Charles had tried to stay in his cabin, as the captain had advised. He had attempted to distract himself, by poring through the heaps of correspondence that had been heaved onto the ship before they had cast off. But he had bored of it quickly, and had been drawn out onto the deck, where he gripped a railing and stared into the mist, squinting to see his destination. He had never really got used to the sea, and every wave against the hull made his stomach roil, but he'd be damned if he'd lose his breakfast on what was perhaps the most important day of his life. He ignored his secretary's entreaties to return inside and maintained his position, trying to sway with the ship rather than against it, and feeling the cold salty spray of the sea splash against his face.
He had made a very similar journey in the opposite direction nearly twenty years ago. He had only been a little boy then, he did not know why he had been hurried out of the palace in the early hours and hustled with no explanation to a carriage which had taken them to a nondescript port and parcelled across the sea like any other cargo. It had not been until several months later, when they were comfortably settled in exile, that the situation had been explained to him, and even then it was an abridged and distorted version intended for an impressionable child's ears. He had learned more of what had happened on his own, piecing together the puzzle of why his flight had been necessary, and why he was now to return.
The version of the story he had been given was intended to protect him from reality. He had been told that bad men had taken his father captive, had told the most monstrous lives about him, and that he had been murdered. He remembered how he had cried until his eyes could not bring up any more tears, how he had refused to eat until that awful French governess had taken him in hand. After that, he had been filled with a righteous, burning hatred that sat in his stomach like hot lead. As soon as he was old enough, he had enlisted in the French army. Everyone in his 'court' had begged him not to go, especially his mother. But his mind was made up. If anyone would be able to exact the revenge he desired, it would be the French.
He soon found that the interests of the Bourbons did not necessarily coincide with his own quest for vengeance. But breaking away the cloistered mansion, where he had been surrounded by grieving relatives and sycophant fellow exiles, was possibly the best decision he could have made. As a crowned head, even one without a kingdom, he had easily obtained an officer's commission and the years of fighting in the quagmire of the Germanies under the Golden Lilies had brought him into contact with individuals who told him stories that elaborated upon or contradicted the course of events that had been presented to him.
Charles V may have been a good father, but he had not been a good king, he was told. While the royal family and the court wallowed in wealth, the rest of the country was ground down into poverty, stagnation and squalor. The King's weakness had bred contempt among the nobles, who ignored his missives and behaved ever more like kings in their own demesne. The only conflict those in power cared about was that of the Court against the Counts. Nobody paid attention to the merchants, the peasants or the mechanical classes whose resentment had sweltered for too long. The country reached a tipping point and then carried on, falling over the edge into the abyss of rebellion. The King and much of his court had been arrested by militias, while the young Prince Charles himself had been spirited away to safety just in time. Charles V had been placed on trial for treason for usurping the power entrusted to him to pursue his own personal interest rather than that of the realm. This was an exaggeration but the court that had been assembled had no interest in hearing Charles V's case. The King had been sentenced to death and executed, decapitated by the now infamous Gibbet.
This had coloured his view of the world somewhat. While he remembered his father as a good man, he had to admit he had been very young when they had fled. He had had no idea of what was happening in the wider country. If it had truly been as bad as he had been told, perhaps the actions of his father's killers could be understood, even if not justified. Returning home at the end of the war, he sought to learn more of what had happened during, and after the Revolution which had overthrown the Stuart monarchy.
The Revolution that killed the King soon turned upon it's own children, spiralling down into the chaos of murderous paranoia, before it too was overthrown by those who had grown tired of tyranny being replaced by another. The new rulers of Britain were of a different class than those who who had ruled the country since time immemorial, or even those who had struck down the King, his court and the Counts. They established the Commonwealth and began to tear down the trappings of Stuart power, both Crown and Church. This regime was no less ruthless than the one it had displaced, but it did at least prove capable of enforcing order. As Charles had learned this, he had lost any hope of returning home. The people of Britain had learned to get on without a King. He devoted himself to his military career, fighting for France in Spain, Italy and against the Barbary pirates. He earned laurels for himself, in his own right, rather than as the claimant to the lost throne of Britain.
Then two years ago, there were rumblings from his half-forgotten homeland. The government had finally acquiesced to elections that weren't moderated by the leather-jerkin clad miscreants they called an army. The results had not been to the government's liking and the Commonwealth had begun to tear apart at the seems. The 'Electorate', desperate for figurehead to rally around, had extended feelers to the much neglected exile court in France. One thing had led to another and here he was crossing the Channel to a country he scarcely remembered, to take a throne he had given up ever reclaiming.
The mist that still clung to the sea was being boiled away by the morning sun and he could now clearly see the coastline of the nation he had been born to rule. He could see the neat stone towers that stood prominently at regular intervals, relics of Henry VIII's paranoia of invasion, refurbished by the military government which shared the old king's suspicions. The nearest was so close, he could see the flag of the Commonwealth of Britain, fluttering proudly in the wind. The green-and-red twocolour, a gleaming white star placed in the middle. Charles looked from it and up to the worn old flag that flew from his own ship's mast, a mash of the old English and Scottish flags, now bleached with age. He had spent so long fighting under the Golden Lilies that the 'Union Jack' looked strange and alien to him now. There was nothing particularly offensive about the flag that flew from the tower. But that would be a matter for another day.
The town of Plymouth emerged from the thinning mist, and the ship began it's approach into port. Charles tore himself away from his position, his stomach churning with nerves. He felt sicker than he had ever been on any voyage. He started to pace, trying to think over what he would say. He'd rallied scores of men over years he'd waged wars, but he couldn't think of anything to say to people expecting a King rather than a commander. In barely any time, the ship had come to a stand still next to a wooden jetty. Charles gingerly stepped down the rickety gangplank and met with a jolly, roundish gentleman who grasped his hand and pumped his arm excitedly.
'Hail Province, Your Majesty, it is a good day!' cried the man, his beard shaking. Charles smiled awkwardly, painfully aware of how unfamiliar he now was with the accents of his birth country.
'Well met, sir.' he replied, only now realising quite how French he sounded to an Englishman's ears. 'Providence has indeed smiled upon us.' There was a pregnant pause, then the Englishman beamed and Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him. The destruction of the Church of England in the fire of Revolution had led to the foundation of the Cult of Providence, something of which Charles was only dimly aware. He had taken Catholic vows when he joined the French officer corps, but he had never counted himself as a religious man. He was well aware of how fragile his position would be in the new Britain, it would pay for him to acknowledge some revolutionary innovations as positive.
He followed the man, who introduced himself as Harry Bidlake, along the jetty to solid ground, where a platform had been built and a crowd had assembled. Bidlake led him onto the platform, then addressed the crowd.
'We are assembled here today to greet back to our shores the scion of the once proud dynasty that reigned in this nation before the Revolution. He comes here not as a conqueror, but as a mediator who will heal the wounds which have riven this nation for too long. The conflict between Electorate and the Marshals is because the Commonwealth remains unbalanced, the restoration of Charles VI will surely restore the ancient English constitution. Providence save the King!' he cried. Charles winced. It sounded very strange to his ears and he was under no illusion that the crowd was composed only of supports of the restoration. He stepped up after Bidlake's words received a lacklustre applause, his heart pounding in his chest.
'I am not here to restore the way of the Old Order. I am here to restore the glory of my country after it has been consumed by faction and disorder. I will take the throne but I will not take away the Commonwealth. I will respect the liberties built in Britain since I left, I will maintain the prominence of the Provident faith in the public life of the nation. The rebalancing of the constitution I seek will not mean the destruction of either the Electorate or the Marshals, but the reunion of all Britons in one Commonwealth. May Providence preserve the Commonwealth, from now until the end of all things!' His words began quietly but reached a crescendo by the end. The words sounded stilted to his ears, and he feared that he would have to get back on the boat and beat a hasty retreat back to France. But after a moment of silence, applause and then cheers rushed through the crowds, finally forming itself into a rhythmic chant.
'Providence preserve the Commonwealth, and Providence save the King!'
He had made a very similar journey in the opposite direction nearly twenty years ago. He had only been a little boy then, he did not know why he had been hurried out of the palace in the early hours and hustled with no explanation to a carriage which had taken them to a nondescript port and parcelled across the sea like any other cargo. It had not been until several months later, when they were comfortably settled in exile, that the situation had been explained to him, and even then it was an abridged and distorted version intended for an impressionable child's ears. He had learned more of what had happened on his own, piecing together the puzzle of why his flight had been necessary, and why he was now to return.
The version of the story he had been given was intended to protect him from reality. He had been told that bad men had taken his father captive, had told the most monstrous lives about him, and that he had been murdered. He remembered how he had cried until his eyes could not bring up any more tears, how he had refused to eat until that awful French governess had taken him in hand. After that, he had been filled with a righteous, burning hatred that sat in his stomach like hot lead. As soon as he was old enough, he had enlisted in the French army. Everyone in his 'court' had begged him not to go, especially his mother. But his mind was made up. If anyone would be able to exact the revenge he desired, it would be the French.
He soon found that the interests of the Bourbons did not necessarily coincide with his own quest for vengeance. But breaking away the cloistered mansion, where he had been surrounded by grieving relatives and sycophant fellow exiles, was possibly the best decision he could have made. As a crowned head, even one without a kingdom, he had easily obtained an officer's commission and the years of fighting in the quagmire of the Germanies under the Golden Lilies had brought him into contact with individuals who told him stories that elaborated upon or contradicted the course of events that had been presented to him.
Charles V may have been a good father, but he had not been a good king, he was told. While the royal family and the court wallowed in wealth, the rest of the country was ground down into poverty, stagnation and squalor. The King's weakness had bred contempt among the nobles, who ignored his missives and behaved ever more like kings in their own demesne. The only conflict those in power cared about was that of the Court against the Counts. Nobody paid attention to the merchants, the peasants or the mechanical classes whose resentment had sweltered for too long. The country reached a tipping point and then carried on, falling over the edge into the abyss of rebellion. The King and much of his court had been arrested by militias, while the young Prince Charles himself had been spirited away to safety just in time. Charles V had been placed on trial for treason for usurping the power entrusted to him to pursue his own personal interest rather than that of the realm. This was an exaggeration but the court that had been assembled had no interest in hearing Charles V's case. The King had been sentenced to death and executed, decapitated by the now infamous Gibbet.
This had coloured his view of the world somewhat. While he remembered his father as a good man, he had to admit he had been very young when they had fled. He had had no idea of what was happening in the wider country. If it had truly been as bad as he had been told, perhaps the actions of his father's killers could be understood, even if not justified. Returning home at the end of the war, he sought to learn more of what had happened during, and after the Revolution which had overthrown the Stuart monarchy.
The Revolution that killed the King soon turned upon it's own children, spiralling down into the chaos of murderous paranoia, before it too was overthrown by those who had grown tired of tyranny being replaced by another. The new rulers of Britain were of a different class than those who who had ruled the country since time immemorial, or even those who had struck down the King, his court and the Counts. They established the Commonwealth and began to tear down the trappings of Stuart power, both Crown and Church. This regime was no less ruthless than the one it had displaced, but it did at least prove capable of enforcing order. As Charles had learned this, he had lost any hope of returning home. The people of Britain had learned to get on without a King. He devoted himself to his military career, fighting for France in Spain, Italy and against the Barbary pirates. He earned laurels for himself, in his own right, rather than as the claimant to the lost throne of Britain.
Then two years ago, there were rumblings from his half-forgotten homeland. The government had finally acquiesced to elections that weren't moderated by the leather-jerkin clad miscreants they called an army. The results had not been to the government's liking and the Commonwealth had begun to tear apart at the seems. The 'Electorate', desperate for figurehead to rally around, had extended feelers to the much neglected exile court in France. One thing had led to another and here he was crossing the Channel to a country he scarcely remembered, to take a throne he had given up ever reclaiming.
The mist that still clung to the sea was being boiled away by the morning sun and he could now clearly see the coastline of the nation he had been born to rule. He could see the neat stone towers that stood prominently at regular intervals, relics of Henry VIII's paranoia of invasion, refurbished by the military government which shared the old king's suspicions. The nearest was so close, he could see the flag of the Commonwealth of Britain, fluttering proudly in the wind. The green-and-red twocolour, a gleaming white star placed in the middle. Charles looked from it and up to the worn old flag that flew from his own ship's mast, a mash of the old English and Scottish flags, now bleached with age. He had spent so long fighting under the Golden Lilies that the 'Union Jack' looked strange and alien to him now. There was nothing particularly offensive about the flag that flew from the tower. But that would be a matter for another day.
The town of Plymouth emerged from the thinning mist, and the ship began it's approach into port. Charles tore himself away from his position, his stomach churning with nerves. He felt sicker than he had ever been on any voyage. He started to pace, trying to think over what he would say. He'd rallied scores of men over years he'd waged wars, but he couldn't think of anything to say to people expecting a King rather than a commander. In barely any time, the ship had come to a stand still next to a wooden jetty. Charles gingerly stepped down the rickety gangplank and met with a jolly, roundish gentleman who grasped his hand and pumped his arm excitedly.
'Hail Province, Your Majesty, it is a good day!' cried the man, his beard shaking. Charles smiled awkwardly, painfully aware of how unfamiliar he now was with the accents of his birth country.
'Well met, sir.' he replied, only now realising quite how French he sounded to an Englishman's ears. 'Providence has indeed smiled upon us.' There was a pregnant pause, then the Englishman beamed and Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him. The destruction of the Church of England in the fire of Revolution had led to the foundation of the Cult of Providence, something of which Charles was only dimly aware. He had taken Catholic vows when he joined the French officer corps, but he had never counted himself as a religious man. He was well aware of how fragile his position would be in the new Britain, it would pay for him to acknowledge some revolutionary innovations as positive.
He followed the man, who introduced himself as Harry Bidlake, along the jetty to solid ground, where a platform had been built and a crowd had assembled. Bidlake led him onto the platform, then addressed the crowd.
'We are assembled here today to greet back to our shores the scion of the once proud dynasty that reigned in this nation before the Revolution. He comes here not as a conqueror, but as a mediator who will heal the wounds which have riven this nation for too long. The conflict between Electorate and the Marshals is because the Commonwealth remains unbalanced, the restoration of Charles VI will surely restore the ancient English constitution. Providence save the King!' he cried. Charles winced. It sounded very strange to his ears and he was under no illusion that the crowd was composed only of supports of the restoration. He stepped up after Bidlake's words received a lacklustre applause, his heart pounding in his chest.
'I am not here to restore the way of the Old Order. I am here to restore the glory of my country after it has been consumed by faction and disorder. I will take the throne but I will not take away the Commonwealth. I will respect the liberties built in Britain since I left, I will maintain the prominence of the Provident faith in the public life of the nation. The rebalancing of the constitution I seek will not mean the destruction of either the Electorate or the Marshals, but the reunion of all Britons in one Commonwealth. May Providence preserve the Commonwealth, from now until the end of all things!' His words began quietly but reached a crescendo by the end. The words sounded stilted to his ears, and he feared that he would have to get back on the boat and beat a hasty retreat back to France. But after a moment of silence, applause and then cheers rushed through the crowds, finally forming itself into a rhythmic chant.
'Providence preserve the Commonwealth, and Providence save the King!'
Last edited:
