapped to a pole, and I knew he could gut me with that weapon. Luckily Compton intercepted the man on the way, hacking brutally at the man with his sword. I didn't want to see either fall. The rebel was old and probably had a large family. I knew if Compton's sword connected the man would be killed if he's lucky, hewn and left to die from infections if he's unlucky. Either way some part of the man would be cut up in a barbaric manner. On the other hand I didn't want to see Compton hurt. He was old and polite, and the thought of such a wise, cultured head lost to the crude weapon of some rebel arm was suffocating!

I was almost at the hole in the wall. Several soldiers around me recognized who I was and gave me a wide berth, a few even helping me out. I quickly glanced back, to see if it was possible to rescue Compton. The old general was surrounded by several rebel soldiers, who demanded his surrender. I can see Compton refusing. His words were brave yet despairing.

"I would, but I will not surrender to such a lowly mob of rebels like you here. I only surrender to nobles and the generals of other nations, true adversaries of the King!" Compton swore as he swung his sword halfheartedly at one of the soldiers.

I knew he was done for. He was surrounded by 20 men. I wasn't even able to get a final look at him as soldiers pushed me out of the walls of Gloucester.

Compton may be dead now, but his foresight was amazing. Essex's cavalry was within sight at the edge of the battlefield. The remnant of father's army, those that hadn't charged into the breach yet, stared at Essex's men uneasily.

As I tried to run back to our siege lines, I tried to imagine the pain father must be going through right now. Victory had been in our hands, but the enemy stole it away. To rub salt in the wound, so many soldiers had died for nothing in the fruitless assaults. Father must have felt like King Darius had, as his soldiers melted apart in the face of relentless attacks by the merciless Alexander.

As I ran toward father's lines with countless other routed, royalist soldiers, drums began to beat, which were soon complimented by the beats of pounding hooves. The rebel cavalry was charging!

Instead of continuing my dash for our lines, I changed directions and headed for the nearby woods, hoping I would be more safe there. Luckily for me, the charging Parliamentary cavalry was much more eager to hunt down hundreds of running royalists that go after one little dark figure, and I was able to make it to the safety of the woods.

Once inside the tree line, I began to travel directly opposite of the sounds of hoof beats and fighting. I knew the routing Royalist would have been slaughtered, and father likely defeated, if not captured or dead!

After about 2 hours, (the sun had begun to go down) I began to tire and stopped running. I was fairly deep in the woods and completely lost. My hunger was unimaginable, and even the bread rolls the servants eat at lunch seemed inviting now. Furthermore I was not looking forward to spending a night in the woods by myself, as there are wolves in the woods of western England. Finally, right when the sun had begun to set, I heard the drumming of horse hooves. I was so glad of this sign of humans that I openly sought out the hooves. To my dismay, it was a band of foraging rebel cavalrymen.

I used to think rebel cavalry looked clumsy, and second rate compared to the brightly dressed and well equipped cavaliers, but from up close they looked deadly all the same. There were about 20 troopers, each riding a tall, unarmored horse and armed with pistol and sword, dressed in tight black suits. They all had their sword drawn. One of them, wearing a red, plumed hat, dismounted and grasped me.

"What's this? A little bird fallen from his nest?" He laughed.

A chill ran down my spine as I realized he knew who I was.

"Alger, we have best ride away soon......that witch dog of Rupert will soon be onto us." One of the soldiers remarked nervously.

"Right." Alger said, even as he continued to study my face. "Come, lets tie him up. Sir Fairfax will be very pleased when he sees what we have!"

The rebels tied my hands together and paired me with an old, rider less horse, and before Rupert and his cavaliers had a chance to form up and pursue, they rode off with me.

I could hardly believe my bad luck. If my life had seemed bad before, now it had now hit rock bottom. I at least had my family and a large group of friends before, but now that I am captured and probably doomed to live a commoner's life, or even worse, made food for the carrion, I will have nothing I had before.

That night the rebel cavalry came to a stop in the small royalist village of Gisim, home to about 20 families. The trampling of the horses' hooves must have woke up the village, for an old peasant, probably the village elder, emerged from the village center.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" The elder demanded angrily, his hands gripped tight around his walking stick.

"Who gave the dog permission to bark?" Alger remarked, feigning annoyance.

"Why, by the grace of the King____" The elder replied, angrily.

"Silence. My men need to borrow your house to rest for the night. We have important cargo." He said, giving a slight laugh. "If you do not comply, we will burn down your village."

The old man stepped back.

"I.....my house is full, sir." He stuttered.

"I'll be the judge of that." Alger said as he rode toward the village center, where the Elder's house lay. All his horsemen followed.

"Please sir, my family is all asleep." Begged the old man. "We do not even have food to serve you. The war has been hard on us."

"Serves you right, declaring for the king." Alger gave a laugh as he came to a stop in front of the old man's house.

"Throw out its inhabitants." He ordered. 2 riders dismounted and advanced inside the house. I gagged in horror. Why are they doing this? Must they be so unnecessarily cruel?

"Sir, I beg you, re__" The old man began.

"Shut up, you stinking dog!" Alger replied, charging his horse at the elder, as if his ears were damaged by the old peasant's words.

The elder tried to get away, digging his stick into the ground and hobbling to the right, but his walking stick failed him and he slipped, sprawled in a ungainly heap in the mud. The unwilling charger tried to jump as it neared the old man, but Alger whipped his horse, and the beast, frightened, failed in its jump as its large hooves pounded onto the downed old man.

A frightful snap and a long, pained yowl filled the air, and were followed by utter silence except for the assuaging hoof beats of Alger's horse. The old man lay in the ground, his face buried in mud. His arm was in a weird position, as if a twig snapped in half but not quite fallen apart. I looked up at Alger in horror, to see if the soldier have remorse for his actions. To my surprise the man had a sneer in his face as he rode back to his waiting riders, ignoring the man he had just trampled over.

One by one the house's inhabitants were tossed out. An old woman and two girls soon joined the old man in the mud, huddling together in one heap. I wish I could comfort them, offer them money or gratitude for their loyalty to the crown, but alas, I had none. I was as striped of wealth and status as these poor souls.

I was given a bed to sleep on, which surprised me greatly. Alger had a fair amount of respect, or at least tolerance for me. I thought it was weird, how he abused a few peasants that had done nothing to him, but how he had tolerance even for his noble enemies. I will ask father about this when I get back to Oxford. If I get back to Oxford.

The next day we continued to ride. I didn't know what direction we rode in, but since Alger mentioned Sir Fairfax I figured we would be riding due north. Indeed after 3 days, we were stopped by a large column of several hundred horsemen. We immediately rode to the front of the column to meet a tall man in dark armor. The man looked familiar and upon closer examination I found him to be none other than Thomas Fairfax, the man who had tried to stop father from fighting parliament, and also the military commander that foiled many of father's army's attempt to take over central England.

I may be one of Fairfax's worse political enemy, but the man still treated me with great respect when he saw me, taking off his hat and bowing.

That night we made camp in a small meadow. I was given a tent to sleep in, but two soldiers prowled at the entrance. The next morning I was awoken by the faint smell of grilled meat. I poked my head up. I was completely free to move about! Slowly I exited my tent. Both sentries standing guard at my tent were asleep! Tip Toeing I circled around my tent once and found a plume of smoke in the sky. Curious to see what caused the smoke, I walked in its direction and found a large fire. A large, pink slab of meat was roasting over a greedy fire, dripping little drops of juice and grease, each followed by a little sizzle. There were many tents around me, but the soldiers were probably all asleep, as it was still early. One lone, dark figure, however, sat near the meat, overlooking it. I figured he would be the cook.

When I half jumped half walked over to him in a clumsy manner, (as my hands were tied,) he turned around to look at me. He looked amazingly like...Anthony!!

"Anthony! Is this you!"

"Ay, it is me! How did you end up here? Were you captured?" He asked, completely surprised.

"Well, yes and no. I was out by myself when your guys ambushed me." I sighed. "Such a fitting end to the prince of Three Kingdoms!"

"Three Kingdoms that you do not deserve to rule!" Anthoyn reminded me good naturedly.

I laughed. "Ah, I see. You still do not regret your decision to betray the King and support Parliament in its rebellion?" I joked, knowing he would immediately begin defending Parliament again. TO my surprise he did not. He was silent, and he looked down thoughtfully.

"Right? Are you regretting that decision or not?" I asked.

"I......things turned out more complicated than I imagined." He said simply. "But whatever. How is the war going for your party? Other than the fact of course that you were just captured."

"Well, if I was not captured just now, I would say it was going well. We are destroying Essex and his Rebel army. London should be within reach by the end of the year." I told him.

He gave a little laugh. "So soon? I may agree that your side has the upper hand at the present, but that is soon about to change!"

"Change?" I asked. "How?"

"Do you promise not to tell your royalist friends? For what I am about to tell you is crucial to the Parliamentarian cause!"

"I promise." I told him eagerly. What is this great secret that Anthony is hiding?

"Parliament turned out not as perfect as I thought" Anthony admitted. "There is a bit of strife even within the body itself. Meanwhile, Essex barely listens to the orders of the house." He sighed.

"That is good news, but you only tell me what I already know. The King will win the war, and all of you, unless you surrender now, will be executed for treason."

"Oh, but that is not the entire story. To fix this, Parliament ordered Essex to delay the King as much as possible while they draft and create a new army!" Anthony told me. "They are attempting to create an elite, trained army that obeys no one but Parliament. This army will train for several years while Essex and the King fight it out, and then arrive on the scene and win the war for Parliament!" Anthony said, excitedly.

"Oh really? How is that army doing at the present?" I asked, curious.

"Well, Parliament really only have a skeleton of that army so far. They've already drafted the men that would form the army, and also considered all the commanders of that new army. I think they chose a man named Oliver Cromwell to eventually lead it." Anthony said thoughtfully. "But I agree, they are nothing to be stared at so far. Right now the army is nothing but a group of unorganized peasants and a few generals attempting to organize them." He told me. "Don't laugh though; they have the potential to become a fighting machine!" Anthony told me.

"We'll see. The royal Army is not exactly weak. I'm sure Rupert and his cavalry will cut apart this new army of yours before it is even formed!" I replied confidently.

"Do you want to put that bet through?" Anthony challenged.

"Very well, I bet the New Model Army will be defeated by Rupert one day on the field of battle. You are betting on the exact opposite." I told him.

"And the stakes will be....well, the loser has to surrender and join the winner's party." Anthony suggested.

"That will be hard, if I lose, for the prince to betray his father and join his rebels, but since I am confident in Rupert, I will bet you. It's on!" I told him.

"Very well." Anthony laughed a slight bit. "I cannot let you go free, but I can help you escape. I'm grilling that slab of meat right now so that Rupert's cavalry can locate you. Soon they will show up." He winked. "I better make my escape now!"

With that he unharnessed a horse from the campsite and rode away. I lay next to the fireplace on a pile of leaves, surprised and grateful of my good fortune but also a slight bit unsettled by what Anthony had told me. The general Massinus was right when he justified for his refusal to hire spies by saying he doesn't want to be scared to death by seeing his enemies' plans. Half an hour later, Algers woke up and got out of his tent. He was either drunk of very sleepy, for he stumbled about a bit, glanced at but ignored me, and sat down next to the campfire. He started to doze off, while I was dreadfully afraid he would realize the hazard of the fire and put it out, dosing my only chance of escape. Luckily when Alger woke again he saw the meat and, after lipping his lips and making a satisfied grunt, lumbered back to his tent again. I let my breath go.

Half an hour later as I began to doze off I thought I heard the barking of a dog. I snapped out of my sleep and indeed, hoof beast soon filled the air. Rupert and his cavalry rode into the camp grounds. Boye was firmly held in the hands of Rupert, eyeing me intelligently.

"Rupert!" I shouted. "They're all in the tents!" I knew there were a lot of enemies. If Rupert wanted to get away with a victory today he would probably have to strike fast.

"Sorry boy, we're just gonna pop you out of here. No fighting today!" He yelled. "The dog didn't approve!" He laughed as he rode by me. Before I knew it, I was on the back of his horse as he rode away.

The camp was now coming alive. Soldiers, some armored, some not, some armed, others not, were now pouring out of the tents, looking for their commanders in order to get organized. There was no way they would get ready in time to stop our lightning strike! Then I saw him. Algers, half closed charged toward us. His hair was wild and he had a sword in his hand, but what scared me the most was the ugly back determination in his eyes as he ran straight toward us. Algers must be a fairly adequate swordsman, or at least acted like he was. I had never seen him fight. He looked desperately determined though.

I looked up at Rupert's face. I knew we could get away if we wanted. We had a 20 yards head start and we were on horseback. Rupert, however, had a look of disgust, of contempt on his face.

"I'll teach this runt a lesson." He promised as he wheeled his horse around, sword drawn.

Alger charged at us. Rupert gave his horse a light kick, and the beast started charging forward. I was a bit intimidated by Alger, but Rupert's cocky confidence put all fear behind me. I had seen this confidence before. At Edgehill he radiated Ego like a bright jewel before he obliterated the rebel horsemen he faced.

Just before impact with Algers, Rupert jerked his reins left. Rupert's well trained charger obeyed silently, leaping almost a meter to the left. This completely surprised the swordsman, who had braced his weapon to meet the impact of the charge. For a single moment, Algers was exposed. Rupert moved in like a cat. A bright flash, and the cruel sneer on Alger's face loosened as the dead man fell down into the earth.

With all haste we rode west toward royalist territories. Several bands of rebel horsemen chased us through our entire journey, but Rupert's cunning maneuvers and the sheer haste of the well trained horsemen put them far behind us, and within days we were behind the safe curtain of several well-guarded royalist fortresses. Immediately we made for Oxford to meet father. The defeat at Gloucester had not been crushing, but it was devastating to Royalist moral. I had, however, acquired vital information from Anthony. I was a bit hesitant to tell father what I learned, as I had promised Anthony I would remain silent, but when I imagined the consequences of staying silent, such as father being killed in battle, the royal army annihilated, Oxford burning and its citizens enslaved, I gave in and reported every last detail I knew about the New Model Army. I also asked him about Alger's treatment of the peasants.

"During my capture, we spent a night in the Royalist village of Gisim. Algers was extremely cruel to the poor peasants of that village. Your soldiers would never do what he did right?" I asked hopefully, almost certain father will say yes. I had asked just to be assured by father's warm voice.

Father gave a sigh. I looked at him in alarm.

"I....I would lie when you were young, but now you are grown. You are a man now Charles, and I cannot hide these things from you any longer." He said, shutting his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. "Though I try to prevent it, such carnage is extremely common on both sides of the conflict."

I looked at him in dumb founded surprise.

"What? Why? Why would we be so cruel to those poor villagers? They are but weeds in the winds of the conflict, pawns in our games. If anything we should be cruel to the leaders of our enemies, not to the common peasants!" I remarked.

Father looked down and sighed. His eyes were glassy. I realized he must have been in a lot of stress recently, and stopped pressing father. Instead I asked

"What will happen, now that Gloucester did not fall?"

Father sighed again. "It will ruin all my campaigns this year. I cannot thrust into Eastern England with such a potent enemy force behind my lines. Did you know how close the city came to falling?" He asked me. His face was completely covered with wrinkles.

"How close?" I asked.

"A few exchanged prisoners reported that the city had only 3 barrels of gun powder left when the siege was broken by Essex." Father told me sadly.

Later I asked god if he was toying with us and our cause. The snatch victory from our hands even when we grasped it as tightly as we could. Soon I vowed not to ever be present at a battle again, for I never want to see such disappointment again. Soon father took my regiment away and made me instead a member of his privy Council.

Chapter 5; The War lost

The first day that I showed up at the council, I found it to be much like father's old court in St. James. It was located in a small, cozy room, with rich carpets and adequate walls covering. All of father's chief ministers, generals and favorites were supposed to be there, but I found the room to contain less than 20 men that day. Most of father's generals are in different parts of England, campaigning. I was immediately welcomed, and soon after the council launched into a semi passionate series of debates about the northern front. It was through these debates that I realized the war was far from won. Indeed the rebels had never been stronger!

In a surprising gesture of merciless vengeance, the covenanters betrayed father yet again and joined league with London, extending the war to Scotland. Of course, the northern country was not all for betraying the King. Although Argyll has wiped out most of the royalist clans before the Bishop's war, a fair number still resists the power of the Covenanters. Montrose, who had large holdings in Scotland, was head of the royalist movement, fighting against Argyll. Scotland was engulfed in its own civil war, but unfortunately, as a gesture of Good will, Argyll sent a large army of 10,000 Scottish veterans south to relieve pressure off Parliament.

These 10,000 veterans, most having fought against father in the bishop's war and then surviving the bloody civil war with the royalists, was a force to be reckoned with, a horrible dragon on the field of battle. To add a wizard riding the dragon, the Scots were perfectly positioned to strike Cavendish's theater from the north, which was unprotected and unfortified. Cavendish, who had all his troops in the south, could only watch as the northern Towns fell, one after another. Father ordered him to maintain his attacks on Parliament, as a decisive campaign in 1643, featuring troops from all three theaters, could overwhelm Parliamentarian resistance and capture London. However, when his own home, Newcastle, came after threat, Cavendish apologized to father and led his armies north to protect his fief, giving Parliament the breathing space it so desperately needed.

Father watched the situation with anger and frustration for several months, attempting to determine if he could capture London without Cavendish's northern armies. He was about to go ahead and attack, however, when the northern theater again foiled his plans. Cavendish and his army was defeated in a disastrous pitch battle by the combined force of the Scots and Essex's Army, and he was trapped with about 5,000 men in York. Within days York was surrounded by almost 30,000 Scots and rebels, led by our old friends Alexander Leslie and Thomas Fairfax. Oliver Cromwell, the would be commander of the still forming New Model Army, was also present and in command of the rebel cavalry.

Back in Oxford, father agonized and agonized, but he could not let the northern theater collapse. Maintaining his court at Oxford, he sent Rupert north with his 6,000 elite cavalry as a relieve force, giving the commander permission to levy royalists along the way. He himself would lead the infantry in defense of Oxford, which was under threat from Essex's main army. The decisive strike at London was forgotten and even Oxford, father's wartime capital, lay exposed as our forces shifted north. Thus began the most decisive campaign of the war. If Rupert and Cavendish could defeat the Scots and the Parliamentarians, they can march south; join father's infantry and strike for London before winter arrives. Should the royalists fail to relieve York, however, the entire northern theater might collapse and fall under London, or Scottish influence.

I followed Rupert's campaign with interest, knowing as well as any of father's minister that this campaign would be decisive. The rebels would probably outnumber Rupert, but I felt confident that Boye would lead the avuncular man to a glorious victory.

Several month later men began talking about the great battle of Marston Moor. Some said it was a clear Royalist victory, with much of the rebel army was crushed. Others say the rebels carried the field, but both sides were so decimated by the battle that peace would soon result. Still others argued that Rupert was defeated before he even reached the walls of York, himself captured in the progress. London was left in the dark for several months until Rupert himself arrived at Oxford at the head of 5,000 cavalry that we found out what had happened.

Marston Moor was indeed a bloody battle. Rupert had deployed his men behind a ridge. When the Parliamentarians launched an attack, many of their men were trapped inside the ditch and they were slaughtered en mass by close range musket fire. Meanwhile, Rupert launched a ferocious, simultaneous attack against the rebels, intending to overwhelm their shaken lines. In the middle, our veteran, Royalist infantry, well trained and armed with swords, were able to, for the first time, pushed back the more numerous rebel Pike men. The fight was still bloody, however, and the leader of our infantry, Eythin, was killed. This was extremely unfortunate because only he knew his master plan for the battle, telling his numerous captains only direct, straight forward instructions. As a result our infantry could not be ordered to perform more useful tasks throughout the battle. Meanwhile, Wilmot led the Royal Cavaliers and crushed the left flank of the rebels, but his swashbuckling cavalier made the same mistake they made at Edgehill, riding off after their routed adversary instead of focusing on enemy units that have not yet routed. Wilmot followed them in their jolly pursuit. On the right, Rupert and his elite cavalry charged against the Parliamentarian cavalry, but was held down by Oliver Cromwell's cavalry for long enough that a few regiments of rebel pike men was able to attack Rupert's men from behind, decimating his force, marking the first time Rebel cavalry defeated Royalist cavaliers. Rupert himself narrowly avoided capture by taking off his uniform and jumping into a nearby field. He lost his right arm, however, when Boye was shot dead by a rebel musketeer. Nether the less, Rupert's veterans did not fall without a fight, and Oliver Cromwell, commander of the rebel cavalry was wounded with a pistol shot to the neck. Meanwhile, Fairfax, who led the Rebel center, found his line over whelmed and himself surrounded by father's men and was lost from his troops. For 2 hours there was no general leading either armies, and as the sun began to set it looked like the battle would turn out to be another big stalemate and the battle hung in balance. Then, Oliver Cromwell, with his wound dressed, assumed command of the entire battle and cut the leaderless royalist army to bits. Cavendish's white coats, his elite bodyguard of the north, put up a last stand to buy the city of York time, but all was futile and they were blasted apart by rebel artillery. York itself soon surrendered. Cavendish, who had used his lifelong fortune to support father's cause, fled the north from ship and escaped to France. With his going the North, about a fifth the size of England, collapsed and except for a few isolated castles, surrendered to Parliament!

Father was furious when he heard the news. The war had been won! A few months back the only question was whether the civil war will end in a royalist victory in 1643 or 1644. Now fortune has rewound the string of destiny so fast, father and his supporters and completely lost in the unpredictable maelstrom. Victory was now not only no longer guaranteed, but also starting to look unlikely.

I only let the information in, growing more and more numb to it. Another defeat for father. It's unfortunate, but we should expect little else. God seemed to be turning a blind eye on father. One day a large band of infiltrating rebel cavalry was caught and destroyed just 40 miles from Oxford. Had they slipped past they would have a chance to kidnap father and burn the royal court, effectively ending the war!

The squadron of men was finally cornered by several regiments of musketeers and royal cavalry, but they still put up a fight. After a short fight the rebels surrendered. By that time there were only 15 of them left, including one young officer who didn't even have a sword.

I watched as they were marched through Oxford and jeered at by the civilians. The officer looked extremely familiar. He was a man in his early twenties, and had a long face. His eyes were wild and much like Cary's the days before he died. At closer examination I gave a jump and found him to be Anthony!

Rushing down to him I lead him out of the parade.

"Anthony? What has happened to you?" I asked him. His fair skin were wrinkled and cut.

"You cannot tell?" He asked. "Well, I am not so sure myself." He said.

"Free him out of these bonds! I know him!" I ordered the soldiers. They obeyed, but only reluctantly, cutting loose their hard begot captive.

"Anthony!" I asked him again.

"Well.........the tide has turned so fast since we last met! Now our situation is completely reversed!" He laughed. "I......you were right Charles. I tried to follow the Parliamentarians, but they were....not what my uncle painted them as. They constantly bickered among themselves and forgot about the interest of the people. They were as bad, if not worse, than the King had been." Anthony sighed.

"So.....wait, why did you come along on this raid then?" I asked.

"I don't know. I had no hope anymore. Neither side wining was a bright prospect. I thought it better to just die. So when I heard about a near suicide raid deep into the King's territory, I accepted, hoping to meet my death here." He sighed. "Alas, I lost my sword before the engagement and your cruel horsemen will not strike down an unarmed man, and they brought me here."

"Anthony! You can join us!" I begged.

"I have thought of it, but I fear I must say no. I hold him at too much hate to ever pledge my loyalty to him." He said sadly. "I fear there is nothing but death for me."

"No, there is another way!" I told him. "My father will die, and then I will be king. You will pledge your loyalty to me, no?" I asked him hopefully.

He stopped, thought about it, and nodded a slight bit.

"Perhaps....if you will listen to my ideas, perhaps." He said, then hung his head in frustration.

"But it is all hopeless. The King is only in his late forties. King James lived till he was eighty. If I wait for you to become king I may have to wait Thirty Years, or more!" He whined.

I was at loss of words, for his point was valid, but I quickly attempted to press what we've just said.

"But do not die!" I begged. "Death is total defeat. If you hang on you have only retreated, and you can still win." I told him, and then uttered a loud umm, again at loss of words. I looked down at Anthony's shirt and saw a dragon. The dragon of wales. Dragons, Norse mythology. Norse...Germany. Continental Europe! I had it!

"Anthony! England is not the only nation in Europe; Charles is not the only king! Why not go to the continent, and endure with the French, or the Italians, until things in England proceed to your liking? Then you can always come back!" I beseeched him.

Anthony grew thoughtful again. Gradually his eyes cleared.

"Thank you my friend." He said, cupping my hands in his. "I own you a great favor...I own you my life, which I was ready to throw away. You have shown me the wiser course. You will be a good king, Charles. Should your father win this war, and you eventually become king you will have my pledge of loyalty." He swore.

"You sound as if the war is already lost for the King." I laughed a bit.

"It is." Anthony said sadly. "Marston Moor is only the beginning. Parliament will keep on improving its army, improving its officers until its army overwhelms the King's." He said gravely. I shuddered.

From Anthony we learned several crucial facts about Parliament. The good news was that there is increasing tension within the house, as it separates into three rival factions. One group advocates peace with the King, claiming the war has dragged on long enough. These include Fairfax, Essex, and several leading Rebel commander. Another group advocates continuous war until the King is dead or captured. This group was led by Cromwell, the brilliant cavalry commander at Marston Moor. The last group is in the middle between the other two groups. They want to compromise with the King, immediately after Marston Moor, when the rebels have a strong bargaining position. This group was led by Pym and Hampden, the men who father originally wanted to arrest.

The bad news was the New Model Army had gotten a lot stronger. Cromwell and his cavalry, which beat Rupert at Marston Moor, would merge with the New Model Army, which was always drafting more and more men, becoming bigger, more disciplined and better equipped. This new army would be under the direct control of Parliament instead of under father's old retinue like Essex and Fairfax, but it will be led by Oliver Cromwell in battle. It is disheartening to know that the secondary Parliamentarian army was able to defeat the Royalist Army, while the main Rebel army, the army with the most potential did not even engage us yet.

The war was now once again heating up. With the north lost, northern Wales was soon subjected to frequent raids. By the last months of 1644, Parliament had stepped into the offensive. Cromwell led parts of his New Model Army south, and with the help of Essex's army, decisively defeated Hopton, forcing him all the way back to Wessex, where he had started in 1642. Rupert, however, has also been busy. With much of the cavaliers under Wilmot surviving Marston Moor, Rupert still had an effective core for his army, which he quickly reinforced with fresh recruits. Near the marshes of Lostwithiel, Rupert surprised Essex's army and dispersed it, almost capturing Essex in the process. Now, there were only two armies left on the field of the Civil War. Cromwell's new, but disciplined New Model Army, and Rupert's diverse army of veteran soldiers and part time militia, many of whom constantly leave their posts to visit their families. The two armies met for a decisive engagement at Nasby, in early 1645. I was 16.

I had excused myself from the battle, hoping to avoid another Gloucester or Edgehill, but my caution was fruitless. Peasants fleeing the advancing rebels brought news of the battle even before father's defeated army fled back to Oxford. Apparently, the battle had started well for father. His infantry charged and broke the first line of Parliamentarian infantry and began pushing back the second line. However, Rupert's Cavaliers collapsed under the heavy strikes of Cromwell's iron sides, and Cromwell turned around and struck the back of the exposed royalist lines, routing it and completely annihilating father's veteran army. Of the 7,000 royalist present at the battle, 4,000 was captured, 2,500 killed and 500 men managed to escape, most with wounds.

As soon as father arrived at Oxford, my brother James and I were ordered to pack our belongings and prepare to leave England. We were to join a fleet sailing for the isle of Scilly, off the coast of western England. Father, stubborn as he always was, would not accept the war as lost quite yet, but he knew Oxford would soon be under siege. The risks of losing me, his crown prince, to a random cannon ball was probably too great for him the bear. Secretly, one night, Digby, Hyde, several Ministers, Anthony, and a small force of retainers escorted James, Mary and I out of Oxford and west towards the sea. The trip was very trying for me. Seeing the beautiful Welsh country side, knowing they had belonged to father, and to me, but in a few days' time rebels would desecrate these lands.....I felt horrible. As we rode Digby drew his sword. I looked at him, terrified, hoping he hadn't seen any Parliamentarians. His face was sweaty and his hair matted his head. His eyes were sharp and squinted and he stared right at me.

"Digby!" I screamed at him, horrified.

"You are nothing, you stupid little boy!" Digby screamed. "I thought you were my chance to glory and riches! I served you and bit down my curses, I served your father and bit down my curses, but I served the wrong men! You are nothing now. The war is lost! Even the King knows, but you will still be my ladder to riches. I will bring your head and surrender to Parliament!" Digby screamed, riding for me. My horse, terrified, galloped faster. Digby's first swing missed. I looked around, desperate. The very thought of that cruel steel burying into my flesh! To my joy, all the rest of the company looked equally scared as I was. To my disappointment, however, none of them had swords!

Digby charged again, cutting for my head. I ducked down, and his sword nicked off the ear of my charger. The frightened horse reared up, and I almost fell off. I had the gold cross, hanging on a chain from my neck, of course, a cross that can also be used as a dagger. I drew it out, but it was the size of my pinky and I knew it would do little against Digby armed with a sword. I wished Verney had not been slain at Edgehill.

"Stop! Digby, there is still a chance for the King!" Hyde said, holding his hands up in his effort to calm down the traitor.

"A chance, a chance!" Digby laughed. "Fools mockery. I may be lacking in the arts of war, but even I know a nation without an army will fall quickly to a nation with 50,000 men in its army!" Digby laughed.

"You leave me with no choice then!" Screamed Wilmot, charging from his horse. Digby wheeled around quickly to react to this new threat. Wilmot, however, had made a calculated attack. Digby had expected Wilmot to dart upon him, sword swinging, but Wilmot instead wheeled his horse away from Digby and sliced at the leg of Digby's horse. The beast likewise panicked, and Digby, with only one hand gripping his sword, failed and fell off.

"Run!" Wilmot shouted. "Let's go! If he gets back up he will slaughter us!" Wilmot said as he rode his charger over Digby, who was crawling up from the dust. We all slapped our horses, and rode toward the port.

We depart for Scilly on a fleet of eight ships. Seven were trading cogs: large, bulky, and lightly armed. The one my entourage will be on is a heavily armed, mercenary ship of the line, the Reminiscent, boasting of over 40 guns. If the powerful rebel navy confronts our fleet, (as they probably will) the cogs will put up a fight while the Reminiscent will set sail and flee. Our best hope for a safe passage across the channel would be to take small jumps from island to Island until we get across to France, where my mother lived with the French Royal Family.

I sat, quiet, on the deck, near one of the cannons for most of the trip. It was boring, watching the sea churn by slowly, taking me farther and farther away from father, from England. When we were halfway to Scilly, one of the last ships messaged the admiral that he saw something behind us. Squinting at the object the admiral discerned it to be another fleet. This was surprising news, for merchant fleets are usually much slower. This fleet appeared to be catching up to us, and thus it must be a war fleet. The strange thing is, other than in England there were no wars going on at the time, so there is no reason why a fleet of warships will be about.

For the next two hours they continuously closed in on us, until the flag on top of each of their ships was clear. The flag of Parliament. Panic spread among the men. We may have a fleet of ships, but the royal navy consists only of captured ships with mercenary crew. The rebels acquired all of father's finest ships and best trained crews. In a naval engagement we would stand little chance.

The chase continued until the rebels were within cannon range, and they began firing shots at us. Our stern chaser guns fired back, but both sides largely missed. Those shots that connected did little damage to the thick oak contour of the ships. It was like this that we persisted until we reached the shores of Scilly, where the Parliamentarians gave up their pursuit in fear of onshore artillery. I got off, breathing a sigh of relief. That was the second time that my life was endangered in the same day!

From Scilly we sailed to Jersey, dogged by the Parliamentarian fleet. Our mercenary ships cut through the green water like the old Viking dragon ships of the old, but the Parliamentary fleet had been built at tremendous cost (by father) and consisted of some of the most innovative ship building technology. Thus, they glided over the water like swans, their great, blooming white sails glinting under the sun. Halfway across the channel, they had caught up to the last ship of our column and had opened fire upon it, and I was ready to throw myself into the water rather than risk capture. At this crucial point however, from the south sailed another fleet, deployed in one line. I counted only four ships, but they were all huge ships of the line. As they drew closer I saw the familiar blue flag with Fleur de lis waving proudly on top of a tall mast. The French navy!

Everyone on the ships were jubilant. The French navy was not very big, and it was sailing against the wind and deployed in a poor formation. Had our foe wanted they could have still defeated our combined fleet. To my elation however the rebels peeled off from the pursuit, and everyone sighed at the relief. The rebels may be winning the war in England, but if they attacked the French fleet they will find themselves pitted against the 30,000 men strong French Royal army, veteran by the fierce Thirty Years War in Europe. This war was one that even the wizard Cromwell cannot win.

We arrived almost triumphantly in France owned Jersey, escorted by the French Fleet. A polite, painted admiral escorted us onto another ship that will sail us all the way to Paris. I was on my way to the court of my first cousin, 9 years old King Louis XIV.

Unit Three

It struck me, again and again, how much my life has changed. The real obvious is that I am now living in France instead of merry England. Other, smaller things also started to surface.

Digby's words had hurt, not only because it was a was mean to say, but also because it was true to some degree. I was no body. My life in England before the war had seemed a dream, lived by a different little boy, one extremely naïve and self-centered. Now I am nothing but an outcast, an exile, living the life of a nobleman only by the will of my young Cousin Louis. Still, I felt, ready, strong, the way one feels when they get up from bed in the morning, ready to take on the world. I was now 16, standing at the height of 6 foot 4, and very sharp. I had quite a few influential friends and I felt prepared, both mentally and physically to take on whatever life hurled at me, whether it be making a new life for myself and eventually rejoining father in England. Many people has put themselves in danger or even sacrificed themselves so that I can be here, safe, in France, and I intend to make the most out of it.

Chapter 1 King in Exile

Paris was an entirely different world from London. The city of Paris was as crowded as an anthill. London's streets were mostly empty except during Sunday, when the streets were filled with church goers. Paris was always bustling. Farmers drove carts full of vegetables to sell at the city's huge markets. The streets were filled with beggars, drunkards, and peasants loitering down its roads, peeking into the many shops in the great city. Uniformed soldier marched in their battalions to and fro, patrolling the city. The concept of a standing army was a strange one to me, and I was obviously very surprised to hear the Louis had 5,000 soldiers at his disposal in the city of Paris alone. How could these French Soldiers leave their families and fields for years at a time, just to serve the French King?

One thing the two cities had in common was the rampant civil disorder. Things were almost as turbulent in Paris as they are in London. When the civil war started in England in 1642, France was led by 3 great figures; King Louis XII, (my first Uncle), Cardinal Richelieu, (the King's prime minister) and Marie de Medici, queen mother of Louis XII. Together the three managed the country as well as its involvement in the Thirty Years War. Then, in the same year, all three died within months of one another. France would likewise have dissolved to civil war had the King's young son, Louis XIV, assumed the throne under the capable Cardinal Mazarin. Nether the less, sentiments still persists all over France, and the country was a lot weaker than it otherwise would have been.

The Palace of Fontainebleau was even bigger than St. James. The English Palace had been a compound with a small, elegant hall in the middle. The French Palace is fantastically huge, like a small town in the middle of the French countryside, consisting of many buildings of both medieval and renaissance taste. It is manned by battalions after battalions of well-armed, well dressed Royal French infantry. Each man is a well groomed gentleman, with a handsome mustache and dressed in a spotless white uniform, decorated with golden buttons, blue ribbons. In their hands they held the same muskets that father's men held, but they seemed to be completely different from the motley militia that made up father's royal army. Instead of drooping low and casting mournful glances around, the French troops stood proud, and tall, carrying themselves around with a majestic demeanor. Why, they were the soldiers of God!

As we were led to mother's chambers by a French gentleman, I thought over how I could persuade the 10 years old Louis to lend me some of his troops. Why, just 1,000 of these elite soldiers could turn the tide of the war!

Mother awaited my siblings and me in her room. When I saw her I almost turned on the French around me in anger. Her eyes were sunken, almost like sockets in a skull. Her hair, usually elaborately made and glistening with oil, was messy as a crow's nest. Her smooth pale skin was wrinkled and smudged, and she was thinner than an old, street hag.

"Mother! What is wrong? Have the French mistreated you? Have you been fed poorly here?" I gasped.

She didn't reply, but instead rushed at me, arms wide. Astounded by her unusual show of emotion, I stood awkwardly while she wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head in my chest. I was now a head taller than her.

"Mother?" I asked again, cautiously this time, longing to hear her voice, hear her reply.

"No...they have treated me quite fairly." Mother signed. "Thank god you came! But alas! I had hoped for better news. Why would he send James, Mary and you over if he kept Henry and Elizabeth trapped in Oxford?" She asked, a bit distraught. I was surprised by her negative attitude of the war.

"Mother! Do not say things like that, the war may yet be won!" I said desperately.

"There is no need to be foolish and stubborn like your father. If the royal army lost to the New Model Army while it was forming, how could a shattered royal army defeat a completed New Model Army?" She cried. "Now I'm afraid it's too late for your father to leave Oxford!"

I looked at her horrified. There is no more point in arguing, now that we both knew the inevitable.

"What do you think they'll do to him?" I asked. In my mind I pictured the old Peasant elder that Alger had almost killed. I've heard of some pretty horrifying stories. Cary, killed at Gloucester, was reclaimed by several rebels. They hacked his body apart and skinned his face. I shuddered to think what would happen to father if those soldiers caught him alive!

Then I remembered Fairfax, who had treated me so fairly when I was captured. Hopefully it will be Fairfax that receives father's formal surrender!

Suddenly a squire stepped into the room. I thought he was English at first, for he was wearing the tight uniform that English squire wears. However his uniform was colored white and gold, the colors of the French king. In rich French he addressed mother.

"Le roi a demandé votre présence à sa table."

"Merci. Je viendrai à la fois." Mother replied. "Here is some good news at last. We will go tonight to dine with Cardinal Mazarin and his Majesty King Louis. Remember, Charles, that Cardinal Mazarin is not like Buckingham. He will not spoil you, and King Louis....you must remember pay your respects to him as if he was your monarch." Mother sighed. I was surprised, then mad at myself for not realizing this before.

"Of course." I sighed. What more can I expect? I was nobody.

The squire lead us through the palace and finally into a huge, elaborate dining room with a tall ceiling, golden pillars and a large, metal table in the middle. Plants stood juxtaposed with servants, and there were about 20 armed soldiers in the room. The dining room of the French king was so different from England's, which was large, but much less decorated, being simple and modest.

Only one man was sat on the table. His head was bowed in Prayer, and I suppose he was in his sixties. His hairline was receding, and his mustache was coarse. He wore all red. A cardinal. There was only one cardinal in Paris, and that would be Cardinal Mazarin, King Louis's primary advisor. I looked at him in surprise. Mazarin should only be in his early forties. The man glanced up at us. His eyes were blood shot, as if he hasn't closed them in weeks.

"Good Day, Queen Herinetta and the young princes and princesses of the English Royal House." He said, nodding his head at us. I was a bit surprised at how he addressed me, straight forwardly and to the point, not bothering with flowery language.

Mother nodded at him as regally as she could in her sorry appearance, and took her seat. Both my siblings and I sat huddled next to her, like little children again.

"You must excuse my untidy appearances." He said quietly. "For I have been extremely busy of late. The emperor's army was smashed at Turee and the Thirty Years War looked like it could finally be over. I have spent the last few weeks meeting foreign diplomats." He sighed. By emperor the Cardinal meant the holy Roman Emperor King Ferdinand the Third, of course.

"It is fine, Cardinal." Mother said politely. "It is good news, the victory at Turee." She said, still making no move for the pastries set up on the tables. My hands were itching to grab some of the steaming bread, yet I restrained myself and reminded myself that I was a guest here.

"Ay it was, a fantastic victory. 30,000 of the emperor's finest troops laid low and scores of the emperor's artillery captured, all for the loss of a bare 5,000 of his majesty's troops. Even fair Vienna will fall into our hands soon, unless the emperor agrees to negotiate." The cardinal told us with an air of arrogance. The words seemed to relax his tense features.

I was astonished by the huge numbers. England was fighting its own bloody, civil war, but the Thirty Years war in Europe made the civil war in England seemed like an argument between village elders.

A silence now fell over the table, and I thought it was finally time to begin the meal, but alas, no one made a move, and thus I restrained myself. After about 5 minutes of waiting, music filled the air. Brightly dressed jesters entered, blowing trumpets. Everyone's heads snapped toward the door. Two streams of well-dressed soldiers entered the room. Between them was a stream of elaborately dressed men, courtiers and ministers by the look of them. In the very front of the entire column, so short I missed him at my first glance, was his majesty Louis the XIV himself.

The boy had strong features, with a hawkish nose, large mouth, and large, black eye orbs that seemed to fill up his entire eye. His hair was different from what I wore in England. They were twisted and braided into a fantastic display, dropping down to his shoulders.

In fluent French he addressed me.

"J'espère que vous avez une bonne soirée."

My French was good enough that I replied

"Je suis. Et vous?"

He smiled, talked some more, and then turned to mother, who talked back with her head bowed in respect. I watched as servants helped my little cousin onto his especially tall chair so he could eat at the same height at the rest of us. It was almost comical, and he reminded me of the Dwarf Hudson, who had joined the French army and was appointed a captain by several facetious noble women.

When everyone had taken their seats, servants entered in throngs to pour wine into our goblets, and people started to take bread from the baskets on the table, slowly, one by one. I bit into one of the perfect loafs, letting its aroma fill my nose and mouth, stabbing at the soft inside with my tongue.

Dish after dish began to pile onto the tables. A stuffed peasant drifted in front of me, followed by some sugared frosted eggs.

I ate busily, not bothering to listen to the conversation around me. It was not until I was finished eating did I realize everyone else hadn't even finished their bread yet. They were taking their time, eating and chatting about all sorts of different things. I wanted to excuse myself from the table, but I knew it was impolite to leave before Louis does, so I sat in absolute boredom, my stomach too full to allow in any more food.

After Louis was finally done eating, (he took his merry time too, talking to everyone around him) we were finally allowed to leave, and a gentleman led my siblings and me to our room. The chamber was fair, I guess, with a soft bed and lots of light. I rather disliked it, for although it was as furnished as my old room, this one was too large and not cozy, and it smelled of wine.

The war continued while we idled away in Paris like ants sealed from their hole.

Rupert was separated from father at Nasby, and he was chased all the way to Bristol. The Parliamentarians quickly laid siege to the city, and it soon fell, throwing much of royalist south into chaos. Rupert was captured and exiled to Europe, but he secretly met with father one last time. Some hot words were exchanged between the two men, both of who now realized the war is lost. Then Rupert left. Father continued the war by himself. Hopton was defeated and captured at the tip of Wessex, and his army disbanded. With all of England under Parliamentarian control the rebels proceeded toward Oxford and Wales. Fairfax laid siege to father's capital while Cromwell stormed most of Wales. Father, with a small regiment of cavalry, broke the encirclement and fled Oxford with my siblings, heading north, attempting to contact Montrose and his royalist Scots. He was intercepted half way by a rebel Scot army, which he surrendered to. The Scots delivered him to London.

Jacob Astley fought the last battle of the war, the battle of Stow-Upon-Woods, where, despite a heroic resistance, his army, both smaller and of less superior quality, was cut apart. Astley surrendered honorably, telling his soldiers,

"You have done your work, boys, and may now play, unless you will fall out amongst yourselves!"

With the war over father, his allies, and my siblings Henry, Henrietta, and Elizabeth were confined back to London, which we have tried so hard throughout the war to take. Mother was allowed to write letters with him back and forth. I was surprised at how lenient the rebels were. They knew that if they had lost the war every single one of them would be hung, but they still treated father with respect. He was simply sentenced to house arrest in St. James for the time's being while Parliament decided what to do with him. Most agreed that he would continue to be king, but would have to sign much of his power away. A few hardliners, Oliver Cromwell included, want him exiled or hung. They had the support of the military, who obviously hated father the most, but in England no one is allowed to be executed without trial, and it is clear that the King cannot be tried by any court. Thus the situation in England remained the same, and I began zooming out of it, realizing, to my relief, that they can never kill father, that not even his enemies dared to execute him.

Chapter 2, The Hague

France soon proved to be useless for our cause. My cousin Louis and I were not exactly friends, but we got along fairly well. He treated me with the politeness one monarch would expect from the other, while I treated him with manners as a subject would to his king. It was the old cardinal Mazarin that finally drove us from France. He was constantly plotting, as if everything in his life was a giant equation. If something benefited him, he supported it, not caring if it was ethical or not. He was the kind of man that would tear down a bridge he had just used to cross a stream if it benefitted him.

To celebrate their victory in the Thirty Years War, which was apparent in all but name, Louis took with him hundreds of servants, nobles, advisors and soldiers on a grand Hunting trip at Versailles, a small town about 20 miles from Paris. I was among the invited.

Versailles was a small, green town, very hot at noon and surrounded by streams and vast forests. The first few days of the hunt were full of simple, cavalier fun. We chased and slew hundreds of critters, ranging from field mice to foxes. Bands of horsemen would chase the inhabitants of the forest into a constricted position, such as near a ledge, or in a valley. Then more hunters would jump out from both sides, and with vicious hounds they would pounce upon the poor animals.

The royal hunt was extremely unpopular with the locals, who were used to poaching from the king's forest to put meet on their tables. The few animals that survived the sweeping hunts would likely leave the area all together and never come back, leaving the forests empty of its original masters.

One day, several locals informed us of a great boar that has hidden in the woods lately. The boar was apparently so clever, that it only attacked men traveling through the woods alone and always hid when near large groups of men.

Louis' eyes glinted when he heard that, the prospect of hunting down the clever beast already clenching his heart. The very next day, he departed from Versailles with me and 2 servants, as well as several hounds. He carried a large musket in his hands, while his servants carried a second musket and a pike, respectively. I carried with me a sword.

We rode through the woods for several hours before one of the hounds picked up scent of the boar and started barking. The rest of the pack, (6 hounds total) all began to yelp and began to pick up speed. After about 3 minutes of chasing the boar came abruptly into sight. It was huge. The beast's fur was pitch black, and an ugly scar ran across its braod shoulders. Its tusks were wickedly long and curved, and also extremely yellow in color. The first hound made a flying leap at the boar, but was stopped in midair by the boar's cruel tusks. The rest of the hounds, not intimidated, leapt upon the beast, and they all rolled in a big heap. Louis leveled his gun for a shot, but with the hounds rolling around with the boar he couldn't risk firing. Suddenly, the boar broke free of the hounds and lunged right for king! Louis was caught completely by surprise and fried a wild shot, which missed by a foot and sank into a nearby tree with a thud.

With a grunt the boar ran under the king's horse and gored the horse's stomach open, which shrieked and knelt down on the ground. Louis let loose a terrified scream and grabbed on as tightly as he could to the neck of his dying horse, hacking at the maddened boar with the butt of his wooden musket. The servant with the spear quickly rode by and stabbed at the boar, but the tip sank into the beast's broad shoulders and only served to anger the boar more. In a flash I drew my sword, and, jumping off my horse began to hack at the boar, the bright flashes of steel causing red valleys to erupt all over the boar's back. Eventually, with the help of the hounds, we managed to slay the great beast.

When we helped the king off the horse, he was shaken, pale as an onion, and drenched in blood. He was quickly rushed back to Versailles, where the royal physician inspected and dressed his mounds. We found out later that only his leg had been seriously gored, and the rest of the blood must have came from the disemboweled horse. When I visited the king 2 hours later, he was being bandaged by royal surgeons, and his face was as pale as an onion. A brief wave of disgust stuffed into my throat as father's face paraded in my head. Had he been as pale with fear when he had been captured?

"Thank you, brother, for saving my life. Now I will be able to defend keeping you here in Paris to Mazarin." Louis said, putting up a weak attempt to smile. "If only I could hold a spear in one hand and shoot a musket with the other. Then, had I missed I would have been in no trouble.

My face lit up for a moment. What if.....With permission I grabbed the musket of a nearby Swiss guard, and, grabbing my knife, I inserted it by the hilt into the muzzle of the gun.

"Now you have a spear, with which you could have killed the boar!" I proudly proclaimed, handing my invention to him.

Louis's eyes opened wide as he took the musket in his hands. "Why, it's a spear!" He made a little stabbing motion. "If I had this when the boar fell upon me, it would have been in very big trouble." He gave a small laugh. "Why, this could possibly be used in warfare! If it could stop a boar, could it also not stop a charging horse?" Louis said rapidly, speaking to himself more than anyone else. "If we equip all my infantry with this, they would no longer need to fear cavalry on the battle fields. When a troop of horsemen comes near all they have to do is to plug knives into their guns and they'd be pike men! Brilliant!" He exclaimed.

I smiled, and shrugged off his congratulatory with humble bows and laughs. Little did I know my little invention would soon be implemented in Louis's armies, and would revolutionize warfare in Europe, as well as contribute to the eventual, century long dominance of the French Royal Army.

A few weeks later we arrived back in Paris. I looked for Cardinal Mazarin to tell him about my father's capture. I found him praying in his small garden Chapel. I waited politely until he was done praying, looking around in wonder at how different churches of France are from England. This chapel was decorated with beautiful glass, marble seats and gold ornaments hanging everywhere.

When he was done praying I told him father had been captured and his life was in danger. Mazarin showed no emotion, but I could somehow tell he was pleased, as if father was like a throne to his side. I approached Louis later with the same news, and the boy was obviously troubled and promised to do all he can to save father, who was his kin.

A few days later I overheard a few cooks talking as they baked sugared bread.

"Ay, I've heard of it too. They say they are going to become allies with the rebels."

"Allies? How could we be allies with Cromwell?" The other cook asked. "Are we not allies with the King, even though he is imprisoned? Do we not harbor the crown prince of England?"

"Hurmpgh, it may change soon. You know how Mazarin is." The other grunted.

"Ay....slippery serpent." The other agreed.

I was curious to hear more, and pressed my ear against the wall to catch their conversation. Unfortunately, however, the two cooks were too busy cleaning and fell silent, and I left after a minute of pointless waiting, sulking back to my room.

When I told mother what I heard, she sighed and said "ay, it is likely. But you cannot blame the cardinal. He is our host and he can choose when to make us leave, yet he has continued to provide for our daily needs. At the same time, the welfare of Europe depended on him. The war with the emperor may be coming to a close and there are talks of peace. I suppose people are discussing, even now, where to hold the peace conference. If England is allied with France when the delegations sit, then France would have a better position to haggle." Mother sighed. "Very well, we will not let our host kick us out. We will leave at our own consent." She sighed.

That night we packed our belongings, and the next day, after a brief meeting with Louis, all of us, Mother, my siblings, Hyde, Wilmot, Anthony and scores of family servants, ministers and loyal captains left the French palace, traveling for the Hague, Dutch Netherlands!

The War of the Continent had barely touched the Netherlands. Even though the Habsburg Spanish have been at war with the dutch for the past eighty years, much Habsburg attention has been diverted from the Dutch and into the Holy Roman Empire, where France's catholic armies have penetrated deeply and linked up with protestant armies of Sweden and various German Princes. Thus, despite being at war, the Duthc lived in relative peace and safety, shielded by the much larger conflict going on south of its borders.

The city was beautiful. Estuaries flooded all across the city like vein around a heart. We would have found a nice place to reside for ourselves, but several soldiers led us to a minister, who helped us find a place to live. The Dutch government didn't give us any official recognition, but they made sure we were well treated. The minister found us a nice English district in the city, which were filled with royalists, ranging from exiles, to foreign supporters of father, to past rebels who have switched sides after realizing Parliament cannot manage the Kingdom without the King.

Our house was obviously much smaller and less grand than anything I have ever lived in. There are only two floors, and the entire area covered by the first floor was roughly the size of St. James' garden. The house was also barely furnished, and mother had to use our already dwindling funds to buy what she could, and as a result, many things in the house were put in strange places. The sword of Henry the XIII was staked into the floor, while the ancient tapestry of the Battle of Hasting was laid out onto the floor like a carpet. Our money was running so low that even our meals would have deteriorated had nearby royalists not cooked our meals for us.

Our community was a beautiful little place, almost like its own little village in the big city of The Hague. I began to go onto the streets more, always greeted and cheered wherever I went. One day, while shopping in the markets for nails, I encountered a familiar figure among the many people. It was Lucy.

When I left Oxford with my older Siblings, Lucy and the younger ones were left behind. I knew the fate of my younger siblings, (under house arrest in London,) but I didn't know what happened to anyone else. Now that I saw her again after so many years, I lost all of my regal manners and acted like I was a little boy again, running up to her and giving her a big hug, forgetting for a moment that I was 6 feet 4. She stumbled under my embrace, and around us people stared in surprise. Embarrassed, I let go of her, and she turned around and looked me in the face.

"Charles?" She asked, her voice full of surprise, and, to my relief, joy.

"Yes, it's me! How did you end up here?" I said, catching hold of her arm and pulled her out of the throng of people. I will lead her to my house, I decided.

"How did you end up here?" She asked. She had become emotional now, almost crying. "Oh, I'm so surprised." She said. She looked like she needed to sit down. "Oxford fell, and, I don't know what happened to anybody!" She cried out.

Gently I sat her down on a watermelon next to a man's fruit stand.

"Hey, it's okay." I said, stroking her long, golden hair. "Everything's going to be fine!" I told her. "I'm here, I'm safe. Cardinal Mazarin in France sighed a treaty with Cromwell's England, and the Royal Family had to regroup here." I told her.

She sniffed up her tears. "Mazarin...always so heartless. He betrayed his fellow Catholics because he feared they were getting too strong, and now he betrays the first cousin of his liege so he could have a treaty with the anti-monarchist England." She said bitterly. "But enough of that. Here's my story. I'll tell you on the way to my house." She said, standing up shakily and leading me on.

"When Oxford fell, I was in the palace with the King. Many of the other nobles had also gathered there, seeking the safety of the hall, hoping for the last ditch effort at defense to be successful. Parliamentarian soldiers broke inside and made us kneel down, all of us, as they checked us for any weapons. Then they lead us, single file, outside to where the rest of the rebel army lay. There we were separated, and all of us escorted to London." She paused for a second and looked down. "Several soldiers, they___"

"Did they touch you?" I asked angrily.

"Its.....it was quick, and I was lucky to not get pregnant." She said, avoiding my gaze. "At London we were tried, one by one. Most of the nobles were presented a choice. Remain in England and swear allegiance to Parliament, or be exiled to the mainland. Most of us chose the latter option. That's how I ended up here." She said, shrugging.

"Oh, Poor you!" I said, almost crying. If only I had been there, to see the "disciplined" New Model Army break down to loot and rape!

"It's fine." She said quietly. "At least it's easier to live here than it was at Oxford that last year." She sighed. "I hope the King will be safe." She told me.

"He's fine. Elizabeth, Henry and Henrietta are all under house arrest. I heard from Elizabeth that they were being treated rather well, and that Parliament even sends over Tutors to educate Henry." I told her. "Father....he's safe, I guess. He is likewise under house arrest, while Parliament decides what to do with him." I told her. I felt terrible, weak, knowing my family is imprisoned in England, but not able to do anything about it.

"That is....better than I imagined." Lucy told me. "Oh look, we're here." She said, pointing to her house. I gasped in surprise. They lived in a small, rundown apartment in with low roofs and only 1 paper covered window. What a drastic step down from Roche Castle in Wales!

When we entered I was even more shocked by the horrible state of Lucy's home. The apartment, though dirty, had several rooms, but since it was shared by several families, each family was given one room. How ironic that the former nobles of England are limited to single roomed residences?

Lucy's mother lay sick on one of the beds. She is only in her late thirties, yet she looked like an old woman, her fair skin wrinkled from the dirty, coarse material of the bed. Dried tears hung around her eyes, and I can see fading scars on her face. I shuddered upon thinking what made them. Mrs. Walter's eyes lit up at seeing me, and she insisted on getting out of her bed to bow to me, as if I was still her majesty.

"My liege, our residence may not be much, but if you can visit us now and then, we would be deeply thankful." She said, her hands clasped together as she knelt my feet. I promised her I would, and just my words seemed to relax her tight muscles, and she sighed, satisfied. Over the next few months I became a frequent visitor to Lucy's house, and we soon became even closer than we had been at Oxford. She is now one of the most beautiful women in all Europe, radiating warmness like the sun, and attracted the eye of quite a few young men. The competition drove me on, perhaps too rashly, adding to my passion for Lucy, and I began to think more and more about her. I began to visit her, almost on a daily basis. Those visits soon turned from visits into stress relievers as the duties at home were become more and more stressing. Our dwindling funds were first stored in several chests, then in one large chest, than a small one that sat in the corner of the house, and then a box, followed by a smaller box until it all fit into mother's purse, yet mother was too used to spending lavishly to stop, and by 1649, we were in debt. We constantly wrote to nobles throughout England, attempting to garner their support, as well as keep in touch with Father, my siblings, and the situation in London.

By 1647, Parliament's indecision at everything was leading to serious conflicts. No issue satisfied all members of the house, and day after day was wasted away debating in hope of a utopian solution to the problem. Meanwhile daily administration required from the government was neglected, as there was no king, and England's economy suffered greatly. Many took this as signs of Parliament's inability and many flocked back to father's banners, including a few that had fought against father in the first war. In middle 1647, father escaped from London with the help of royalists, and the civil war was on again.

I followed the war with interest. If it began to look like father could win, I will sail back to England and join him in the war. Alas, however, the second war was much more of a massacre than the first. Father's supporters may be many, and they may be motivated, but they are unorganized and fought amongst themselves. Parliament, while not able to run the country, was nevertheless still effective militarily. Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army easily crushed several small, isolated royalist uprisings, and by late 164eight, father was once again captured and sent back to London.

Frantic progress now seized the royal household. I wrote letters to all men I knew in England, urging them to help father. There was still debate going on in the house, but most now deemed it necessary to bring father to trial.

In another show of cowardice and treachery, Parliament changed its laws, making it possible to try the King like a normal citizen. For the next month 7 judges brought father to trial and the House of Commons acted as the jury. I was able to gain knowledge of how the trial goes from my sister, Elizabeth, who was imprisoned in London along with my brother Henry and my sister Henrietta. Father refused to comply with the court, citing that, according to all the ancient laws and traditions of England, the court has no authority to try him. Without father arguing for his own defense, hotheads in parliament, led by Cromwell began the offensive against father, condemning him in daily speeches in front of the members of Parliament. Luckily for us, many members of the House, even those that fought against father and led rebel armies in the war, sympathized with the King and refused to agree to his execution. We thought father was safe, and it would only be a matter of days before father gets released and shipped over the channel to join us in the Hague. Cromwell, who single handedly masterminded father's defeat in the war, was not ready to give up so easily.

One fateful day, Cromwell finally lost all his patience with the House and, mimicking father's march on parliament in 1642; he led hundreds of soldiers of the New Model Army into Westminster. Parliament was outraged, but there were nothing they could do about it. They know best how effective the New Model Army is and they also know of the army's unwavering loyalty to Cromwell. One by one, the members of Parliament were questioned on whether they will support the King's execution or vote against it. All that said they will vote against the execution of the King, (a good half of the House of Commons, including several important men like Fairfax) were stripped of their position and kicked out of the house. What's left of Parliament is a small, Cromwell controlled body ready to do whatever the mad man wanted.

The very next day they attacked father with vigor. Father, again, refused to comply, and by the end of the month the Rump Parliament have agreed to the execution of father, their king!

I was struck dumb. I would do anything to save father, and I wasn't the only one! Those regions that declared for father during the civil war rose in rebellion at the sentence. The Irish likewise protested. Even the Scots, instrumental in the Parliamentarian victory, were shaken by the sentence and begged the House to reconsider.

Upon hearing of the news I sprang into action, doing everything I possibly could to save father's life. I even sent a letter to that hated man, Cromwell, in an attempt to dissuade him from the path he is currently taking.

Dear Sir Oliver Cromwell;

I write to you, in great desperation, after hearing the unfortunate news that you have decided to execute my innocent father, His Majesty Charles I of England. While I do understand if you see him as a bad king, please recognize that he is a loving, God fearing man! Do not bring down the wrath of God by executing him! Have a heart, exile my father and let him live here in France with his family. You have a family, you son was killed in the Civil War. Surely you know best how painful it is to lose a loved one to a premature death. If you avert his execution, I will be forever in your debt, and will do anything. You can demand that I return to London and sentenced to death, so the King loses his crown prince, but please, do not slay my father!

If you do execute my father, I will do my best to throw you into hell. I will never forget, never forgive you. The pope, the Kings of France, of Spain, of Netherlands, of Sweden, many German states, the Irish, and the Scots will all declare war upon you!

I hope you see the same picture that I see, and make you next moves logically and accordingly.

Sincerely, Charles Stuart, Prince of Wales."

I added that last part as a warning, hoping it would get on the man's nerves. He is a general, a man of war. Surly he will recognize the peril that he is in and reconsider in light of the odds!

I had expected to receive at least to receive a reply from Cromwell, heedless of whether he will execute father or not, but I got no such thing. Instead the news were broken to me a week after I sent the letter, coming not from Cromwell but from my own little sister Elizabeth. It was a letter in scarlet, and as I tore through the envelope I had a chilling thought that the twisted and torn paper looked like flowing blood.

"Dear Charles.

How fortunate you are to be free in France! You are free to go as you please and do what you please! I would do anything to join you, so our family can be reunited in light of the terrible calamity that has happened! We are not mistreated by Parliament. Henry and I have lives like those of any normal citizen, and the rebels even provide for our education. Henry is much luckier than I am, actually, for he had never enjoyed peace and life as the royal children of England. He had less to lose, but lose he did. Our father, King Charles, has been beheaded, on the order of Cromwell! We were allowed to meet with him once before he is rushed to the executioner's block. Here is everything that happened.

He bid us to tell mother, when we do see her again, that his thoughts had never strayed from her, and that his love would be the same to the last. He commanded we always be obedient to mother, and bid me to send his blessings to all of you. Then he put little Henry on his lap, (the first time he has seen Henry in weeks) and said very gently to him "Sweetheart, now they will cut off your father's head. Heed, my child, what I say: they will cut off my head and perhaps make you a king. But you must not be a king as long as your brothers Charles and James still live; for they will cut off your brothers' heads when they can catch them, and cut off your head too at the last, and therefore I charge you, do not be made a king by them." Surprisingly, Henry put on a serious face and replied defiantly "I will be torn in pieces first!" Father was greatly pleased by this, and ended our meeting by telling us to forgive the people behind his execution, but never to trust them; for they had been false to him and those that gave them power. As guards dragged him away he asked for a thick black coat, for he did not wish to shiver in the cold, as his enemies would assume his shivering was from fear. He told me not to grieve, and that he is a martyr and that god will one day put you, my dear brother, on the throne. He left bravely, striding in big steps. I have never seen a braver man in facing his death.

I do not know what to think. I wish time would just freeze, and we can wait and think of ways to save him and only unfreeze time when father will be safe. Alas, that did not happen. He was buried like a common man in an unnamed graveyard of London. I have marked down its location though, and when Restoration come, as I am sure it will come, we can find where he is buried and give him the burial he deserves! Elizabeth Stuart"

I glanced at the letter for a long time, not believing what I saw. It seemed like a message from the devil, and its pages seemed yellow and frayed. Surely what I read is but a cruel trick. Father cannot be dead! He is larger than life. Perhaps Parliament pretended to kill father but instead exiled him to France. How is it possible for them to kill him? What right do they have to take away his life with such a fast, cruel blow?

As I reread the letter, stumbling over every little detail, imagining everything father did in my head, I realized my trouble had only just begun. Mother had not yet received the news. If I am saddened by father's death, then mother would be hysterical! To inform her of father's death would be like handing her a loaded pistol with which to shoot herself!

Instead of taking the dreaded path to mother's room, I found myself praying. I would do anything, I pleaded, anything, if he would only tell me that father is actually alive. The King doesn't even have to be well. All I need is for him to be alive! After praying for several minutes, I waited for a change, a sign. I received nothing. God has given us no help. Perhaps he meant for what has happened to happen. Perhaps he hates the Royal family and purposely caused misfortune after misfortune to fall upon us. Now the Royal cause is effectively doomed. Father had been its hope, its symbol, the banner to which all the royalists of the continent would flock under. With him gone, the royalists that remain in the world would become divided and drift away like thieves in the night.

As I pondered over how to share this devastating letter with the rest of the family, I remembered what father had told Elizabeth; that a Stuart will once again sit on the throne of England. I pondered the unlikeliness of this idea. Oliver Cromwell and his biased Parliament now have a firm control over the running of the country. His army is now veteran and powerful, and unless God himself personally intervene, I cannot even dream how restoration will come about.

The next few days anger and frustration continued to build in me. I was now the de facto head of the Stuart Royal House. I was the King of England, yet I felt little change except for the enormous weight of responsibility. When I was young I had imagined some magical power/strength will seep through my veins and help me tackle the immense tasks Kings must perform, yet I only felt hopeless as all the problems the Royal House was facing became my problems.

I had promised Cromwell that all hell would break lose should he kill my father, and he did. Now I had to think of ways to make good my threat. The Scottish Covenanters had been deeply troubled by the execution of father. It was thanks to them that father was captured in the first place, but they absolutely forbid the execution of their King. I would have expected them to become my ally, but they seemed just as likely to suck up father's death and bend down to Cromwell.

Meanwhile, Montrose was organizing Royalist clans throughout Scotland into a Royalist faction, which he will hopefully use to combat the Covenanters. Royalists in Scotland had gained much influence after father's execution turned public opinion against the covenanters, but they are still but a grain of sand in the vast mud pit the British Isles had become, and I knew no real hope could be rested on them. Things were now looking very grim. Everywhere I looked I only saw the enemies of the king growing stronger, and my allies dwindling and drifting away.

Things took a turn for the worse mid-July. The day was hot and my temper was hotter. While writing an angry letter to Prince Bruin of Bavaria, in which I gave him a scalding tirade for not supporting my cause, James approached from behind, the scarlet letter in his hand. Right away I knew a storm was coming.

"How could you hide this from me? From mother? How could you hide this from the family?" He demanded angrily, his still childish voice an awkward squeak compared to the seriousness of what he was saying.

I took the letter from his hand and didn't look up.

"Who do you think you are? You are part of this family. News like this is for the whole family, not just you! We deserve to know of everything that is going on to our cause just as much as you."

"You don't understand. You're still too young." I snapped. "I don't want to break the news to mother."

"I'm too young? And you? You have jeopardized your new found position as head of the clan. You don't even deserve to kiss father's dead feet!" James hissed with venom. His words struck deep.

"James. You think my job is easy? You think I want to be the head of this clan?"

James drew back a slight bit. He was surprised.

"You can be the head of the clan. I'm done. I'm out. Try sitting your little bottom on father's empty throne." I snapped, got up from my study, and left.

James shouted defiantly "At least I would incorporate the rest of the clan in my decisions!"

I ignored him. Sneaking quietly past mother's small room, I can hear here crying. So James had already passed to news to her. I do not know what she thought about me, especially after James told her about how I had hidden this terrible secret from the rest of them. Perhaps she will always associate my name with bad news from now on. Quietly I left the house and moved into Lucy's. Let James see what trouble I had faced, and bear the enormous mountain of responsibility I had borne. As for me, I will be more content living as a commoner.

Indeed I would come closer and closer to becoming a commoner. Lucy and I grew steadily more intimate until we gave in and made love one night. I planted my royal seeds as deep inside her stomach as I can, only to regret it a little later. I knew that night had been a mistake. I am the King. I was supposed to keep loyal to my future wife until our marriage, for political purposes. Furthermore any women I bed with would be a mistress, and if she does give birth to a son there would simply be more responsibility piled on me. However, I had become so frustrated that it would seem like I had contacted the Cavalier madness. I did not care about what happened later, only what lay in broad view in the present. Soon I had begun living openly with Lucy as if we were husband and wife, and completely neglected all my duties as king, refusing even to read my letters. I am steadily becoming a commoner.

Chapter 3, Rebellion in Scotland.

By 1650, I had begun to settle down into the life of a normal, middle class member of Dutch society. The war in Europe was now over. France, under the steady hands of Mazarin, has managed to secure a complete military and diplomatic victory for the allies. The treaty of Westphalia gave France a string of territory along its border with the Holy Roman Empire. Furthermore the Dutch republic has managed to gain its independence from the Hapsburgs under the treaty, which resulted in strong rejoicing all over the Hague. I had made a few new friends and retained some old friends like Wilmot, Edward Hyde, and Anthony, all of whom visited me occasionally. It was Wilmot that finally brought me out of my shell, however, when he wrote to me detailing several major changes that occurred in the isles. According to him, some Scottish Towns have declared allegiance to me and rebelled against Cromwell's England. They had apparently realized Cromwell only prospered during War and is not an apt statesman.

The rebellion of the Scots was not passionate and not even supported by all of Scotland. Much of the royalist clans have been wiped out by Argyll at the offset of the Bishops' War, but enough have survived to flock around the banner of Montrose. They then began a war against the Covenanters, and having gained the upper hand recently, declared their allegiance to me.

I thought about the situation for a long while, not able to decide whether I will receive their allegiance or not. If I did accept their pledge, then I will have to drag myself out of this peaceful, normal life I have created and become king again. If I did not accept, how can I bear to watch my supporters be snuffed out like a little fire by Cromwell?

Lucy was firmly against me leaving for Scotland, and stopped me from sailing north with a ground breaking secret.

"Please don't go!" She begged. "Please don't leave me. You need to stay more than ever! I'm pregnant!" She exclaimed.

I looked at her in surprise.

"What? Pregnant? From me?" I asked, color draining. I had thought I would be joyful that I will be a father. Now I was just given a painful reminder of the life I have abandoned. My child will be the Prince of Wales, the Heir to the throne of England......yet his father, the King, has given up on the throne. As I pondered this over my mind began to unravel. Can't I just marry Lucy, for I will probably never sit on the throne of England again? What will I do for the young boy? Will I tell him who I was before I lost the throne.

"Please!" She begged, rolling out of bed. "Please do not leave. England will never be subjected to you again. Your life right now is fine, we will soon have a little family for ourselves, living a perfectly normal and mediocre life!" She begged. "Hague is not grand, it is not huge like London, but sometimes there is beauty in small things!"

I sat down. It was very tempting to just listen to her and give in.

"Very well, I will stay for a few more weeks, that is all." I sighed. "But please, if I do eventually decide to go, don't worry. Either we will succeed or we won't. If we will I will be the King of England, and our son will be a great noble, if not the crown prince!" I said, holding her hand happily. She nodded, temporarily satisfied.

Very soon the rebellion has spread from the highlands, where royalist support was strong, to the lowland country sides. Before long all but a handful of large, Covenanter controlled Towns remain submissive to Cromwell. Upon hearing this news I could control myself no more, and made plans to sail north. I notified my family with a letter, and had Anthony spread rumors throughout the Hague saying I am planning to build a royal navy with which to cross the channel and invade England. Cromwell would likely lower his guard, as both of us know full well that it would take years to build a fleet of substantial size. Secretly, however, I am planning to land in Scotland with a small loyalist army and lead the Scots in an invasion of England. By late 1649 I was prepared to leave for Scotland. I hoped to end the war as soon as possible so I can welcome Lucy in England before my son was born.

The trip back across the English Channel gave me a huge boost of self-esteem. I felt like a golden lion, finally leaping out of the ragged skin of a dog. Also, thanks to the rumors Anthony had spread at the Hague, Cromwell had no war ships on patrol and my single boat, laden with about 200 soldiers, easily slipped into Scottish waters. I had with me Anthony, Hyde, Wilmot, and a handful of old royalists that had served my father.

We landed at a cove near Aberdeen, and, not confident of the loyalty of the general Scottish population, we traveled discreetly for Edinburgh. Two things had happened while we sailed north. Montrose was captured by rogues and brought to Argyll in Edinburgh. He was executed and his head mounted on a pike outside the city. At the same time, David Leslie, commander of the Covenanter Armies, joined the royalists in declaring me the king, leaving Argyll and the Covenanter government unprotected in Edinburgh. I knew Argyll now had little choice but to surrender, but it still helps to be careful when possible.

Even Scotland itself had changed as a result of the war and the new politics of England. When we visited it in 1640, the Scottish people were free and independent. Their farmers did whatever they liked and there weren't anyone there to stop them. It was common for the royal procession to be stopped by a few merrily drunk Scots peasants living a wild, carefree life. Now there were almost no farmer in sight. The civil war and the famine that followed has killed much of the Scottish population, and what little farmers that remained worked persistently in the frozen fields, not as much as looking up at us as our army passed frozen plot after plot.

We arrived in front of the great walls of Edinburgh late at night. Many of my companions, even the bold Wilmot, pleaded me to be careful. They feared a trap by Cromwell, designed to lure me into Edinburgh where we would be butchered. I told them they had no need to fear, for if Cromwell wanted to butcher us he could have easily done so as soon as we landed on the beaches of Aberdeen.

I was right, fortunately, and indeed when we begged entry into the city the next day we were granted it and allowed to ride up and down the city streets. Our soldiers joined the Scottish soldiers in manning the walls, and my mounted retinue and I rode to the city center.

There were thousands of Scots gathered there that day, reminding me of the day that the rebellion broke out in Edinburgh. However, there were also many key differences. That day the sun was hidden behind grey clouds, while today the sky was blue and the sun shone brightly. That day, the square was filled with angry Scots dressed in tribal cloths, shouting and hurling objects at us. Today it was filled with men dressed in the English manner and applauding my entrance. Next to me all my companions cheered. It seemed like everything would work out, and soon they would be given titles and join my cabinet of ministers.

We rode, unopposed, to the center of the square, where an elevated platform sits. On it I spied about a dozen Scottish Nobles, with none other than Archibald Campbell of Argyll himself sitting in the middle. Bravely I climbed up the platform, reminding myself that if Argyll had wanted me dead he could have arranged for it before I even entered Edinburgh.

With the last steps of the platform under me, I surveyed the Scottish nobles opposed to us. Several of them were sworn enemies, but others were my friends. There was Archibald, seated in the middle of the bunch, surrounded by several younger Scottish nobles, all patriotic in their wold war paint, blue kilts and bearing great weapons. There was Leslie and Hamilton, as well as several other Scots I saw during our last visit, all seated on the platform. Over all there were only half as many nobles assembled here this day as there were last time. I assumed those that were missing were either killed in the civil war, like Montrose, or defected to Cromwell when the covenanters lost control to the royalists. It was a bad thought, thinking of Cromwell. He had no doubt received news of what is happening in the northern kingdom and the New Model Army is probably even now mobilizing. We will not be able to beat them easily, and I already knew if we were to succeed, it would only be after many hard and bloody campaigns.

Archibald got up from where he sat. Around us the square turned silent, a tribute to his power, even in his defeat. The old vulture looked terrible. The last time we met he carried a huge air of confidence around him. This time he looked completely unprepared about what will happen next, and his face reflected that. His eyes were shrunken, and he looked as if he hasn't slept well in days. His face was leaned forward and his neck reptilian.

"Young Charles." He said, addressing me, his face beaming. Had I been young as he would make me to be, I would have eagerly replied and asked for the crown like a baby asked for a piece of promised candy. I knew better than that now. Too much hurt, betrayal and deception had occurred during my exile for me to let him dominate me with the crown.

I nodded politely, but also regally, as if commanding his attention. He seemed surprised by my in eagerness, and took a small step back.

"Scotland....welcomes you today." He said, pronouncing the words slowly as if they were hard to say.

I felt an urge to have him silenced and to just take the crown, which I can see is left on the chair in which the old man had sat on. That was the path father would have taken. As much as I loved him and cared for father though, I knew better than to be hard headed and rash like he is.

"I am also very honored to be received by such generous hosts." I replied lightly, emphasizing hosts, letting the word connote all the Scottish people. It is important to secure their support, of course.

"The council of Scotland....has decided to offer you, the sacred crown of the Scottish people." The old man replied, almost spitting out the words. I noticed his fists were red from the cold, but tight. The knuckles were white.

"I would be honored to accept!" I said, perhaps a little to eagerly. I had thought the worst part was over. Argyll closed in on my mistake.

"But only after you satisfy our conditions!" He said confidently. Before I had a chance to reply he began listing out his demands.

"You must respect the affairs of the Scottish people, religion included. Your crown will be respected and you will be obeyed, but your power is equal to those of the Scottish Parliament. You must pay the Scottish people an annual sum of 20,000 pounds yearly to compensate for what we have gone through in order to support you this day. Do you bow to our demands?" He asked venomously.

I hesitated for a slight moment. Anger was rising into me. Where did all these conditions come from? I have thought the Scottish people supported me because they loved their sovereign. Now I realized I was just a bid of the game of politics. My presence serves nothing more but to give the Scots some ground for their rebellion.

"Do you accept?" Argyll said coldly. I could not bring myself to agree or disagree.

Behind me, Anthony spoke up.

"Your party is hardly in position to impose limits on the King." He said calmly. I saw Argyll raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

"How is that so?" He asked, pretending to be confident.

"You have already overstepped your boundaries. Cromwell already knows of this rebellion. He is massing his armies even now to reclaim Scotland. You have already made it clear to Cromwell who's side you're on, and you have little choice but to accept the King." He said slowly. "You need him. He doesn't need you."

Argyll was silent for a while. Before he could speak, I saw Leslie nudge him from behind. Argyll's face bulged like an old told about to throw up, but he nodded. I looked at the young general gratefully. In the end it is he who helped our side the most. His armies have control over much of Scotland, and as imposing as Argyll seems, the old vulture has little real power.

"I accept the crown, under no conditions or limits." I told Argyll, standing up to my full height. I had a picture of high regal and demanding I must have looked. Argyll slowly sat back down, putting the crown on his laps. He looked weak, and a sudden wind blew hair all over his face. He held it up to Hamilton, who stood behind him.

"Crown....crown him." He said sadly.

Hamilton took the crown from Argyll's hands and began walking over to me. I almost leapt from joy, but kept my composure, and instead bent down and extended my head to Hamilton. I was about to be crowned! How proud poor father we be, how much he would have liked to see this day!

Slowly, dramatically, the man placed the crown over my head. At first, I was surprised as its white fur fit perfectly on my head, not even upsetting my hair. Then the man let go and the crown's full weight rested on my head. Involuntarily my head drooped forward and the crown began sliding off my head. Quickly I steadied myself and sat as straight as I could, and the large hat stayed on. I felt a bit discouraged by what happened, thinking it might be a sign that I am not fit to wear the crown, but reminded myself it was made of gold and silver, and its weight symbolized how much power it contained.

Slowly, but surely, I stood up, and looked down at the huge, quiet crowd beneath me. I wanted to freeze time here, and let this glorious scene stay here forever. My fingers now sizzle with power, once again!

It was not long, however, before I stepped off the platform and mounted my horse, crown still on my head. I knew work must be done. England must be reclaimed, my

Father must be given the burial he deserves. Now that Scotland is behind me, I knew the English Crown is within reach!

Chapter 4, The Grand Escape

Setting up my court was a special thing, and I couldn't get enough of it. I toyed around with my options. There were several senior ministers and generals, all of whom both deserve and demand a place in my Scottish government. I gave Edward Hyde the title as my chief minister, and Wilmot, the overall commander of my armies. To Anthony I gave the power to control my finances, and to my other followers I bestowed titles of nobility and grants of land.

The next few days reports began to pour in from all over the country, and I must admit much of it was depressing. Much of central Scotland is still controlled by some hardline Covenanters who still resists the Royalist influence. None of the regions have ministers over them to collect taxes and reconstruct destroyed villages, and my government may very well have been a simple fiction in Edinburgh to most of Scotland. Whats worse, I had expected a strong, Royal Scottish Army with which I simply had to order south and secure England for me. What I found was much more depressing. Most of the 20,000 strong Scottish force that crushed Rupert at Marston Moor have since either been killed in the civil war, or been disbanded to return to their families. Most, including the most elite of the Scottish army are now too old to enlist. The army that fought father in 1640 was now mostly in their 40s and 50s, and in no condition to fight Cromwell's still mid aged New Model Army. Adding all the soldiers of Scotland together, including those garrisoned in rebellious cities, I found I had about 7,000 troops under my command. It was not until June that I found a second Scottish army of 2,000 men was raiding in England and sent messages reported of their presence to me. That puts my total available force to 9,000, most of which I have to keep in Scotland to put down Covenanter uprisings.

I knew we had to act fast. Cromwell's New Model Army is rested and veteran from the civil war, and numbering in the 20,000s. If we could head south and take several key fortresses before Cromwell arrives, our chance of victory would be much greater. Keeping that in mind, I gave the commander of the 2,000 Scots in southern Scotland, a man by the name of Stanley, permission to levy troops and ordered him to invade England, with the intent to cause as much havoc as possible. At the same time I levied as much troops as I could, drafting many past Scottish soldiers, both new recruits and militia in the Scottish Civil War, to join a second army forming at Edinburgh. I hoped to defeat Cromwell's New Model Army with this new Scottish Army I was building.

By July, Stanley's army had defeated many small regiments of English Levies, and the army at Edinburgh was now almost 15,000 men strong. I longed to find some more generals to support my cause, now that victory was beginning to emerge as a likely possibility. I even sent a letter to Rupert, inviting him to lead my armies, but I doubt he would be able to arrive before the war swings decisively one way or another, and thus I put that hope away.

With my Edinburgh Army, I headed south to join Stanley. Wilmot would be the overall commander of the combined armies, and our ultimate goal would be to confront and defeat Cromwell's New Model Army, which must be near York by now.

On November 22nd, 1649, our army left York. I was very high spirited. The war now seems to be going quite favorably. A stream of good news arrives daily from Stanly's army. Just last weekend he routed 250 English Militia, which was marching to York to join Cromwell. Last month he had taken and burned an important English fort, denying Cromwell of much of his supplies. From all the good news coming in, I was almost sure Stanly can defeat the New Model Army all by himself!

All along the march south, much of it near the coast of the North Sea, we were met by enthusiastic Scots, coming to cheer us on, many showering the army with gifts. They seemed like a completely different race from the one that angrily drove the King out of Edinburgh in 1640. They had not liked the King, of course, but his death, as well as Cromwell's new, repressing laws in Scotland all contributed to the love they now showed me.

By the first of October, we crossed the border to England. We have met no resistance so far, but Stanly had also stopped dispatching reports at us. The last report had come in a week ago, when he claimed to be scouting the area of York while awaiting the main army. I do not know whether he was successful or not in his Scouting efforts, but he must have been successful, for we've seen no sign of the English Army anywhere. The war front was a little too quiet. Wilmot was still as enthusiastic as ever, however, and he drove the army as fast as he could. He probably can't wait to liberate London, and then invite his young son Henry so the boy can spend his childhood in Royalist England.

One night a lone rider rode into our camp. He was escorted to me, and I found out he was Stanly.

"What has happened? I haven't heard of you since we crossed the border!" I demanded angrily.

"My liege." He said. He had mud splattered on his face and dried blood on his clothe. "My army...it was ambushed by Cromwell and routed outside York! That is why I have sent no dispatch!" He replied.

"What? Routed? Where is your army then?" I asked. "Why have my army not met the stragglers?"

"There are no stragglers. It was a double ambush. All the stragglers were rounded up and captured a few miles from the site of the initial battle. My army is no more!" He cried.

I looked at him in disbelief. I know I should be angry. This man singlehandedly doomed my army, Scotland, and the royalist cause! Yet deep inside I felt sympathy, looking at the pathetic, shivering wreck that knelt at my feet.

"Get up. Redeem yourself. Tell Wilmot all you know, and you may be present when we destroy the New Model Army." I told him as coldly as I could, trying to hide my sympathy.

He crawled up to me, kissed my hand, and scrambled up to find Wilmot.

Supper was about to be served, and many soldiers were out in the fields instead of in camp, taking a walk and spending some time with friends before tomorrow's march. I pondered our situation. We have no idea where Cromwell was, or where any of the English was. So deep into English Territory, and northern England seemed deserted! It all seemed too easy. In a few more days we'd have reached York. Either father's generals were all dim witted and unworthy, or this fox Cromwell is even more sly than I imagined.

After supper another messenger arrived. He handed me a rain splattered letter and quickly left. I tore it open. It was from Argyll.

"I write to inform you of several developments in Scotland that you would likely title as unfortunate. First of all, your majesty's graced sister, Elizabeth Stuart, had perished when exposed to harsh conditions while Cromwell moved her from London to York. The fate of your brother, Henry, remains unknown. Meanwhile, much more urgently, Scotland is invaded by the English. Towns are falling without much of a resistance, as you have taken most of the garrisons with you. The English are nearing Edinburgh. Unless you march back as soon as possible, I hope you won't be too surprised when you hear of our surrender to Cromwell.

Sincerely, Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll."

For a moment I just stared at the letter in my hand, shocked. My sister, dead? That Cromwell! He had taken my father, now he had taken my sister, and it looks like he might be able to take my head soon, too!

"Break Camp!" I shouted, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice. I didn't know what I'm doing. The red coated English have marched around us and is striking for the unprotected walls of Edinburgh!

I shouted again. "Break Camp! We have to march north now!" Soldiers around me hurried to work. I ran to Hyde's camp.

"What's wrong? Why are we breaking camp?" He asked me, clearly worried.

"We're doomed!" I told him, handing Hyde the letter.

As he read, I looked at the soldiers around me. They were scrambling left and right to break camp, panicked expressions on their faces. They reminded me of the scrambling legs of a centipede whose head was cut off by Villiers in the gardens of Buckingham. Rumors has already spread all over our encampment, most of which had very little accuracy but did send waves of panic reverberating throughout the camp. I knew we could not possibly march back into Scotland fast enough to save Edinburgh. We are about 150 miles away from the city while Cromwell must be in Scotland already! Soon Edinburgh will fall, and we will become a fugitive army with no kingdom's banner to bear!

To my right someone was busy climbing the tower in the middle of the camp to blow the horn, calling all the soldiers back to camp. At this point however drums began to beat. Hyde looked at me in surprise. I looked back, equally surprised. Drums signaled the disciplined march of an army on the attack.

All around me soldiers begun to shout. "It's the English! They're coming!"

I looked around in shock. Dark Magic, the English? Are they not 100 miles north of us in Scotland?

I ran to the edge of our camp, which was fortified with a wooden palisade. Before I even stood on my tiptoes to look over the palisade, I can already see the English Army, spread out below our camp like a wave washing over the beach. Little regiments of densely packed English battalions had surrounded our camp and had cut off all the Scots that are outside the camp. The sun was now setting, casting a yellowish hue over the entire battle field. The English army was quite large, stretching as far as the eye could see. They filled the battle field with company after company after company. I estimated at least 30,000 men from the banners that I counted.

I knew our men were doomed. With many scots out over miles, completely unprepared and unorganized, many without weapons, the battle was over before it begun. I still wanted to fight on, however, and lead the soldiers that were still in camp at the moment to a glorious last stand in the camp, but Wilmot grabbed me from behind and pulled me onto a horse.

"Quick, the east gate, there is no enemy soldiers there yet. We need to get out before the encirclement closes!" He said, mounting his horse and tugging mine along.

"Wait!" I cried. "No! Not this time, I will not flee again!" I screamed. Wilmot made no reply except for tugging me along even harder, dragging me east. I felt like I was dragged away from England, from my crown, and from Father's legacy.

With my right hand I whipped out a dagger from my belt and plunged it into the thick neck of my poor horse. The beast whined and shivered, bending own and falling to the ground. Loudly I declared; "I will run no more! I am not any different from you, my brave Scottish warriors. I have no means of escaping. Come, brave Scots, and rally to me. We shall curve a bloody path to freedom through the English encirclement!" I screamed.

Wilmot had wheeled his horse back around now.

"You idiot. I didn't know you were such a fool. Now that you've killed your horse you'll have to ride mine!" He grunted as he kicked away my dagger. "Don't be fool hardy and stubborn. That's how your father lost the war. Your life is more important than theirs." He pointed at the Scots. "Leave. Retreat is not defeat, for if you retreat you can always come back and fight, but if you die or is captured than you are truly defeated!"

I looked back at all the terrified Scots, stuck deep inside England, facing almost certain death. Many were losing their mind, running around, completely out of control. A surprising number, however, was grim and calm, pulling out their weapons and attempting to form a line. I felt bad abandoning them.

By the time we rode to the gate a force of almost 500 mounted men had gathered around me. Most of them were royalists cavalry men, members of the aristocracy, and seeing that they're on horses I agreed to let them come with Wilmot and I as we attempt our escape. The gate opened and we rode out into the night, slipping between encircling Parliament battalions.

The night was now pitch black. All around us we can hear the snaps of musket fire, the screams of men and the trampling of feet and hooves. Our company of cavalry rode on, not even knowing where to go, just riding as far away from the camp as possible.

We met several enemy companies along the way, which we engaged with earnest. They were routed, but each with a fight that resulted in some losses. By the end we had but 300 men left. We were then ambushed by English dragoons. We were smashed and a great number of us were killed. Finally I ordered the men to scatter. A group of about 40 men and I rode forward to the relative safety of the nearby hills, hoping that we have finally escaped from the jaws of hell. As we rode away I did a head count. There was Wilmot, Hyde, Stanley, Anthony, Leslie, as well as several minor officers, ministers and about 2 dozen soldiers.

When finally it was clear we were no longer being pursued, at least for the moment, we broke down and rest. I cried. The war had seemed won. I would finally be able to restore the royal house and make father proud, but Cromwell snatched victory away from me like a thief in the night!

By the time we reached the river Tyne, most of the horses were pretty tired, but we have outrun our pursuers, at least for the time's being. At the little town of Sharpbury we once again came to a stop. Here our horses were given a much needed rest and we bought some refreshments from nearby villagers, who stared at us wide eyed. While drinking our next course of action began to form. All of us were stunned by the sudden change of fortune. Just last night we had been on a triumphant march to York, and now we are 49 fugitives facing a delayed doom. Stanly and the Scots wanted to head north back to Scotland, where they hoped to at least see their families before escaping to France. Wilmot, Hyde, and I wanted to continue going West into Wales, which is notoriously royalist. There we should be able to find a ship to France.

Finally, after we lost almost 20 minutes to debating, it was decided Wilmot and I will continue traveling to wales while the rest of the party will make for Scotland. It is the best course of action, I suppose, for two men traveling along is far more likely to escape England than a party of 49 men. Stanly and his men would be confronted by Parliamentarian dragoons 5 hours after they left us and captured. Stanly would later be executed.

Wilmot and I headed on. I knew what lay ahead must be difficult. Cromwell would surely have found out I have escaped by now and have probably put a handsome price on my head. I was 6 foot 4, and very swarthy. It would not be difficult to recognize me, and I knew we desperately needed disguise. Unfortunately, Wilmot not only refused to be humbled with peasant's garbs, but also refused to walk like a peasant, insisting on riding his horse. I shrugged and warned him he might doom us, to which he told me he would rather die a noble than live as a peasant. As we traveled West, I realized this is probably the first time I have traveled in the countryside with only one companions. Every other time I was either on a fleeting carriage or traveling with Father's royal army. Thrills came to me when I realized how easy it would be to find out more about the life of peasants, and why they are so strange and so different from us.

Along the lonely road we met many travelers, some farmers with carts to sell their wares in nearby towns, others pilgrims by the look of it. They often stared openly at us, and I shrank from their sharp glaze, unaccustomed to being stared at. I had already stripped off my armor and coats, of course, walking around in my night shirt and a skirt. Wilmot rode defiantly ahead, dressed in full armor. It was the best of luck that I was at least able to convince him to scratch the royal colors from his chest. By night time we have arrived at the river crossing of Stouridge, which is within 50 miles of Wales. It looked like our escape was now very likely, but I knew better than to assume things like I did the days before Cromwell ambushed us. Of course, our travels will get much harder and slower in a few days, when news of the fugitive king spread across England like a wild fire.

Stouridge was a great granite bridge across the Tyne River. Unfortunately for us, it was over looked by a New Model Army outpost. I was still relieved, however, to see that there were no heavy garrison manning the bridge, for this meant news of my defeat had not spread here yet.

In the dead of the night, we tried to cross the river. The bridge was lit eerie blue by the moon light. I was aware of how bright Wilmot's armor shone under the moon. Why, it must have glinted like a jewel even from the castle! Wilmot crossed, riding his horse, while I lead it like a servant, holding the horse's mouth closed so it could not whine. Half way across the bridge I heard voices on the wall and froze to a stop. I looked behind me at Wilmot. He too had heard the voice, even behind that thick cushioned steel helmet of his.

"Keep going, slowly..." He mouthed to me. I nodded and continued stepping forward, looking down at my feet like I've seen servants do.

"Halt!" Someone called out from the walls. I froze and almost collapsed. Is this it? The end of the Stuart Dynasty? Humbled by a common militia deep in England?

"Who goes there, crossing this bridge in the dead of the night?" The voice called out.

"It is I, Sir Graham and my horse Lancelot!" Wilmot called out coldly, leaving out his servant like nobles often do.

"Are ye for wood ol for gold?" The voice asked.

Wilmot looked at me, baffled. I shrugged, stooping lower and trying to be average height.

"What does that mean?" He asked, confused.

The voice sounded annoyed. "Are you Catholic or Protestant?"

"Oh....Protestant, sir, I'm as protestant as they come." Wilmot replied. I can see him relaxing.

"Ay? Move along then! You must excuse our questioning sir, here in Stouridge, we have a large Catholic Population."

"Tis nothing." Wilmot replied good naturedly.

When we've crossed the bridge Wilmot spoke up.

"Do you soldiers know any Catholic households around here? We're thinking to harbor somewhere for the night and I'd much rather sleep in a Protestant one than the pope's house." Wilmot said, winking at me. I looked at him in wonder. This man's got the wit of a fox.

"Ay, there is. Biggest one here's a Pendrall family. Don't even knock on their house. They've got five sons, each more blood thirsty than the last. I joined the militia sir, so I could protect my family from their influence." The man called.

"Ay, and where is their house?" Wilmot asked innocently.

"Up Yonder. Where the rode forks they'll be a few hundred yards left of you." The man called out. We must have woken half the village.

"Thank you, I'll be careful to avoid it." Wilmot said with a laugh.

As we left the crossing Wilmot whispered to me

"Looks like we've got ourselves a safe home to rest in!"

At the fork in the road we turned left, and a few hundred yards in that direction and we indeed saw a building in the distance. It was larger than a cottage, but smaller than a house.

Wilmot dismounted in front of the house and I stooped behind him, since he would be much less recognizable if this family turned out to support Cromwell.

Wilmot knocked several times on the door. There was quite a bit of shuffling and words spoken in hushed tones, and then the door snapped open. A stream of yellow light poured out.

"What do you want?" The man said suspiciously, looking at Wilmot's armor. He was short and fat and had quite a bit of wrinkles all over his face. He looked very much like Goring, but his features were less crude and more likeable.

"Sir, we heard from the locals that you are a large, Rich, Catholic household, no?" Wilmot asked.

"No, no we're not. We are catholic, but our wealth have all but dwindled away during the civil war and its after math, under the heavy taxes imposed by Cromwell and his...government." The man said, almost spitting out the words. "Of course, we do not disrespect the current government." The man added a little while later, looking a bit scared.

"Its all right, I am no soldier for Cromwell." Wilmot said. "You have heard of the Young king's foray into England with a Scottish army, right?" Wilmot asked.

The man nodded slowly. "Come in." He sighed. "It is not safe to talk out here."

We stepped in. I marveled at the simplicity of their home. The walls were made of logs, and covered with a layer of dirt. It was cold inside, despite a fire place that blazed in the corner. Even more surprising to me was that the house had almost no adornments of any sort. Tapestries and pictures did not hang from its walls. There was no gold in sight. The ground was not even covered with a carpet, but instead was made of wooden planks.

The two men sat, while I stood with the horse's bridle in hand, examining what lay around me.

"Now, tell me again, who are you and what is your business?" The man asked. His wrinkled features were loosening.

"This may seem surprising, and this news will put all of us into great risks. Are you sure you want to hear it?" Wilmot asked.

"If it is matters dealing with the King, then I will hear it, no matter what the consequence." The man declared firmly. "After all, you have declared your loyalty to the King already, so we are on the same side."

"Very well. This man behind me," Wilmot said, pointing to me as I studied their floor, "Is his Royal Majesty Charles II of England." He said blandly. I looked over and bowed.

He was very surprised, but to my relief he accepted it and did not accuse us of lying. He seemed like a man exposed to much surprises in life and no longer felt disbelief at every unlikely thing.

"Ryan, Richard, Henry, Andrew, George?" The man called out. From the hall 5 men emerged. They were of average height and all had hard, worn faces.

"The King of England sits in our Very house. Bow!" He commanded stern facedly.

All the brothers stared at me with wide eyes and knelt on the ground.

"Now, how did you two end up here, in the middle of Cromwell's England?" The man asked the obvious question.

Wilmot recounted what happened the past week, how the Scottish Army was ambushed by Cromwell and Royalist Scotland may fall soon. The man sighed deeply.

"So you need to escape, to France, I suppose?" He asked me.

"I think so. Ireland will do too, they too have declared for the King already." Wilmot added.

The man sighed. "I wish I could help you. Really, I do. I will give one of my sons to see you safe in France, away from Cromwell's reaches, but I am afraid I cannot." He said, closing his eyes.

I looked at him in surprise. "Why not?"

"Since the King was ousted the Catholics of England had suffered much. Not only do we have to pay outrageous taxes, but Catholics are now prohibited from traveling more than five miles from their homes." The man replied. "If we tried to help you, we will only put our village into unnecessary danger." He sighed.

I looked at Wilmot. Both of us are unsure what to do.

"I'm afraid you must find a royalist Protestant, where ever one may be. Most were forced to swear allegiance to Cromwell or face exile; thus I will not count on them helping you either." The man sighed.

"But Father, we must help them!" One of the brothers knelt on the ground said, looking up.

"Ay, I would rather lose my life than the see the King lose his in our house!" Another brother said.

The old man laughed. "Look how brave my sons are. Very well. If you boys wish to save the King, I suppose you all are too old for me to tell you no. I am too old to take part. Be safe!" He warned them.

The brothers nodded yes. The oldest one, Richard, I'm guessing, walked over to me.

"Sire, we will swear our lives for your safety, but you will need a make over. You will not feel terrible, I suppose, if we change your appearance a slight bit?" He asked. I looked at him, confused for a moment by the simplicity of his words, and then nodded, slightly uncertainly.

"Not today though, Richard." The father called out. "Let the King rest, he must be tired from traveling all day. Are you two hungry?" He asked sleepily.

"No....we stopped for a bit on the way here." Wilmot replied. "And neither of us have the appetite right now."

"Very well. You may sleep in my bed. I'll lay out in blanket in the boys' room tonight." He said, rising. "George, stay up tonight and kill one of the chickens. We can't feed the King off porridge." He yawned, rose, and started walking to bed. It was very late, and indeed I was very tired.

Master Pendrall's bed was fair, and I've actually slept on worse. There were several layers of blankets and a large pillow, enough for me to fall asleep on quickly after the long ordeal of the day.

Early next morning I was woken by George. All of the brothers were up already, and when I stepped out of Master Pendrall's room I saw them assembled outside, all grinning. They bowed to me and paid me their compliments, sounding very much like the throng of St. James.

"Your Majesty, we will need to make you look like a common peasant. We can't do anything to your height, but we can change your face and your dress." They promised. For the next hour two of the brothers cut my neat black locks of hair short and probably messily on purpose so I look like a common peasant. Mother would have screamed to see my cavalier curls turned into the snippets of monks. They then mushed dirt all over my face, making it look like I have never bathed in my life. Finally they stripped me of a shirt and gave me a coarse wood cutter's gown to wear. I looked just like a wood cutter's son and felt like one too.

By noon, and after a fair meal of chicken broth the five brothers led me on my journey west. About five miles of the journey 3 of the brothers peeled off, as the 5 brothers were well known in the surroundings and they can't be seen to travel more than five miles from their home.

Richard took me one way, while George took Wilmot another. We were to meet again at the inn of a friend of the Pendralls.

As Richard and I traveled, the barrier between as gradually cooled, and Richard began addressing me like a friend instead of the King. He told me stories to pass the time, many of which were simple and not very literary, but had a clear moral and were more realistic than the ones Buckingham told to Thumbs and I. Sometimes I vowed that if I was ever returned to the throne, I would remember the lessons learned in these stories.

I also missed Thumbs dearly. We had stopped corresponding before the Civil War begun, and I had stopped hearing from him since. I suppose he is somewhere in France right now. Our fallout and arguments seemed so trivial now. He had lost his father at the same time that he was exposed to the realities of the world in the cruelest way possible. It was my duty to comfort him, my turn to be there for him, yet I branded him as boring and a waste of my time, and deserted him. His support, his friendship and humor would be so helpful now in these trying times.

On most of our trip, the road was empty. Now and then we'd meet a pilgrim, a farmer, or workmen, all of whom paid us no attention. Then, suddenly, we were stopped by a stout miller with a cudgel in his hand. He was a short, ugly man with a large plump nose and small eyes. As we approached he gave us a few glances before suddenly remarking

"Say, aren't you that dog Pendrall's son?" He asked, his words as crude as the mouth and jutting teeth that formed them.

Richard attempted to ignore him, turning his face away and marching on.

"Hey, stop! Aren't you catholic? Are ye breaking the law?" The miller said, turning from his track and walking after us. We picked up our pace.

"Come back, don't you think you can flee from me!" Cried the miller, raising his cudgel as he picked up his pace. "Cromwell promised 10 pence to any man that help enforce the law. I'll catch you two culprits!" He screamed.

We broke into a run. Richard was very fast, his legs carrying him along despite his short stature. I ran after him in great strides, but before long I was getting tired. The miller, though not too fast, pursued after us with the determination of a blood hound. The race continued for several minutes, before the miller finally grew tired and hurled his cudgel at us. It snapped across Richard's back and caused the boy to stumble, but he soon regained his stride and ran on, with the miller stopping in his tracks and hurling curses at our retreating forms. I was grateful as his figure grew smaller and smaller behind us, but I knew he would raise the alarm, and we would soon have more troops after us!

By noon we had reached the river Severan, which separated Wales from England. I was about to cross the ford when Richard tackled me down.

"You idiot, look before you act!" He whispered.

I looked. Indeed he was right. Prone on the other bank of the river were dozens of Parliamentary musketeers, their plumed hats waving in the air.

"Its too heavily guarded. Quite logical. Cromwell will obviously expect you to flee to Wales. We'll never get across." Richard muttered to himself.

I looked on, confused. Wales lay only 100 meters away, but I cannot get there! I felt like a little boy again, staring at mother's teats and wondering why I cannot suck on it.

About 5 miles from the river Severn, which separated England from Wales, we came upon the inn of Mrs.Carlis, the wife of a sergeant who fought under me at Worcester. There was not a very large royalist population in this town, but I figured if Mrs.Carlis is not a royalist, no one in the town is. Luckily, I was right, and she was a royalist by heart, and anxious to find news about her husband, whose fate remains uncertain.

She was a curtious woman, with small sharp eyes and a cavalier attitude. As we had tea, the clattering of hooves became evident. A horse was riding up the road to the house, and on it sat an unarmed traveler clad in brown.

"Do you have a rifle anywhere?" Richard asked, looking at Mrs.Carlis anxiously.

"Its all good, I think that's Mr.Carlis!" She said, staring hard at the figure and the way he sat on his horse.

Indeed it was Mr.Carlis, but behind him, about 200 yards down he was followed by about 20 Cromwell troopers, clad in black, steel armor shining brightly in the sun.

Mr.Carlis entered first. He was surprised to find the King at his house, but none the less acted with a cool head.

"It's the dragoons. Oh, woe be to us. Of all the people in England this could happen to, we're the ones caught helping the King!" Mrs.Carlis wailed.

"Quick, where could we hide?" Richard demanded.

"Out the back! The woods are to the back. They'll never find you in there!" Mrs.Carlis replied.

"But the woods will be the first place they comb for once they search the house!" Countered Mr.Carlis.

"In the oak then!" Said Mrs.Carlis, looking at her husband for approval.

"I don't know..." Mr.Carlis said uncertainly. "It would be...very unlikely for them to look there....such an inconspicuous place for a king." He said, scratching his chin. "I'll hold them off, and lead their suspicion to the woods to make it fool proof.

"The oak it is then!" Said Richard.

He led me out back. Indeed there was a fat oak tree there, sitting on the edge of the farm. Behind it lie the woods. The oak tree was very large. Its branches was like one of those fancy hairdos I see the French Ladies wear in France. Richard climbed up and helped me up. I figured he came here to play as a boy, before Catholics were banned from traveling in England.

We waited, listening on the conversation. I knew I should be paying attention, but I was exhausted, and quickly fell asleep, my head resting on the arm of Richard.

When I woke up it was night, and Richard was still holding up my head so I do not fall over and off the tree. He was awake and standing guard.

"Where are they?" I whispered to Richard.

"Searching the woods. They didn't think to look up here." He said quietly.

"What happened to Carlis?" I asked.

"Arrested. Two troopers took him away." Richard sighed.

"Arrested?" I asked. My heart throbbed. Poor man!

"Its....a price to pay, but at least he was glad he helped you escape." Pendrall said.

"Really? He wanted to help me that much?" I asked uncertainly.

"Yes...so do I. If they do find us, I will fight to the death to buy you time." Pendrall said. "Because you are our last hope, our only hope for fairness and equality. God is on our side!" He declared.

I looked back at him sadly.

"But restoration is not possible. The Scots was my last mean of regaining the throne. Now that they are crushed___"  
"No, you must not say that!" Pendrall warned. "You must never give up. Have you ever heard of the story of Robert the Bruce and the Spider?" He asked.

I shook my head. No. I was aware Robert the Bruce was a Scottish King, but I recall nothing about any spider.

"You haven't heard of this story?" Pendrall asked, surprised. "Oh well, its fascinating. Here we go; Robert the Bruce was an Ancient Scottish king fighting for independence against the English. In one great battle his army was surrounded and crushed by the English. Robert's body guards cut their way through the English and brought him out of the battle safely, and they were forced to hide in a nearby cave to take refuge from the English. Scotland looked like it was doomed, and Robert contemplated suicide. As he drew his sword and brought it to his neck, he saw the silhouette of a spider, attempting to make a web in the corner of the cave. Robert put down his sword, watching as the spider spun and spun, constructing a fine patch of silk, complete with strong support strands fastened to the walls of the cave. Just as the spider was spinning one last support strand, a cold gust of wind blew through the cave and turned the web into tatters!

Robert thought this was a symbol of his own life, how his life work was destroyed by one swift turn of fortune. As he lifted his sword again his eyes were drawn again to the spider. It had started over, resiliently working at the web again. Robert watched in fascination as the little spider persistently spun its web again and again, never giving up though each time his half-finished web was destroyed by the wind. Finally, on the eighth try, the spider completed all the strands and the wind could not budge its work. It then sat, content and patient, waiting for flies to get trapped within its hard work.

Robert was fascinated how this tiny, weak little spider would tirelessly try, again and again, never giving up, while he, young and strong, the King of all Scotland, would give up after one disaster. He took up courage and rode back to Scotland, working like a mad man, and eventually he succeeded in defeating the superior English and acquired Scottish Independence." Pendrall said with a nod. "And it was because of him that Scotland, even today, is always so rebellious from the English. They always try, again and again, to acquire their independence, no matter what the odds are."

I was fascinated. Robert the Bruce, one of my ancestors. His situation was exactly like mine, and he did not give up! Surely I can reach success too, if I only try! I looked behind me at Pendrall. I could hardly contain myself. I wanted to get off and start working for restoration right this moment! I felt like I could accomplish anything, now that Richard as gifted me the will to work and try hard.

I made a move to get off the tree.

"What are doing?" Pendrall demanded, not contemplating my reaction to his story.

"I want to head for Wales right now! When I get to France I'm going to ask Louis to declare war on England and get my throne back!" I declared.

Richard gave a little laugh. "Good Grief, did my story cause you to act this way? Very well, get off slowly, but be careful! The soldiers may still be in these woods!"

By morning we were on our way to the home of a prominent Royalist of the area, the estate of Thomas Whitegreave. Wilmot and the rest of the Pendrall brothers were supposed to meet us there, as well as several other catholic and royalists in the region. My peasant shoes have worn away from the long walk of the past two days, and the soft skin of my foot was cut and bruised from the trip. I looked in wonder at Richard's calloused feet, completely fine even though he was walking bare feet. For me, every step was a pain, and lifting a foot off the ground was like trying to pick up a squashed cake as delicately as possible off a kitchen floor.

When we arrived at Whitegreave's, we met leading royalists of the area. A catholic priest bathed my feet while the others discussed what we could do. Wales was out of picture, since it would probably be covered with prowling bands of dragoons and ambushes.

One of the men suggested we travel south to Bristol, before taking a ship to France. Many of the royalists approved of it, since Cromwell would never expect me to travel south, in the direction of London!

For meal tonight we had bony chicken and porridge. I waited hungrily at their dining table, ignoring the rough wood stools that we sat on and our barnlike surroundings.

When the potridge was finally heated it was served to us in wooden bowls with no spoons. I held myself back from wolfing it down while I waited for Whitegreave to fetch their silverware, but none came. I looked up in surprise.

"You must excuse us. We are not so rich, and eat with our hands." Whitegreave said, rather embarrassedly, looking down at the ground. I didn't know what to say.

"It's...okay, I eat with my hands all the time." I lied, looking uncertainly at the gruel below us.

Everyone else, even Wilmot, was swallowing it down, and I hadn't sat down for a meal since the battle, and thus I let a mouth full flow into my mouth. It was vile, putrid, so dry and coarse to the throat I found it impossible to swallow. Even in a porridge form, it sucked moisture and taste right out of my mouth. I almost cried from the blandness. It was like trying to swallow hard bread! I tried my best to hide my disgust though, making faces to disguise my horror. Then it struck me. These peasants have to put up with this kind of food every day! They don't have anything better! The chicken they served was probably for Christmas!

I looked at the poor family as they ate. I longed to fish out a few gold coins from my purse to end their troubles, but when my hand traveled to my pocket, my fingers only groped the coarse material of the woodman's shirt. I had no gold coins, I was no body!

I looked down bitterly. Perhaps this porridge is my life. I still wanted to be restored to the throne, but I realized I must swallow down bitterness and hardships if I am to succeed.

The next day we saw a large band of me prowl by. They knocked on the door but we did not open it, for they looked wild. They left after a while. One of them had my banner sewn to the back of his shirt. Survivors from Worcester. I longed to harbor these poor men, but I knew how much it would put us in risk. There would definitely be cavalry chasing these men. We shouldn't draw suspicious on ourselves, especially if these men will lead the pursuing cavalry away from us.

The next day pursuing cavalry did arrive at our gate. They asked questions, and then tried to arrest Whiteworth for fighting at Worcester. Whiteworth assured them he hadn't, and after a heated argument he was finally believed, and he pointed the direction of the Scots.

Very next day we left with the Pendrall brothers, Whiteworth, and his daughter, a girl named Jane. Jane was a Parliamentarian camp follower, and because of that she has a military pass that could get us pretty far in England without being challenged by garrisons. We also took a long an old mill horse we received from a local miller, which I rode on. Wilmot rode ahead with his charger in his full armor, deterring any men we meet by shouting out loudly that he is out hunting, and pretending to be a Parliamentary noble.

As we rode along I grew more and more incensed by the countryside. It was a lazy, warm world, and I rather liked it. As I traveled with the royalists I thought about all the things Buckingham told me about the peasants and I now realized they couldn't be true. No peasants have guns because all peasants dislike guns? Com'on. Peasants never eat meat because they didn't like me? Really? I wished I had paid more attention to the lives of peasants and studied their life more while I was young, when I didn't have any duties but to enjoy. I swore if I ever became king again I will pay more attention to the lower class, not just the nobles in London. Halfway, as I rode, my horse stumbled, and its horseshoe fell off. I almost fell and would have probably broken something, but one of the Pendralls saved my skin. He laughed.

"Well, who could blame the beast? It was carrying with it the weight of three kingdoms!"

Everyone burst out laughing. I looked around, amazed. These men, who are risking their lives for me even now, have actually become my friend!

WE take the horse to the blacksmith, who hammer on the shoe. I ask him

"Have you heard any news?"

"News? In what area?" He asked.

"About, say, the King and his Scottish rebellions?"

"Hurmph, I do not know if the King was captured, but I do know a great deal of his generals were!" He relied.

"Oh really? That is good news! If they capture that rogue of a king he deserves to be hung!" I told him, judging his reaction.

"You speak like an honest man, gentleman!" The man replied back merrily.

"Ay, glad to be it" I replied back, looking at the black smith and thinking if I could remember his face and punish him when my restoration comes.....if my restoration ever comes.

About 2 hours later the horse's shoe was fixed and we went on our way again. Whiteworth was really fidgety the entire way and he worried about the rebel cavalry catching up. It would not take long for Cromwell to figure out we are not going to Wales, and for him to extend the search to all over England. By that time we need to be in France. Mean, I work in the kitchen sir

2 Weeks later we had arrived outside the walls of Bristol. Bristol was a much contested city in the civil war. It was one of the biggest ports in England, and was at times strongholds of both factions. Thus, there was a good amount of royalists, but also a good amount of Parliamentarians in the city. As we entered, we found a good amount of villagers crowding the gates. They looked like the happiest bunch, leaping about in costumes, around a fire they've built in the middle of the street. The soldiers at guard did nothing to stop them, simply stood back and watched with amusement. They were singing.

"Woe be the day that the king was born,

Joy to the day that the King was killed!" They shouted.

My heart curled up. Is this what they hold my father at? He's dead now, gutted like a common animal, and yet they will still not let him alone? I longed to draw my sword and gut them, but I knew I'd be arrested by the men standing guard at the gate.

Then I heard the next two lines of their song.

"Leading an army of rogues to invade fair England

His arse was kicked at bloody Worecester!" They sung.

I looked on in surprise. Are they talking about me? But I am not dead!

"The King is dead, the King is dead, the King is dead" They shouted now, all in Unison.

I gave a small laugh. Is this how it is? They think I'm dead?

"What are you men singing of?" Asked Wilmot bravely, taking the initiative, since they are sure to challenge us.

"The King is dead!" They sung. "He was beat in a great battle by Cromwell at Worcester!"

"Oh really?" I couldn't hold myself back any longer and blurted out.

"Well yes, good gentleman! A man just arrived from London telling us so! They say he was killed by a stray musket ball!" One of the villagers claimed. "What a holy musket ball, to end all of England's troubles."

"Yes, and of course they'd recognize him! They say he's tall, dark as a Negro, and mean as the devil."

I gave a small laugh. I look like Thomas Fairfax? I didn't shrink from that name as I did from the name of many who fought against father. Fairfax was an honorable opponent and utterly denounced Parliament's decision to execute the King. He was later forced to retire by Cromwell for that.

The villagers now focused on us.

"Where are you gents be headed?" They asked.

"We're going to the house of a certain colonel Mon___" I said out loud accidently.

"What he meant was we're going to the beaches before traveling to London!"

The leader of the villagers narrowed his eyes at us.

"Colonel Monck eh?" He gave a laugh. "They say many of the King's supporters survived the battle. Well, we don't like that kind here in Bristol!" He snorted.

Before I had a chance to say anything else, Wilmot grabbed my hand dragged me away. The Pendralls followed us nervously.

George Monck was a friend of Colonel Whiteworth during the war. He declared for the King but after the war he was forced to swear allegiance to Parliament. Since then he has worked as a administrator, than Governor in Scotland, building his way up through good work. He was rumored to have a skillful eye that can see people's intentions, and exploit that with his equally skillful tongue. We were not certain whether he will harbor me or not, but it is well known he dislikes working for Cromwell, and thus he is the best chance we got. When we arrived at his house that night, there was a dinner party there and many guests, both royalists and Protestants, were invited. As a result, I took the disguise of a servant to avoid the social gatherings that the nobles at the party are subjected too. Whiteworth spent his time casually with the lord of the house, supposedly asking for ships to take to France, while all my companions loitered in the gardens outside. I entered the kitchen alone, ordered by the constable to prepare meals for the night.

When I arrived I was confronted by the master cook, who immediately asked me what I specialize in. I looked at him in surprise.

He was a huge, rotund man, with a fat glob under his neck and looked rather like an ugly rooster.

"I asked, are you a work servant or are you one of those useless masters of jokes and revelry?" He demanded again, angrily.

"I.....I mean, I work in the kitchen, sir!" I replied, aware that all eyes of the kitchen were on me.

"Tell me the first time! Now get to work. Work the spit for a while. Chicken's due to come off in 10 minutes!" He said, pointing to the corner of the kitchen. I nodded and walked that way, grateful to be off the center of attention.

I walked over to the stove. I knew what the spit was. A chicken as impaled on a jack, and the jack was placed on a rack, where it is continuously turned so the chicken is cooked. I had often snatched slivers of half cooked meat from the jack while raiding the royal kitchen.

Another man was standing there, turning the jack. He looked maxed out. Sweat covered his face and he had to stop every once in a while to wipe it from his brows so the stinging fluids do not get into his eyes. He looked relieved to see my arrival.

"Work this for me a bit, while I get a drink." He said. I nodded. I had no idea how to work the thing, but I suppose one just turn it around and around so the meat doesn't get it charred. I put my hand around the black handle. It was warm. I attempted to give it a turn. The jack didn't budge. I tried again, with more force this time. The jack fell off the rack and into the flames. Quickly with both hands I lifted up the meat, and to my relief it was not charred. I put the jack back on the rack and tried again to turn it. Each time I tried, however, the meat just fell into the fire again. I always lifted it off right away, but every time it fell the juice in the meat sizzled away, and I knew this meat dish wouldn't be very tasty.

"Are you sure you know how to work this thing!" The chef said as he walked back from the bucket, asking me suspiciously.

"No, not really." I replied coolly. "From where I came from, we didn't have much meat. What little we ate each year was put into a broth, so I never worked the jack." I lied.

He nodded, satisfied with my explanation, and quietly took over. I sighed and almost gave myself a pat on the back for my excellent performance. I was catching on quickly.

Over the next several days I stayed over at Trent's house, while my friends attempted to find me a ferry to France. Royalist spies all over England confirmed Cromwell was expanding the search to all of England. Check points were set up at road intersections, and companies of dragoon patrol around England at random, stopping travelers to check to see if they've heard about the King, or, as they call me, the rogue leader of an invading Scottish Army.

After several days of waiting in Monck's house, Wilmot was finally able to find a man willing to take me to France. In some ways the deal was too good to be true. He only demanded 90 pounds from us though he would have gotten at least 250 pounds if he handed us over to Cromwell. When we asked him about this he assured us he was a staunch royalist. The next morning, however, when we traveled to the dock on the back of a farmer's hay cart, we found the dock surrounded by soldiers, looking into the crowd nervously. Luckily, the Pendralls were nearby and they knocked over several nearby apple carts, allowing us to get away unnoticed.

Finally, after asking a string of royalists that Monck referred us to, we were able to find a Royalist Captain in procession of a ship. To be safe, we didn't tell him I was the king. He demanded 70 pounds for the passage as a result, and offered to pick us up at a local inn at night. We went to the inn. As Wilmot gave him the money and he began to walk toward the exit to lead us to his ship, a band of soldiers entered the inn. I thought they were coming for me, and almost told Wilmot to draw his sword. Luckily, they were only here for a drink with several local women, one of which was very pregnant. As we got up once again to leave, however, the innkeeper, who was drunk, recognized me and dropped down to his knees.

"Your Royal majesty!" He cried out. I glanced at him in hate. He looked ike a decent man, and might have been a royalist during the war, but in his drunken bout he has doomed me! I quickly hid my face behind a cowl and attempted to mingle into the crowds. Meanwhile the soldiers began to look around, drawing their swords and sweeping through the room.

"The King is in my store! The King has been in my store!" The inn keeper shouted, adding to the mayhem. I slipped into a corner of the room and squatted there, facing the corner, hoping I looked like a barrel of ale. I thought I was caught for sure.

Suddenly one of the women screamed.

"Oh, my baby....its coming out."

Her wild shierkes generated as much excitement as the innkAll the soldiers rushed to help her out. A few threw a few last glances back, but I was safe. A clue from God maybe. Perhaps he supported restoration.

I walked away, very dangerous. I knew the tavern keeper would not be able to keep his mouth shut. Soon there'd be more regiments of dragoons in here than those that fought at Worcester.

Later that day we got another trip arranged. 70 pounds will get me to France. The next day we boarded the ship. He recognized me and demanded 200 pounds. We agreed. Just as we left a regiment of Parliamentary dragoons caught upon us. As we sailed away they dismounted and got on their own ship, chasing after us. Luckily our was slightly faster, and we outran them, sailing to freedom in France.

As we sailed away from the emerald isles once more, I couldn't help but appreciate what has changed. I was now a completely different man. The first time we left, I was a young boy fleeing to safety I had no sympathy for the peasantry, and was as innocent and naïve as a newborn chick. Now I knew the true nature of the world, how one has to be tough to survive. Scotland, having lost most of its trained militia at Worcester, was forever subdued. However, I felt like I gained more this time around. I was now smarter, I had more friends, and I felt much tougher. Perhaps I was not meant, not prepared to be king just yet, but I was still young. Cromwell was getting older and older. I now had definite plans to eventually become the King.

Chapter 5: The Throne!

The next few years I worked hard to bring about restoration. As soon as our little boat docked in Brest, I traveled to Paris, hoping to garner France's support. Louis received me with dignity and gracious words, offering his condolences for the failure of my expedition to Scotland. Mazarin gave only empty promises and delayed our scheduled meetings to later and later dates. After a few month of waiting I realized I would never get anything out of France, and thus I decided to look for help elsewhere. Two Kingdoms in Europe had enough power to easily defeat Cromwell's England. The first was France, recently arisen after its fantastic performance in the Thirty Years War. The other was King Phillip IV's Spain. When my ship arrived at Toledo, I was received warmly by the Spanish, who escorted me to Madrid, where I met the Spanish Royal Family. King Phillip welcomed me lavishly, and when I asked for his support he gallantly promised me thousands of soldiers. He even made restoration seemed like a small thing instead of the behemoth of a task I perceived it to be. For a while it seemed like the English Throne was as good as mine, and I even begun to daydream what I would do to Cromwell when we capture him. Then my hopes were dashed when a mestizo revolt in Spanish Peru drew away most of the Spanish Royal Army, and the Spanish King could offer me no more than encouragement. After a few weeks I left, head bowed, to visit other monarchs I had listed as powerful. One by one they were crossed out. Some out rightly refused. Others politely declined. A few made demands so outrageous if I was restored to the English throne I would be a slave master rather than a liberator, and I angrily refused. Soon it was clear I would find little help from any country in Europe. I couldn't blame them either. Almost every single country in Europe was devastated by the horrifying Thirty Years War. Most countries lost much of their youth to battles and much of its senile population to famines. Almost all had rock bottom economies. No country could afford the long, costly war that would surly result should they declare war against England.

Out of hope, I traveled back to The Hague, Netherlands, head drooped like a beggar, convinced that father would forever be buried as a criminal.

I did not have the face or courage to return to mother's house, and I found myself walking down the familiar path to Lucy's home. She will not castigate me for my failure, she will understand. When I arrived, two things surprised me. First of all, Lucy had a baby in her hands, a protestant baptized baby, all chubby and red, glaring at me with large eyes. The second was the well-dressed gentleman sitting next to her.

He looked important, and kept a mustache, but when he saw me he rose, took off his hat, and bowed like I was someone important.

I sat down. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" I asked suspiciously, temporarily ignoring Lucy and my son.

"The Parliament of the United Province is saddened to see your uprising against Cromwell's dictatorial England has failed. The Dutch support all men fighting to free themselves or their country from oppression." The man begun. I looked at him, almost rolling my eyes. I can see right through him. The Dutch do not care who rules England, Cromwell or I. All they want is to trade with England and her colonies, an action that would generate much revenue for the Dutch Government. Fortunately for me, Cromwell refuses to trade with the Dutch, a major rival to England's dominance of the sea. As a result they will now support me in hopes that I will eventually take over England again and trade with the Dutch.

"Let me tell you, that the generous Council of the United Province of the Netherlands has granted you permission to recruit and train Royalists troops in The Hague for the eventual goal of retaking England and allying the country with the Dutch republic!" The man proclaimed. I looked at him in disbelief. Shock and gratefulness ran at the same time through my body. A place to train troop! Finally, I will be able to recruit another army, that, when it is strong enough, might challenge Cromwell's New Model Army!

"And do not worry, we understand the royal house of England is in dire financial straits now. We will provide full upkeep of those levied troops!" The gentleman humbly, as if his words were insignificant. I looked at him with pure bless in my eyes.

When the gentleman left, Lucy greeted me, and put my child in my hands. It was only a few weeks old, and Lucy had refrained from giving him a name.

"What are you going to do about the gentleman?" She asked me.

"I don't really know....I suppose I could take his offer and create an army." I replied.

"Oh...why can't you just stay and live with me, and start being a normal man?" She pleaded.

I sighed, remembering that had I listened to Lucy, and waited a bit more before I sailed north to Scotland, I would have seen the rebellion would be crushed and would not have nearly been captured and executed.

"By the way, there's someone else here. He's sleeping." Lucy smiled, giving me an inside look as she led me to the bedroom.

There was a boy on my bed. He sat up as I approached. He was skinny and fairly tall, but had a boyish face. His eyes were brown, like mine, his nose pointed, and his hair worn proudly in the cavalier fashion. He had dark, heavy eyebrows and prominent lips. Over all he looked almost exactly like I looked 10 years ago.

I had a timid guess of who it was, but I didn't dare say it out loud in fear that the boy would disappear.

"Charley!" The boy said, grinning happily, his eyes throwing all the trust, affection, and admiration the world could hold, his thin arms open wide for a hug.

"Henry?" I asked, uncertain. I hadn't seen my beloved little brother since Oxford fell, when he was 5. I was afraid he would be shaken and traumatized by father's death, and perhaps hurt by Cromwell when I was crowned king of Scotland, but here he was, innocent as he always was and completely unharmed.

"Yes its me! Uncle Cromwell sent me here to stay with you!" He said.

"Ok....ok...that's great." I said, shaken. He said uncle Cromwell. The boy does not know our vendetta against that evil man. In fact, Cromwell probably imposed numerous false doctrines upon the boy while he was in captivity.

"Why are you here though?" I asked carefully. "This is the house of sister Lucy. Why aren't you with mother?"

"We...we fought. She beat me." Henry replied sadly.

"Fought? So soon after you came back? Over what?" I asked.

"It was this morning..." Henry started to sniffle. "I'll tell you, but please don't throw me out like she did." He asked timidly.

I sat next to him. "Henry, you are my little brother. It is my duty to protect you. What was wrong?"

"Mother demanded that I go to the chapel with her, but she prays at a catholic chapel, and I refused to enter....she found out I am a protestant, and threw me out of the house. I'm sorry I made her mad, but Uncle Cromwell taught me all about the evils of the Catholics." He looked up at me with timid eyes, expecting me to beat him.

"Henry....poor Henry." I exclaimed. "That is all? Don't worry, I'll make it up to mother for you." I promised. "Come on, let's go back right now. I have my own apology to make."

Mother had become an old woman the years that I left. Her face is no longer beautiful, but instead covered with wrinkles. Her long, smooth flow of hair was now white as the pearl necklace she wore, one of the last pieces of jewelry she hasn't sold yet. I had expected her to meet me with angry words and sharp blows like she did when I tried to run away when I was a boy. Instead she greeted me with tears and kisses. James hung in the back, silently watching. I knew James was sorry that we argued and I left, but I also knew his arrogance, so similar to father's, would be too big for him to swallow and he would not apologize. If I was younger I would have ignored him, or fought him until he's on his knees, begging to surrender, but now I looked at him like who he really was. My little brother, my dear kin, a valuable ally in so harsh a world. Thus I walked up to him and gave him a hug, much to his surprise.

With the rift between my family and I healed, I proceeded to work for restoration. I was rejuvenated once again. Energy filled my body, and I set to work at once. I reunited with my mother and my siblings, and apologized for abandoning them. Next I called together all my friends and we began to map out our plans for an army. When Lucy visited me, I told her to go away. There is work to be done, and I couldn't be distracted. Restoring my family to the throne is the most important task that will ever face me, and I am ready to sacrifice anything to accomplish that task.

And there are many that will help me. One day a strange man, clad in beggar's robes, turned up outside my house. He begged entry, and Henry allowed him in. It took me a minute to recognize who it was through all the dirt caked on the man's face.

"Thumbs!" I said, rushing to him and seizing my friend by the arms, ignoring his clothe, which were soiling my shirt. My entire family surrounded him.

"What happened to you?" I asked him.

He gave a weak little laugh.

"Please don't implore into the past.... I only want to mend our broken friendship. Let me join your army, and I will fight as a common soldier for the crown."

"Thumbs! Stop it! Charles would never let you fight as a commoner. You are the Duke of Buckingham, a valuable member of England's nobility!" Mother said with pity in her voice.

I gave mother a look. So what if aristocrats served on the front line? God never forbade it.

"Thumbs, you do not have to mend our friendship by serving me and risking your life in the field of battle. Just be my friend again, and I will be more than happy to pretend nothing ever happened between us!" I told him.

He looked up at me. His eyes were bright, and I knew he was thinking about my offer, and whether what I said could be possible to achieve or not.

"I.....I would gladly be your friend again, my king." He finally told me.

I smiled. "Good. Get up Thumbs. We have a coup to plan!"

I announced my plans to recruit a royal army on several posters which I had glued onto walls around the city. Volunteers begun to sign up almost immediately. Many young men, sons of outspoken Royalists, have grown up during the war and seen their family fortune fall. Eager to restore their family's prestige they flocked together to join me. Within a few month we had 2 regiments, (200) soldiers training. I of course, knew little about military matters, so Wilmot tried his best, drilling the men in firing muskets, (generously provided by the Dutch Government) and maneuvering. Edward Hyde, meanwhile, put his considerable influence to use, and was soon busy writing letters and publishing articles. It was thanks to him that commoners not only in Netherland, but England itself became familiar with my views and what I would do, if the throne was indeed restored to me. It was also thanks to his many letters that my coffers were filled with generous donations of friends and allies. Thumb gradually sank into the role of the stallion bearing the throne on his back, becoming someone that I can put all my trust on. He single handedly organized my growing pool of supporters. Anthony, meanwhile became my closest advisor. He kept very up to date with everything going on back at home, and it was thanks to him that I knew the times of strength or weaknesses of the isles.

Scotland was fully put down and enslaved by 1652, having finally ran out of young men of fighting age with which to rebel again. Ireland, meanwhile, was in total upheaval. Like Scotland, Ireland initially rebelled against the King, but once Cromwell and his Rump Parliament took over, the Irish realized their life under the King was not so bad. Led by Strafford's old Lieutenant, Duke Ormond, the Irish declared me King of the Irish and rose in revolt against Cromwell. Much like the rebellions in Scotland, the Irish were not united in their cause, with rival lords refusing to help each other in times of need. When Cromwell's New Model Army landed in Ireland, they faced only small Irish War bands instead of large, organized armies. Before long most of Ireland's largest towns were captured and the rebellion limited to small scales in the country sides. Ormond himself sailed out of Ireland just in time, and joined me at The Hague. Ireland however, was never fully pacified, and small rebellions sprang up daily. The old saying goes that three Irish and a bottle of ale starts a rebellion.

England was a totally different story, however. As the years passed, there seemed to be less and less unrest in England as the people gradually accepted Cromwell's rule. There were flares of royalist fervors from time to time, including the large scale March Uprising, which secured several large cities all over England, including York. I had even sent Wilmot over to lead the rebel army. However Cromwell's New Model Army, superior led and trained, managed to put down the rebellion and Wilmot barely escaped with his life. By 1657, rebellions were mostly small scaled and local events. Then, everything changed.

In 1658 Oliver Cromwell died painfully of a mysterious African plague, as if touched by the devil, leaving all the Kingdoms to his son, Richard. Richard, as I would later find out, was much like my father in rule. He was determined to be a good king, but he was too trusting, too stubborn, to effectively lead the country. The Kingdom's many nobles, long kept under by Cromwell's iron fist, rose up to command their own fiefs like little kingdoms, ignoring Richard's orders. Within months the country has broken up into little states, much like the Holy Roman Empire had after the Thirty Years War. I felt an instinctive urge, of course, to head back and unify the Kingdom with my imposing presence, but all my advisors urged me to hold back. I remembered how Father had often been carried away by his own whims and ignored his advisors, and that resulted in many of his down falls. As a result, against my own wishes I listened to them and held back, ignoring even the wishes of the soldiers I led, all of whom begged to be sent to England to conquer the country for me. It was like this that time progressed, every single day like stones grinding together, slow and hard. England fell into Anarchy. Richard realized he has lost control, and in order to avoid losing his head he abdicated his position as lord Protector and became a common man. Parliament again attempted to rule the country, but their laws carried no weight, they had the allegiance of no army, and the common people have lost their faith in Parliament. Again I wanted to sail north and make for London, but again my advisors told me to hold back. Hyde summed up all their views by pointing out

"Land now in England with an army, and all the English will take you as a rogue with a foreign army intent on conquering England. Wait, and let them suffer. Hold back until they are begging for you to take the throne, and then make your move like a good man abiding the wish of his subjects!"

I again agreed, and watched on, hoping that with time my strength will grow and my enemies will weaken. Instead things seemed to turn against me. My friend and loyal advisor Wilmot fell ill and died during the winter while visiting my soldiers in their crowded barracks. His death was a paralyzing blow to my cause. The soldiers' morale dropped rapidly and some began to desert. At the same time, bad news in England threatened to tear the fledging royalist court apart. By early 1659, the civil war in England had begun to slow. Nobles have started to band together to avoid being snuffed out by their neighbor. A percent of the nobles put their support behind London and the Parliament, urging for a return to Parliament's absolute rule. What remained of the New Model Army was also put under Parliament's control, giving the house control over most of England. A few of the stronger Nobles, however, continued to resist parliament's advances, and again the people of England suffered, many losing their lives in the famines and the raids of bandits, but still no one begged for me to return, and I held back.

By Autumn, 1659, things heated up again as all wanted to make a gain before the peace of the winter months. Several nobles in Western England declared for me and raised my banner in their castles. Again I asked whether now was the time to make my return, but all my advisors again urged patience. I relented and waited on, and watched as the little rebellion was attacked by the New Model Army, led by a parliamentary lieutenant named Lambert. The rebellion was snuffed out like a little candle flame, taking a good deal of royalist morale with it. My advisors, however, seemed unshaken.

By November, 1659, destiny again begun to swing in favor of me. For most of the year Parliament seemed able to unite England. Now internal strife that always accompanied men trying to work together appeared. Parliament broke down when a new election put many old members out of the wooden seats, resulting in deadlocks and disunity in the house itself. All of England was again thrown into anarchy. Meanwhile, the new Parliament was consisted of a significant number of past royalists, who have gained enough popularity to gain the seat only by making allusions to the time of order and prosperity when father was ruling. I knew if I demanded their loyalty, they would probably at least show me some form of support. Lambert must have seen parliament's weakness as well, and declared himself the lord Protector of all England, and began a march on London itself.

I began to write with a certain frenzy. I knew Parliament, unlikely as it seems, was now my gate back to England, and I was prepared to do anything to save it from destruction. Lambert lost a good deal of his soldiers because of his traitorous move against Parliament, but the armies he still controlled were formidable. I wrote to all men who have not declared themselves to be my enemy. I wrote to Catholics, I wrote to Calvinists, I wrote to any men that has ever pledged himself to the royalist cause. I hoped that, with the help of all these men that I wrote to, I can stop Lambert's march on Parliament. Instead, help came from a rather unexpected direction.

Scotland was totally subdued, its pool of fighting men all but gone. An English Army of 10,000 men garrisoned its towns. At the head of this army was a certain General George Monck, a captain in father's army during the Bishop's War. A decisive and clear headed man, he was respected by all who knows him and Cromwell pardoned him in 1644, when his detachment was cornered after the rout at Marston Moor. During the uncertain times immediately after Cromwell's death, Monck has remained silent, watching the situation in England while maintaining his own catious hold over Scotland. Seeing England about to be united again, and realizing Lambert's very next target would likely be Scotland, he finally moved south with most of his army, confident Scotland would not dare rebel again.

Monck was both a strong and a flexible old reed. He let the winds of fortune blow him back and forth, never standing against it. Thus he was able to survive so long in such uncertain times. Now, even as he moved south, he remained flexible, keeping his intentions a mystery. No one knew who's side he was on. At times he would help royalists rise against garrisons of Lambert's Armies. Other times he would help put down such rebellions. Since no one knew what Monck actually stood for, no one made any moves against him, and thus the old General was able to march his army through hundreds of miles of "hostile" territory unmolested.

Lambert, terrified, rushed into action and moved his army north to meet Monck instead of hiding behind the stout walls of London. The New Model Army was larger in number, but it was completely different from the elite force it was during War against the King. All of the veterans have by now retired, and it consisted mostly of raw, ill equipped conscripts who didn't believe in what they were fighting for. As a result, much of Lambert's army deserted before he even met with Monck, and the resulting confrontation was much more of a mass surrender than a battle. Without breaking a beat, Monck continued south and entered the gates of London unopposed, at the head of a large, loyal Army. Monck had acquired virtually unchallenged control of both England and Scotland, sine sanguine.

Once in London, Monck continued his strategy of self-preservation, allowing the newly elected Parliament to continue to rule, claiming his presence serve only to maintain the peace. He had essentially won, and survived, by doing nothing, simply outlasting all his enemies. With a lull of action, I seized the initiative. I wrote a letter to Monck, asking for his allegiance. He replied politely, listing his conditions and suggestions. I found them all to be good natured and insightful, and drawing from his suggestions I crafted, (with the help of Edward Hyde) a masterpiece, which I termed the Declaration of Brest.

In the letter, I promised to return as a loving king, with nothing other than my subjects in mind. I cited my encounters with the peasants during my royal escape and mentioned my support and sympathy to them. Then I declared that I would pardon all men that had contributed to father's downfall except for those that played a direct part in his execution. This pardon was extremely significant, as I had in one stroke undermined all support for the regicides, and alleviated the fears of most of parliament. After weeks of waiting a debate, finally the house gave me its reply. I am welcome to return to England at any time to be crowned king. What has happened over the past 2 decades will be as if it never happened. Monck approved the decision whole heartedly and backed it up with his army, and I now had de facto control of London. Immediately, I began to make plans to sail back to England. Thumbs, however, always very tentative, reminded me that this may very well be an ambush: Parliament's scheme at luring me to London and capturing me. Thus I opted to take with me seven ships (lent to me by the Dutch parliament) and my 7 regiments (700 men) of royalist musketeers. Despite their small numbers, I know my soldiers are ready for the task ahead. They are well trained by French and Netherlands captains. They have dedication and motivation to their cause, and Wilmot, before he passed away, had trained them well. A few of the soldiers seemed reluctant to begin the journey that would finally justify their creation, and as I walked up onto my flagship for the trip across the channel, I stopped at the top and looked down at the neat rows of soldier below.

"Men, we embark on a journey that will live through history as the journey that restored the crown to a Britain embroiled in anarchy. Your names will live through history as the men who helped make that a reality. From today on, all you will have to do is to say "I was a member of King Charles' restoration army," and all around you will say "There goes a brave man." My troops cheered enthusiastically, and I strode confidently onto my flag ship.

The trip across the channel was again a test and experience of itself. I was extremely nervous and had a sense of foreboding, much like a new soldier would feel before his first pitched battle. At the same time, I was eager, and felt as if I couldn't wait to finally land on the shores of England. I felt power and authority so near, that I could already see them tingling under my finger tips.

No matter how I felt, the cross channel trip was over 5 hours after it begun, and my flagship came to a surprising halt on the sandy banks of the Thames, a few miles outside London.

Before I even stepped off my ship I began to look around nervously. I half expected a fleet of Parliament ships to sail swiftly down the Thames and sink my fleet before my troops embark. However, no long, sleek sloops sailed toward me. All the ships on the Thames were large, fat, square sailed merchant ships. After several hours all my ships grounded on the banks of the Thames and my 700 troops and nobles all embarked. Slowly we advanced upon London, not in the long and columnar marching formation of an army on the march, but in a large, wide, sweeping mass of men, so that if any army from London engaged us we would be able to bring all our fire power to bear in the least amount of time possible. Again, no force sallied to meet me, not even local militia. I had expected at least a token resistance, but we were met with nothing. The country side was quiet and tranquil. When we finally reached the great gates of London, we found them to be closed shut. Lord Monck's banners, blue and white, hung from the walls, and his soldiers manned the walls, glancing down nervously at my soldiers . I remembered how 20 years ago, when father was still the undisputed king in the isles, he had ordered Roche Castle's gates to open with a single verbal command, the authority of his position behind him. I was now nominally king of all the Isles once again; shouldn't my voice carry the same authority as my father's?

Keeping that in mind I urged my horse slowly forward and shouted up at the ramparts.

"I, Charles II, king of Britain, command you, with my royal authority, to open this gate!"

I looked up, waiting. For a long while nothing happened. The gates didn't open, and my life wasn't ended quickly by a sniper's bullet. Finally, the reinforced steel gates of London slowed opened, and my forces entered!

Riding my horse through the streets, I had expected Londoners to welcome me with silence, and see my arrival as a final testimony of their defeat, (since they were the ones that started England's troubles all together in 1642.) to my surprise, I was greeted with open jubilance. The citizens again turned to the streets, but this time to support me. My regiments were pelted with flowers instead or rocks, and I made triumphantly for Westminster, where Parliament awaits.

Opening the great oak gates of the House was just as much an ordeal as opening the steel gates of London. I didn't know what I would expect. For the second time in one day, however, I was received with excitement and enthusiasm. Entering the house I was greeted with a warm applause, and immediately I realized I can count on these men to bring about my restoration to the entire Kingdom.

Over the next week I began to extend my control outside London. Wales sent its support to me immediately, and Ireland soon followed. Argyll, always disliking me, also realized the game was up and soon surrendered. Now only a few nobles in England resisted. I made my speech public, showing all of England my truthful intentions. They listened, and in many castles the peasants themselves rose against the nobles in support of me, and the nobles were bought to London chained. I had them freed, and showed all my capacity for mercy and tolerance. To execute them would show fear and weakness. To let them live shows I am confident of my power, and that I am merciful. With this act, finally all of England bowed down to me. I was crowned in July by the Parliament.

My first royal decree was to have my father, Oliver Cromwell and others dug up from their grave. Father was given the elaborate, royal funeral that he deserved. The corpses of Cromwell and the other regicides were whipped and cut up into little pieces, then scattered all over the country. The remaining living regicides, (eight of them) were given a fortnight to leave England. Those that did not were caught and executed. All the other enemies of the king were pardoned, even my father's arch nemesis in the war like Thomas Fairfax and Manchester, both of whom were staunchly against the execution of my father.

Once again, a Stuart sat on the Throne of the British Isles. If a colonist had left the Isles for the Americas in 1630 and returned 30 years later, it would have seemed as if nothing had changed. But beneath the surface many, many things have changed. King Charles was now tough and decisive, but also flexible and wise. He had effectively become the mediator between Parliament and the army, and a figure for which all the four kingdoms of the Isles could worship and unite under. Indeed, the rest of King Charles II's time on the throne was a time of peace, prosperity, and discovery. Britain consolidated its political and philosophical prestige in the world, becoming pioneers both in the Americas and in world of reason and enlightenment. The civil war had tested the country and its king, making it stronger and more prepared for the future than ever before, turning it from an isolated, medieval power into a power in prime position to dominate the world.

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