Uneasy Lies The Head

By S. P. Hendrick

In the near future, Britain has given up its constitutional monarchy to become a republic. But though the crown is a museum piece and the family no longer bears its ancient titles, Stephen Windsor feels the stirrings of the lives of ancient Sacred Kings in his bones, which is not surprising as at key points in Britain’s history he has been reincarnated to perform the supreme kingly act.

And though the throne is empty and forgotten, the Land remembers, and calls once more for a crown upon a royal head... and royal blood upon the ground!

"History, mystery, steam, steel and blood - this one really does have it all!"
Mark Ryan ("Transformers", "Robin of Sherwood", "King Arthur")

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pendraig Publishing
• Release date: Jan 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936922109

Book preview

Volume I of the Glastonbury Chronicles:

Uneasy Lies The Head

by SP Hendrick

First Edition Copyright 2010

SmashWords Edition 2012

By Pendraig Publishing

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except brief quotation in a review.

Cover Design & Interior Images, Typeset & Layout: By Jo-Ann Byers-Mierzwicki

Sword, Crown & Shield Line Art: Jay Mayer

Crown Colour: Jim Davis

Pendraig Publishing

Los Angeles, CA 91040

www.PendraigPublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-936922-10-9

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

More Great Books by S.P. Hendrick

Other Fiction Novels from Pendraig Publishing

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dedication

To all those who made this possible,

especially Phil,

whose eyes are exactly the right shade of blue…

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chapter One

I can’t recall the exact day of it, or the way of it, but the colours of the moment still play before my eyes. The walls were grey stone, ranging from the shade of a dove’s wing to the colour of coal ash. The skies were billowing black and pewter, the colours of encroaching winter. The smoke coming from the grey stone chimney of the grey stone house was as grey as the cloud to which it reached, as grey as the chill which sucked at my thighbones, as grey as the background colour of the tartan kilt I wore.

Some will argue that grey is not a proper colour, yet at that moment on that day it was the only proper thing in my life. If I could redesign the family arms they would be: on a field of grey, a fog proper, for all the reds and golds of the family banner blaze too brightly in their blazon for my limbo-clouded eyes. Two-thousand years of pageant and history had schemed and plotted and manipulated blood lines and chromosomes and I was the punch line to the joke which had ceased being told two generations before me.

At least I was alive, standing before my home and entertaining the notion of noblessely obliging the salmon in the River Dee by letting enough of them get past my hook to keep the species alive through the eternal cycle of spawn and die.

Was that all there was to it anyway? Spawn and die? Beat your head against the rocks as you fight your way upstream to the proper gene pool and create an heir to the nothingness you are, then batter yourself to death and expire, having accomplished nothing? Far better to be the fish caught and eaten, for they at least served a purpose. Which of the two was the Great Salmon of Wisdom who ate the hazelnuts?

I lied. I remember the day of it and the way of it exactly. It was the thirty-first day of October, 2065, the twenty-fifth anniversary of my father’s death.

Spawn and die. Spawn and die.

I’d never known my father.

I’ve been told the shock of the news of his death had sent my mother into premature labour. I was born seven hours later.

The Prince is dead; long live the Prince.

There never had been a Richard IV on the throne of England, for besides his untimely death the throne itself had become but another exhibit at the Buckingham Palace Museum. Grandfather William was the first Prince of Wales to become a civilian since Cromwell, and I was just plain Stephen Windsor as far as I was concerned, and there I was, back at the place of my birth, celebrating twenty-five wasted years and alternately blessing and cursing the memory of my father or the lack of it with each toast of Bushmills which slipped down my gullet.

If I’d stayed sober enough I might have gone to see Grandfather William. The years had piled one misfortune after another upon him, and I was certain he had marked today more as the anniversary of his son’s death than his grandson’s birth. It must be hell to be brought up to be a king and then to find yourself unemployed. At least they had left him Balmoral and the use of Windsor Castle for the rest of his life, and he spent most of it at Balmoral. It was only a relatively short distance from Stonehurst, my birthplace, to Balmoral, and if I’d stayed sober enough and if the storm hadn’t been in the air I might have made it...

There were only three fingers of liquid amber left in the bottle when the lightning began, and the ferocity of the storm took me by surprise almost as much as the rider who came with it. Hoofbeats sound pretty much like raindrops if thunder is still ringing in your ears and the north wind has begun to whistle through your hair. That is to say I saw the horse there before my other senses had been given the proper chance to respond. Even in the crashing darkness of the storm that horse was dazzling white, although by custom I should call it a grey, and the rider’s long hair was still red, though soaked throughout as was the rest of her.

Get off the horse! I shouted. The lightning is coming this way!

Even with my hands cupped and at full shout I wasn’t certain she had heard me in the drowning thunderclap until she turned my way and dismounted, running with the horse in my direction. The bolt hit fifteen meters to her left with enough force to split the young oak tree in two and enough volume and light to temporarily blind and deafen us both.

As well as I could figure it, the horse bolted, kicked out at the young woman and took off for unknown places. I ran toward the crumpled form which lay limp and unmoving beneath the torrential rain, and picked her gently from the puddle which was filling in around her. She was unconscious, yet there was no sign of blood on her face or head. I carried her carefully, so no neck or back injury might be aggravated, surprised at how light she was, and somehow managed to pull the oak door to Stonehurst open with my foot without losing either my balance or the bundle in my arms.

I laid her down upon the burgundy leather davenport which faced the fireplace in the drawing room and felt for the pulse in her long pale neck. It was there, slow but strong, so I heaped more wood upon the fire and went for some blankets and towels. When I returned from the linen cupboard her position remained unchanged. Her riding habit was leather, now darkened by its soaking, but by the dye which had transferred to her white blouse it had probably been a shade of green most spectacular when contrasted with the red of her hair. Her mouth was small and well arched, and freckles were strewn across her face like pebbles across the white beach sand.

A slim silver chain encircled her neck; its pendant lay beneath the lace ruffle of her blouse. A locket, perhaps? Perhaps some form of identification? Gently I tugged on the chain to satisfy curiosity. What appeared at first to be the top of a heavy silver cross peeked out at me, antique from the first gaze. Still curious I kept up the slow and steady tension on the chain. The rest appeared, although it gave me even more to ponder. The body of it was too long to be a cross, and it was pointed at the bottom. A sword. A silver sword, and at the junction of the hilt and blade an heraldic rose, slipped and petalled, very old silver indeed. Old enough to be grey.

What had I done with the bottle of Bushmills? It must have fallen from my hand at the lightning strike. No matter. There was another one in the bar just on the other side of the room. I loved Scotland, but I hated its whiskey. Irish whiskey was the real reason we had held on to the Emerald Isle for as long as we had. At least that’s what my Grandfather William had told me.

I opened the bottle and poured out two glasses, just in case she should stir. It would warm her.

Damn it was cold! I downed one glass and refilled it, setting both glasses and the bottle on the small mahogany table near the davenport. Thunder again. I must have missed the flash of light, for the fire had flared at almost the same time. I turned to fuss with the logs, wondering who it was with that pretty face who lay unconscious on my davenport. Should I call for medical aid? How? In my quest for solitude I had kept this place as close to its early twentieth century amenities as I could…no satellite feed, only landlines. If the lines were still working, which was doubtful, no one would venture out so far on the moor so late in the afternoon with a storm of that magnitude.

What colour were her eyes? By all the redheads I had seen, family and not, the odds were that they were brown. They could be blue, they could even be green, but they were probably brown. I didn’t know the actual statistics, so I made them up. Three out of five redheads had brown eyes. I made a mental note to look it up sometime.

Well, this birthday had been at least different than the one before. I was a little more sober than I had been at this point the previous year, and I was not alone.

Bloody hell! What colour were her eyes? I hadn’t seen; she had been too far away and the afternoon sky had been too filled with storm to see.

I leaned over her and brushed her lips with mine.

She stirred. She sighed. Her lashes fluttered and the lids parted.

The fairy tale strategy had worked.

And like all else in my life, her eyes were grey.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chapter Two

It seemed a moment before those eyes focused. A slight wince passed over her face and a small pale hand slowly rose to rub the knot on her head.

Don’t try to move just yet. You’ve had an accident. Your horse bolted at the lightning strike, kicked you in the head and ran off. I brought you in out of the rain.

Where...

You’re at Stonehurst, my home. Sorry the staff aren’t on duty today, but I could scare you up some tea if you’d like, or I have something a bit stronger if that’s your preference.

Cold.

Then perhaps we should start with whiskey and I’ll fix tea after that’s had a chance to work.

She made an effort to sit up. The sudden intake of breath made me realise it was more painful for her than just a bump on the head and I put my arm around her gently to help. She was colder than I had expected. No wonder she shivered.

Maybe we should get you closer to the fire. Does it feel like anything is broken?

No. No. I’ll be all right. I seem to have hurt my shoulder as well as my head, but thank you. Uisquebagh sounds like a lovely idea, as does the fire.

I helped her to the hearth and handed her the glass which she downed in a single gulp. She turned and smiled.

Not a very ladylike performance, I must admit, but medicinally effective. I feel warmer already. Thank you again. By the way, whom do I thank?

My great grandsire would have loved the anonymity. Being a private citizen had its advantages, the least of which was being able to remain private.

Stephen Windsor, I smiled, hoping the name would be almost as unnoticeable as the face. I’d ceased to be a news item after my mother took a second husband and whisked us off to Nordamerica for a few years. My sister Stacy remembers the reporters, but I was too young.

Your Highness!, she whispered in awe.

No, no. Just Stephen. Highnessing is an outmoded profession these days. Just plain Stephen Windsor, and whom did I have the honour of rescuing?

A quizzical look passed over her face, then a blankness, then a sudden panic.

I don’t know. I can’t remember anything before I woke up here on your davenport.

But you know who I am.

Of course. Who doesn’t?

Most of the world, my dear. Why would you know who I am?

I don’t know. It seems right that I should know.

And yet neither of us knows who you are.

No.

As strange as it was, I could sense she was telling the absolute truth. Memory was a delicate chain which could be broken, leaving large sections intact, yet missing several links.

Would you care for another glass?

Please.

I was reminded of Oliver Twist as she held the Waterford crystal up for a refill, for she looked very waif-like in the firelight, wet, bedraggled, and very lost indeed. Oliver Twist hadn’t really known who he was either, as I recalled the tale. I’d always loved the Classics.

The crystal facets caught the firelight and played with it, dancing in prismatic patterns across her face until the golden liquid impaired their refraction.

I promise I’ll take it a little more slowly this time.

I poured myself another and joined her hearthside. Perhaps I should consider the Classics a little further. Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had elevated the art of perceptual logic far beyond its contemporary real-life counterparts and by example had pushed the science of detection into a new era. What would he have been able to accomplish with genetic scans and electron microscopes? What would he have noted here to solve this mystery with the faculties and facilities I had?

Red hair and grey eyes: an unusual yet probably quite normal Celtic variation. And she had used the word Usquebagh for whiskey. Not, I supposed, entirely unusual since we were in Scotland. However, her accent was not Scottish, nor was it Irish. It was English, pure and simple, and of that highly educated pronunciation that one used to call aristocratic before it became déclassé’ to speak of class. Oxford? Perhaps. At least schooled in the speech styles of the historic BBC announcers. Oxbridge, I think they used to call it.

What do you remember?

A vicious headache and you leaning over me. You said something about a horse.

Yes. It glowed like silver against the clouds, but that was just a quirk of the fading sunlight.

I don’t remember a horse. I’m not even sure I know how to ride.

You’re wearing a riding habit.

‘That doesn’t mean I’m in the habit of riding.

Ah! I smiled. "You are feeling better.’

No, it’s the whiskey. I always get like this when I drink.

We both looked up at each other in awkward silence. She laughed and turned her head away.

Now I wonder where that came from.

So did I, but decided not to pursue the matter right then. After all, she had taken a nasty spill and a clunk on the head, and for all the work of the fire, blankets, towels and whiskey she looked like a half-drowned vixen, and drowning vixens was not my style. There’s no thrill to that kind of a hunt.

I tell you what. We’re both soaked, and from the look of it the dye has run from that leather you’re wearing, so your skin is by now a very fetching green. There are eight baths in this old place, and I’m certain I can find you something dry to wear, although I cannot promise you a good and stylish fit. Why don’t I draw you a bath in the nearest tub and let that warm you up like toast while I put on the kettle and go upstairs to change my own clothes? I’m sorry Mrs Stewart is on holiday, as she is much better at tea than I am, but I did manage while I was away at school, and I can guarantee you’ll feel better than you do now. How does that sound?

She finished off the glass before she answered.

I would be honoured.

I helped her to her feet, noticing the colour had once more returned to her face and lips, and she seemed much more steady as she rose. Still, I didn’t want to press her too fast in case her injuries were more extensive than initial perusal had indicated.

Another clash of thunder reminded us the storm was still assaulting my little piece of the world as we walked down the wood-panelled hallway toward the back of Stonehurst. Mrs Stewart’s quarters were the nearest, and I was certain she wouldn’t mind the intrusion. Besides, she had a nice store of bath oils which I had brought back from Paris, and I was sure my mystery guest would appreciate the touch.

I opened the great mahogany armoire to find Mrs Stewart’s clothing neatly organised by colour and found one likely piece - an olive green velour robe, warm looking, with a tag at the neck which bore the legend One Size. When I turned around the water was already running and the door to the bathroom closed.

You’ll find bath oil on the counter if you care to use it.

And towels in the cupboard to the left, came the reply. Thank you. I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Get into something dry yourself, Your Highness.

Stephen, please. Just Stephen.

All right, Stephen, but it goes against my grain.

I guess a good soaking does raise one’s grain, doesn’t it.

Touché

Anyway, I’ll put the kettle on first.

Lovely.

I’d always loved that old gas stove. I never did learn to cook on those modern things, and I’d especially resented the notion of an electric kettle. It somehow seemed an intrusion of science on civilisation. I tossed out the old water, poured in some new, swirled it around in the pewter kettle and poured it out, refilling it again before setting it on the stove. A push of a button and the flame lit.

I climbed the Great Stairs, as my mother had been wont to call them, up to my room feeling waterlogged for the first time. My kilt, once precisely pleated and predominantly grey now hung pleatless, irregularly stretched from the weight of the water it had absorbed and appeared nearly black with red, white and yellow stripes playing through its misshapen form. At least it didn’t smell like a wet sheep. The Aran sweater had also become a drunken sponge. I removed the waterlogged fur sporran and belt, left them in the sink and deposited both kilt and sweater neatly into the laundry chute, noticing for the first time that I was, despite the whiskey, cold myself. My skin had become white and shrivelled from prolonged exposure to water, and for the most part I resembled nothing more than an albino prune. My shoes and stockings were disgusting. The stockings, sans sgian dubh and flashers, took the same route as the rest of my clothes and the shoes I left outside my bedchamber door.

I laid out a pair of black corduroy trousers and a black turtleneck sweater, various undergarments and my fleece lined slippers and headed for the shower stall, my one instance of contrived anachronism in this old estate, one to which I had become addicted in my years at school. The hot water fell on me in counterpoint to the cold rain outside and brought a tingling sensation to the numbness I had not even noticed before. I sank into the warmth