August 1466. Windsor, England.
“Well done, my lord!” said Tom, his horse-riding teacher in the early afternoon.
Harri Tudor beamed with the praise, holding the reins of his horse Midnight steadily in his hands. He had lessons with a teacher in Pembroke, as Lord Fiennes had given him a pony when he took over his guardianship and was very adept at training. If he had to be honest, Harri would say that he wanted to be a great knight, who would take care of the maidens and ride into battle with the king. And a great knight had to be a great horseman as well.
And so he begged to bring Daisy to London. Cried and begged, pleaded with the Baroness, but she refused. Daisy belonged in Wales, with the Fienneses, though he missed her well.
He supposed he should be thankful then that his stepfather gave him a new rouncey for his ninth birthday after he arrived in London. Midnight was taller than him and strong, with dark brown fur, almost black. Harri liked to brush his coat and hair, spending almost his entire free time in the stables with him, feeding him and helping the stable boys clean his space. He would talk to Midnight as well and he could swear the horse understood him, neighing and grunting in response. Harri had thanked Sir Henry eagerly for his great gift and the man had ruffled his hair, laughing.
Harri liked his stepfather. He was nice and he made his mother laugh. When he still lived in Pembroke, Sir Henry and his mother visited him every year and the knight brought him great gifts, like books and toys. When Harri was very little, he once wished Sir Henry was his father, so he could live with them, but the old earl grew angry when he voiced said desire and said his true father was in Heaven.
But that didn’t matter. Richard said Midnight could not hold a candle to the king’s destriers and his own horses, Alexander the Great but Harri thought Midnight was the most perfect horse there ever was. He rode him every single day, to keep him fit and active. Francis Lovell said that Harri was a centaur, like the heathen greeks’ old tale, but he was only upset because his own horse had died and he had to wait for his father to return to London before he could get another one.
“Well done, my lord,” said Tom again, when Harri tapped Midnight’s sides with his feet and he trotted around the man, “Soon enough, you will be the master and I shall retire.” Harri laughed, though he really didn’t understand what Tom said.
“May I leave the confines of the castle?” asked Harri. Tom had been hired by his mother to teach him how to ride, though he rarely did allow him to leave the private terrain of Windsor. Harri thought it was because of his mother, as Lady Richmond was too overprotective of him, her only son. Richard once asked him if he was still a suckling babe when his mother prevented him from going out to ride with him and Francis, and that had made his cheeks burn in humiliation, “I think Midnight is bored with the gardens.”
“Is it Midnight who is bored or is it you, my lord?” asked Tom. He laughed, but shook his head, stepping forward when Harri stopped to stroke Midnight’s face, “Perhaps tomorrow, my lord. I must speak with your lady mother first.”
“I am the Earl of Richmond,” Harri said, angry, “My mother does not get to decide everything in my life.”
“Who doesn’t get to decide everything?” someone said behind him and Harri turned, wanting to see who was coming close to them.
It was the King. He was on his own horse, a brown and white jennet. The Duke of Clarence was next to him, looking sullen and angry, as he always did. Harri bent his head forward in deference and Tom made a bow, removing his fat before the King.
“It is Lord Tudor, Sire,” said Tom, smiling wistfully, “He wishes to ride outside of the castle, yet his mother told me not to allow him such without asking her first.”
“Is Lord Tudor a babe?” asked King Edward, a hand on his waist, “Hidden behind his mother’s skirts?” The Duke of Clarence laughed.
Harri thought he looked like a fool, the Duke. George Plantagenet seemed like a poor copy of his brother, Francis Lovell told him once. It’s what everyone said. Not as handsome as King Edward, not as strong or as charismatic. Richard said he didn’t like that. He always came up short near his kingly brother and was offended by that, especially by the King’s orders that he could not consummate his own marriage until the Duchess was over the age of sixteen.
George wanted a son. Richard said that he was offended in being ordered about his brother as if he was still a child in need of guidance. To George, the King had everything. The crown, a son, a caring wife and the people’s love. All George had was his title and his wife, though the latter was not yet truly set in stone, and his position at court depended on pleasing his older brother.
His mother said he couldn’t stay close to George. She didn’t mind his friendship with Richard and Francis but said George was someone he should not tread with. Harri didn’t ask why. He only obeyed.
Harri tightened his fingers around the reins of his force, straining his hand so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I’m not a babe, Your Grace,” he said, his cheeks burning in humiliation.
King Edward smiled. “Of course not, my lord,” he answered, “You’re a knight in making. I can see it clearly.” He waved at him, beckoning him closer, “Come, Lord Tudor. Join me and my brother on our ride.”
“Your Grace,” protested Tom, “The Lady Richmond…”
“Lady Richmond will be pleased to know that her boy will remain safe with me,” interrupted Edward, “Henry is my own ward. I shall not let harm come to him. You may tell Lady Richmond that, my good man.”
Tom made a move as if to protestant, but one look from the King silenced him. He stepped back and nodded. “Of course, Sire,” he said.
Harri shifted over Midnight and gulped as King Edward and the duke urged their horses forward. He tapped his feet on Midnight's sides and the horse trotted, falling behind them. They rode in silence, leaving the large plains inside Windsor and leading themselves to the heavy gates that separated the castle from the people outside.
It was what he wanted and yet, his heart raced inside of his chest, fearful. He remembered that there were woods all around him, woods with wolves and bears. Dread ran through his veins like blood, cold and sticky. Harri tightened his hands on his reins.
"Such a lovely day, eh, George?" said the King, laughing. He sat on his saddle completely relaxed, a hand on his thigh, "What about you, Henry? What do you think of the day?"
"It's a lovely day, Your Grace." Harri didn't know what to say, so he thought repeating what the King said was his best choice.
Edward laughed and George said, "Perhaps we should go out on a hunt. I have a hunger for boar."
"I know what you have a hunger for, George, but it is not for boar," joked King Edward. George hunched his shoulders forward, angry, "But it doesn't matter. The Queen is distressed at the idea of me hunting. She has a fear that one of these days, a boar will kill me. Ha! As if that would ever happen.”
“I suppose many would stop that from occurring, Your Grace,” said George, twisting his lips. He looked back at Harri and smirked, “Have you ever hunted, Henry?”
“It’s Harri.”
“I’m sorry?” George arched an eyebrow. Harri couldn’t determine whether he was mocking him or had genuinely failed to understand him.
“You must call me Harri,” he repeated, pouting, “It’s what everyone does.”
“Harri,” the King said. He slowed down his horse, allowing him to fall beside Harri, and smiled, “I like it. So rough and quaint. Nothing like the name of the old usurper. Harri. I suppose that is your name in your country?”
He was talking about Wales. “Yes, Sire,” said Harri, “Henry in Welsh is Harri.” Or so Matilda told him. His nurse spoke Welsh as a second language, having been born in a family that was both English and Welsh. She knew everything there was to know about Wales and his ancestors. Everything.
“Very well.” He lifted up his hand and moved about in front of Harri, almost touching both his shoulder, “I dub thee… Harri Tudor!” He laughed and even Harri snickered, Midnight neighing under him.
Duke George, though, said, “Is that why Richard said you are learning how to speak Welsh? With that savage tutor, Lady Richmond found.”
“Learning to speak Welsh?” King Edward frowned, “Why would you want to learn how to speak Welsh?”
Harri puffed up his chest. “It’s the language of my people, Sire,” he said, proud of his request.
“Well,” said Edward. He sat up on his saddle, straightening his back, “I suppose there is a movement now within the younger generation to learn the language of the people. Annie Holland has requested a Welsh tutor as well.”
Harri felt his cheeks burning. She did?, he wanted to ask. Somehow, he knew Annie had asked that because of him, because of the conversation they had shared in May. It’s funny because that was exactly the reason he had requested a Welsh tutor too.
George noticed his reaction and frowned, angry. “One of the most important heiresses in the land learning to speak the language of the sheep fuckers.”
“George!” admonished King Edward, “The Welsh are my people too. And in a few months, I will send my son to rule them. Perhaps, learning how to speak their language is an advantage.” He looked at Harri, “Oh, if only you were older. Had you been fifteen, or sixteen, I could send you with the Duke of Cornwall to Ludlow when he turns two. Perhaps you could translate the words of the troubled commoners to him.”
Harri blushed again. “Thank you, Sire.” Then, because he felt it important, he added, “I’m sorry I’m only nine.”
The King laughed.
“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control, Harri,” he said, “Apologize only for what you did. Even then, only if you regret it wholeheartedly. To apologize without meaning to is a great sin, Harri.”
He nodded. “I understand, Sire.”
