PREVIOUSLY.
[Chewa swept his gaze over us professionally, evaluating the newly arrived group. But then, his eyes locked onto my face. The eye patch and peasant clothing were not enough to deceive a man who had forged his loyalty in the very roots of our empire.
Chewa's posture grew taut as a bowstring. I saw his breath catch, his jaw slacken, and a flash of sheer dread and reverence flood his expression as he recognized, without a margin of error, the leader of the realm standing at his doorstep.
His lips began to part to pronounce my rightful titles. In a fraction of a second, before the sound could be born in his throat, I raised my hand and pressed my index finger to my lips, meeting his gaze with a relentless warning.
Chewa snapped his mouth shut, swallowing his words dryly in the frigid London silence.]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month (November 1495).
London, Kingdom of England.
Suaza Embassy.
"I am Sansua, liaison officer sent by the Stone Manor," I declared, shattering the tense silence with a deliberately subordinate yet firm voice. "I lead the greeting and welfare party assigned by the crown for Princess Margaret's reception."
Chewa swallowed hard, absorbing the impact of my hidden authority in those simple words. With a mental swiftness worthy of the finest men in the realm, he readjusted his features, burying any trace of shock beneath a perfect, unflappable mask of professional coldness.
"Understood, Officer Sansua," Chewa replied in flawless English, turning slightly to keep up appearances before the English and Suaza guards. "Welcome to the embassy. Before proceeding with the registry, do you master the tongue of this isle?"
"Both she and I," I said, gesturing with a slight nod toward Umza, purposely omitting her name to maintain our façade, "shall handle the direct translation for the retinue. The other two young women present here will exclusively oversee the princess's companionship and personal care."
Chewa gave a nod of impeccable protocolary stiffness.
"Acceptable. Please, come in."
He guided us into the building, ordering the guards to remain at the threshold to inform their embassy peers of the situation and the strict orders we had brought from the ship.
Upon crossing the heavy oak door, the air changed drastically. The suffocating stench of soot and mire from the London streets was buried, replaced by the scent of beeswax and polished wood. My betrothed and I looked around with evident curiosity. The building was immaculate, an oasis of order amidst the European chaos.
The walls were adorned with Old World oil paintings and tapestries, but what truly coaxed a smile from me was discovering, interspersed along the halls of honor, several vibrant canvases painted by Nyia herself, who possessed a superior artistic talent.
Her strokes shone like familiar beacons amidst the gray sobriety of the English capital. Recognizing her own work, Nyia stifled a small gasp of surprise, her cheeks flushing pink as she squeezed my arm with silent pride.
The furniture decorating the halls was of a distinctly European style: heavy, dark, and excessively ornate; a strategic choice by Chewa to impress local visitors, as the furnishings in our kingdom tended to be far simpler, geometric, and functional.
Chewa led us upstairs to the second floor. We stopped before a set of double doors leading to his grand main office. With a stern gesture, he ordered his Anglo-Saxon assistants to wait outside, and once the four of us had entered, he closed the door and slid the heavy iron bolt into place.
The metallic clank of the latch sliding home was the signal we had all been waiting for. Chewa's rigid posture instantly crumbled. His eyes grew moist, and with a mixture of reverence and deep affection, he stepped forward and enveloped me in a brotherly embrace. I returned the gesture with equal strength, feeling the immense gratitude of seeing one of my most loyal men once more.
"Son of Heaven...!" Chewa murmured as we parted, looking me up and down with a radiant, earnest smile. "What immense joy it brings me to see you again after just over three years. You have grown so much; you have become much taller and stronger."
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. Despite my adult mind, the biology of my current thirteen years and the direct compliments still coaxed an involuntary blush from me.
"It was inevitable that I'd grow, Chewa, time spares no one," I replied with a sheepish smile, scratching the back of my neck. I paused and turned toward the three women waiting behind me. "Besides... I must bring you up to speed. Umza, Turey, and Nyia are now formally my wives."
Chewa blinked in surprise, but his astonishment soon gave way to an expression of immense respect. He already knew them from our time in Central City, but looking at them closely, he noticed how much they had grown and matured. He bowed to them with a formal yet intimate reverence.
"It is an absolute honor, Ladies of the Realm," he said, before a shadow of melancholy crossed his face as he looked back at me. "I beg your forgiveness, Chuta... It aches my soul not to have been able to attend your wedding, nor to have been present for all the birthdays I've missed while serving in these distant lands."
"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, Chewa," I cut him off at once, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You are here watching over the welfare and future of our kingdom, serving as a vital link. Furthermore, my wedding was a matter I decided and organized on a whim... Do not torture yourself over the past."
Chewa seemed to relax, releasing a sigh of relief he had held in for years. However, the concern of a Chamber of Commerce leader and diplomatic liaison soon peeked through his eyes.
"Even so, my Leader..." he asked, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing here, placing yourself at such great risk by crossing the ocean undercover?"
"My plans are to personally guide, evaluate, and escort little Margaret on her journey," I began to explain. "I will not leave the princess's transition to chance..."
Just as I was about to detail the logistics, a dry, loud, and exaggeratedly feigned cough cut my words short.
"Ahem!" Umza took a step forward.
Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and she pinned me with a feline stare, loaded with relentless urgency. No words were needed; I perfectly understood my wife of Pijao descent and her extroverted personality.
Her gaze clearly said: "Very touching reunion, but fix our damn ship-confinement problem right now."
I brought a hand to my forehead, realizing what she meant. The incident with the ship's guard and our status as 'prisoners' was still in effect.
"Chewa," I requested, turning toward his desk with a half-smile, "I need you to provide me with two sheets of paper, fresh ink, and sealing wax. Right now."
A few hours later.
London's frigid and damp air no longer felt quite so oppressive. The afternoon sun barely managed to pierce the dense layer of gray mist, but to the group walking through the iconic, labyrinthine cobblestone streets, the day was absolutely perfect.
My three wives and I were strolling through the heart of the English capital, escorted by a contingent of our own Suaza guards and a pair of English officers who cleared a path for us through the carts and the crowds.
The document I had drafted in Chewa's office had produced a lightning-fast effect.
I had handed him an official letter in my own handwriting ordering him to allow the princess's escort group to roam London freely until the day of her birthday. Chewa, demonstrating his tremendous managerial prowess, had processed the safe-conducts with the English court in the blink of an eye.
Umza walked by my side, vibrating with effervescent happiness. The frustration of confinement had evaporated; she was marveling at the noisy markets, the strange architecture, and the cultural clash. However, what she seemed to enjoy the most wasn't the city itself.
From time to time, Umza would turn her head back, singling out the specific Suaza guard who had stopped her on the gangway and kept us confined to the ship.
She would shoot him a glare brimming with such sweet, victorious malice that the poor soldier—completely ignorant that the translator was his sovereign—could only look down and adjust his spear uncomfortably, wondering what he had done to earn the eternal hatred of the diplomatic retinue.
Four days later
Days after our little conquest of the London streets, on November 19th, the scenery had changed drastically. We left behind the mud and the hubbub of the open-air markets to venture into the bowels of Tudor power: the Palace of Whitehall.
The air here was different. It smelled of melted beeswax, of oak wood burning in massive hearths, and of the heavy perfume of the court ladies.
We were stationed in the main corridor, mere meters away from the great oak doors that guarded the private chambers of Princess Margaret.
All around us, the entire palace was boiling in a frenzy of preparations. Servants carrying silver trays hurried past, while the echoes of lutes and the voices of the English nobility gathering for the birthday feast and the little girl's official farewell drifted from the great hall.
As we waited for the maids to finish dressing the child, my mind inevitably drifted to the day before.
Yesterday, following our final free stroll through the city, we were at last introduced into her chambers to present ourselves formally. I recall the tension in the air.
The English ladies-in-waiting and supervisors had surrounded us with glares that exuded a mixture of awe and distrust. To them, we were creatures from another world. But the true surprise had been ours upon seeing Margaret.
Accustomed to the faces of our Great Quyca—to the coppery skin tanned by the tropical sun and the thick, dark hair that adorned our people—the image of the princess had left us breathless. It was like gazing upon a porcelain doll.
Her skin was a slightly pale, almost translucent white, adorned by a constellation of small freckles splashing across her plump, still-childish cheeks. Her hair was a fiery red, meticulously styled into waves that cascaded down her back, and she wore jewels so subtle on her neck and ears that they only highlighted her fragility.
The girl's beauty and that radical contrast had captivated us instantly. Umza, forever a captive to her overflowing emotions, had stifled a squeal of tenderness. Her protective instincts had flared up to such a degree that she took a step forward, arms wide open, ready to embrace her and treat her like a little sister in need of comfort.
"Easy, translator," I had whispered, catching Umza's wrist just in time to stop her and maintain our cover. "She is a princess, not a ragdoll. Do not break protocol."
Today, Umza was anxiously toying with the hem of her cotton tunic, waiting to see her again. Turey studied the intricate hunting tapestries covering the stone walls, while Nyia remained glued to my arm, silent but attentive to every movement in the corridor.
"They are taking too long," Umza grumbled in a whisper in Pijao. "At this rate, the poor girl will be so tightly squeezed into those European dresses that she won't even be able to breathe."
"Patience," I replied, adjusting the patch over my left eye. "Today is the day her world bids her farewell. They must ensure she looks perfect for her father."
Right at that moment, the heavy bedroom doors swung wide open.
A small battalion of maids and ladies of honor emerged first, clearing the way, and finally, Margaret appeared. She wore a dark velvet gown embroidered with gold thread, so heavy it seemed to anchor her to the floor.
The day before, she had barely paid us any mind; her face had been hidden beneath a mask of profound, silent sorrow, the pure desolation of a child who knew she was about to be sent off to a remote place, with unknown people, never to return.
But today was different. As she crossed the threshold, Margaret looked up, and her large eyes locked directly onto me. Despite my humble garb and my leather eye patch, she seemed to find something in my posture that gave her pause.
I saw no fear in her gaze, but rather a silent plea for understanding. I held her stare and nodded with an almost imperceptible slowness, trying to convey to her, from within my servant's disguise, that she would be safe.
The head governess gave two sharp claps, and the procession began to move. The four of us fell in at the rear, walking in silence behind the princess and her retinue of ladies and guards.
The journey ended in the immense main hall of the palace. The light of dozens of candelabras bathed the room, reflecting off the ornamental armor and the jewels of the court. At the far end of the hall, surrounded by counselors and nobles laughing at his words, stood the architect of this destiny: King Henry VII.
It was the first time I had seen the man pulling the strings of England in person. His attire was scandalously ostentatious, draped in heavy silks, furs, and gold chains that screamed the power of the newly consolidated Tudor dynasty.
His skin seemed paler than usual in the candlelight, an almost waxy white, but his upright posture and calculated movements betrayed an iron constitution and a mind as sharp as a razor.
The monarch turned as he saw his daughter enter. He opened his arms, and his face adopted the perfect mask of a devoted father.
"Oh, my little pearl!" Henry exclaimed, stepping forward to take Margaret's hands and press a kiss to her forehead before the touched gaze of the entire court. "My heart breaks to see that my light will soon cross the ocean, but England shall never forget its princess's sacrifice."
The court erupted in murmurs of approval and sympathy. However, from my position in the rear, my uncovered eye scrutinized every micro-expression on the king's face.
The concern in his voice was masterfully rehearsed, but the small wrinkles around his eyes showed no sorrow. His pupils gleamed with the cold, calculating satisfaction of a merchant who has just sealed the deal of a lifetime.
He felt no sadness over losing his six-year-old daughter. He felt profoundly satisfied and relieved. To Henry VII, Margaret was not a frightened little girl beneath a heavy dress; she was the golden key that guaranteed him the ships, the weapons, and the gold of the greatest power in the New World.
I clenched my fists beneath the sleeves of my tunic, feeling a mixture of disgust and protective fury churning in my stomach. I observed the small, trembling back of the princess before the imposing figure of her father.
"Sell her and celebrate, you old fox," I thought coldly, making a silent vow as the court's chatter flooded the hall. "Because the moment she steps onto the deck of my ship, she will cease to be a pawn on your board, and she will learn what it means to be part of my family."
Upon finishing that silent promise, an uncomfortable revelation settled in my chest: I had grown genuinely fond of the princess.
Perhaps it was that fragile, almost ethereal appearance, plucked straight from the fairy tale books I used to read in my past life, or simply the profound indignation that flared within me watching her own father treat her as a mere bargaining chip in his game of thrones.
Fortunately, King Henry's coldness did not seem to infect his entire family.
A few meters away from the monarch, the Queen Consort, Elizabeth of York, watched her daughter with eyes red and shining from unshed tears. Beside her, Princes Arthur and little Henry also reflected genuine sorrow. Arthur, the firstborn, stroked his sister's hair with a tenderness and grief that could not be faked.
It was upon observing the two English princes that a shiver ran down my spine. My mind, housing the historical knowledge of a previous world, clicked.
"Wait a minute," I thought, frowning beneath my patch. "The heir who historically takes the English crown isn't Arthur... it's Henry. Henry VIII."
That fact had always struck me as an anomaly in a system where the firstborn male ensured the absolute lineage. If Henry ended up on the throne, it meant that something tragic and imminent lay in store for Arthur's destiny.
An illness, perhaps?
The famous "sweating sickness" or tuberculosis were often the lethal shadows of this era.
I watched Arthur offer Margaret one last comforting smile, a gesture brimming with unconditional brotherly love. At that very instant, I made another decision that would alter the course of centuries. I mentally prepared myself to intervene and save Prince Arthur's life if the occasion arose.
If I managed to cure him with the medical knowledge or resources of our empire, not only would I return the favor to little Margaret by keeping her favorite brother alive, but I would also spare myself the headache of having to deal politically and militarily with the tyrannical and unstable Henry VIII in the future.
…
The following day dawned shrouded in the usual thick, freezing fog. The farewell celebration had diluted into the quiet of the early morning, and now, we found ourselves walking the winding streets that spilled into the bustling port of London.
The procession advanced at a solemn pace. On both sides of the cobbled streets, the people of London crowded together to bid their little princess farewell. Order was kept at bay by pickets of the royal guard, but the visual contrast remained brutal: the immaculate banners of the House of Tudor, embroidered in gold thread, fluttering over a multitude submerged in ragged clothes, mud, and the penetrating stench of the city's canals.
I walked with my head held high, carefully scanning the rooftops and alleyways, evaluating any potential threat. Beside me, Umza was a bundle of nerves and compassion.
Her hands opened and closed constantly, barely restraining herself from breaking formation, running forward, and enveloping Margaret's diminutive figure in a hug. The princess marched ahead of us with a steady step, her chin held high and a bravery that broke the heart.
The boarding process was slow and tedious. It took us nearly an hour to make multiple trips in small rowboats from the wooden docks to the imposing shadow of our vessel.
When Margaret finally stepped onto the deck of the Tequendama II, her footsteps stopped dead. The girl looked up, awestruck.
Unlike the heavy, inefficient European carracks, our ship was a colossus of aerodynamic engineering, with towering masts that seemed to tear the gray sky and dark, polished wood that did not creak beneath the weight of the ocean. Her enormous green eyes swept over the magnitude of her new temporary home, processing that this giant would carry her across the world.
It was then that Umza let her diplomatic mask drop. Unable to contain herself a second longer, she broke formation, approached Margaret with soft steps, and knelt on the deck, bringing herself to eye level with the princess.
"Your Highness..." Umza murmured in an English tinged with her sweet Pijao accent. "How are you feeling? Are you cold?"
Margaret blinked, surprised by the warmth of the woman who, until now, had only been a silent figure in her retinue. The princess's stiffness loosened a bit.
"I am not cold, miss..." she replied in a timid little voice, lowering her gaze to her velvet shoes. "But... I am afraid of the journey. The sea is very big."
Umza smiled at her with immense tenderness, tucking a reddish lock of hair behind her ear. "There is nothing to fear. This ship is strong, and we will protect you with our lives."
Margaret paused, biting her lower lip. She clasped her little hands together in her lap and, with a mix of anxiety and childlike curiosity, asked, "My lady... What is he like? What is Chuta, the Leader of that faraway kingdom I am going to, like? My father told me he is a powerful ruler, but... is he wicked?"
Umza let out a soft, crystalline laugh that seemed to ease the tension on the deck.
"Oh, no, little one. He is not wicked at all. He is a young boy, thirteen years old, almost fourteen. Despite his age, he is incredibly wise. He is strong, but most importantly, he is very attentive and loving to all his people."
Margaret's eyes lit up, reflecting that pure innocence her father's court had not managed to extinguish. "Thirteen years old?" she whispered in awe. "Then... is he like the princes in the stories my mother reads to me?"
"He is very much like a storybook prince, yes," Umza affirmed, nodding with conviction. "Only he is not pale. His skin color is tanned and glowing, like mine..." Umza took a small, dramatic pause, leaning in a little closer as if she were about to share a state secret. "And they even say he has a magic eye."
Margaret gasped, her eyes going wide. The mere mention of magic in a rigid, gray world was enough to captivate her entirely.
"A magic eye?" she repeated, before diverting her gaze toward me. She looked me up and down, evaluating my simple diplomatic liaison clothes and my steady posture. "And is he... is he as handsome as the man accompanying you?"
Umza couldn't help it; a huge, mischievous smile drew across her lips as she looked at me out of the corner of her eye, nodding slowly toward the girl.
Margaret turned around completely to look at me again. Her shyness was beginning to give way to genuine curiosity.
Knowing there were no English guards nearby nor prying ears from the Tudor court, I returned a kind, paternal smile.
Slowly, I raised my right hand and slid the black leather patch upward, revealing to her for the first time the strange, deep glow of my hidden eye. At the same time, I brought the index finger of my other hand to my lips, making a gentle, complicit gesture for silence: our secret.
Margaret stifled a small gasp of wonder, bringing both little hands to her mouth to muffle the sound.
Right at that exact instant, as if the gods of our world wished to bless the silent pact that had just been born, the dense gray clouds of London fractured.
A thick ray of golden sunlight pierced the fog and bathed the wooden deck of the Tequendama II, illuminating the princess's red hair and imbuing the beginning of our voyage with a warm, unforgettable solemnity.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, to clarify, while there is an embassy and Chewa is there, he is not the ambassador. He was there because, technically, he is the one who receives the princess.
Second, we change the story a bit here, not only because of Margaret's engagement, but also because of the 'official' confirmation that Arthur could live longer, which would change the course of English history.
Third, Margaret is a princess in every sense of the word. She is not innocent despite her age. Also, let's remember that she was the first princess, and while her 'importance' isn't as great as that of the firstborn son, she was still raised with great care.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, I loved the scene with the princess on the ship. I don't know about you.
Second, I realized that I apparently used Margaret's sister's image when generating the AI image, but what I also realized is that there are images from a series or movie where one of the characters is Margaret.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]