PREVIOUSLY.
[Without London's backing, the illusion that England led that port would shatter in a matter of weeks. If he wanted to prevent his people from starving or being devoured by neglect, it was no longer enough to delegate tasks or ask for favors in secret.
As he watched Fuhupqua issue orders in a language the English refused to learn, Edmund realized it with chilling clarity: he would have to depend absolutely and shamefully on them.
Or worse still... he would have to adopt, once and for all, the Suaza way of doing things.]
----
The following day.
18, 1496 (Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, First month).
Massachusetts Town (Boston, Massachusetts), North Quyca.
Upon opening his eyes, the first sense that assaulted Edmund Howard was not sight, but touch.
Beneath his back, the mattress was no longer a makeshift sack of coarse straw and dry leaves, but a soft and firm bed. Thanks to the cargo John Cabot had brought the day before, the supplies sent by his father, the Duke of Norfolk, had finally arrived in Massachusetts Town.
For a fleeting moment, swathed in clean linen sheets that smelled of dried lavender, Edmund felt the comforting illusion of being in his manor in the English countryside.
Yet the fantasy quickly crumbled. The rhythmic, groaning creak of the heavy black pine planks that formed his cabin reminded him of where he was.
The frigid wind of the northern Dawn (Atlantic) whistled as it seeped through the few poorly sealed gaps in the wood, and the constant, deep, and rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore confirmed that the Old World remained an ocean away.
Edmund sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. His mind drifted to his family, to the true reason he was there, freezing at the edge of the world.
His lineage, the Howards, had been walking on thin ice ever since King Henry VII claimed the crown after the Battle of Bosworth. His father, Thomas, had fought on the losing side and paid for his loyalty to Richard III with the cold dampness of a dungeon in the Tower of London.
It took three years of imprisonment and disgrace before the Tudor king decided to release him and restore his titles, returning the family's life to a tense normalcy. Therefore, when the opportunity arose for this expedition to "New England" in the Great Quyca, his father did not hesitate to offer Edmund as its leader.
It was a sacrifice, an act of absolute vassalage to prove to Henry VII that the Howards would bleed for the crown wherever necessary. And now, with Perkin Warbeck's rebellion erupting in Europe and severing their supply lines, this exile disguised as glory felt heavier than ever.
The door to his bedchamber creaked. Two trusted servants—commoners who had accompanied him on the first voyage along with their own families—entered in silence. They brought with them the new clothes unloaded from Cabot's caravels the previous day.
"Good morning, my lord," murmured one of them, helping him dress.
The fabric of a fine dark wool doublet and an immaculate white linen shirt restored a measure of his aristocratic dignity. Once dressed, Edmund stepped into the main hall, a rustic room adorned with a pair of tapestries brought from London that attempted, without success, to conceal the bare logs.
Breakfast awaited him on the rough oak table. Edmund took a seat and observed his plate with a mix of fascination and resignation. There was no trace of the typical English noble's breakfast. Instead, the plate was an explosion of colors and textures born from the supplies provided by their "allies": roasted red tomatoes, a smooth green cream made from avocado, portions of tender corn, and boiled potatoes.
It was delicious, a blend of flavors that was already beginning to feel strangely comforting. However, his stomach protested at the lack of fresh protein. On the side of the plate rested only a few hard, dark strips of smoked meat—preserves that had survived both the initial voyage and the recent cargo.
As he chewed the salted meat, which required considerable jaw effort, Edmund frowned.
We need livestock, he thought, tapping the table with a finger. Pigs, cows, sheep. If England cannot send more ships, the settlement will end up suffering.
The idea of importing animals from the British Isles crossed his mind forcefully, but upon recalling Cabot's words about the impending war and the lack of future shipments, he discarded it bitterly. Animal husbandry would have to wait; there were far more urgent problems of political survival to resolve that very morning.
After finishing his meal and washing his hands in a silver basin, Edmund stepped out of his cabin. The pale sun of the northern spring was trying to warm the muddy streets of the settlement. Accompanied by two of his aides, one of whom carried a heavy leather portfolio of documents and a small wooden chest, the English nobleman directed his steps toward the elevation where the Suaza camp was erected.
Upon reaching the perimeter, two Suaza guards in light yet impenetrable-looking armor crossed their spears in front of the entrance. Edmund halted, waiting for his aide to attempt communicating once more through clumsy gestures, but before the man could do so, one of the guards stood tall and looked him in the eye.
"Lord Edmund. The captain is expecting you," said the Suaza soldier.
Edmund froze. He blinked, incredulous. The guard's accent was thick, with a rhythmic cadence and elongated vowels, but the English pronunciation was astonishingly clear and direct.
A shiver ran down the back of his neck. While his own English scholars and priests refused out of pure pride to learn a single syllable of the New World's languages, the foot soldiers of the Suaza Kingdom were already mastering the tongue of England. It was a demonstration of adaptability that made him feel suddenly vulnerable.
"Take us to him, please," Edmund managed to articulate, swallowing his surprise and regaining his aristocratic posture.
The guard nodded and escorted them through the orderly camp to a simple-looking cabin, devoid of unnecessary adornments. The soldier knocked twice on the dark wooden door.
"Enter," a voice called from inside.
Edmund ordered one of his aides to wait outside and entered alone with the secretary carrying the chest and the documents.
Quemuen's office was the very image of military efficiency. There were no tapestries or luxuries, only detailed maps, measuring instruments, and a large wooden table. The Suaza captain stood reviewing a parchment. When he looked up, his face, weathered by the freezing wind, showed no emotion whatsoever.
"Welcome, Lord Edmund," Quemuen greeted in a stiff English, almost like a calculated formality, before immediately switching to his own tongue. "What matters bring you to our compound today?"
The soldier who had served as their escort quickly translated his captain's question. Edmund straightened up, attempting to project the might of the English Crown despite knowing he was isolated.
"Captain Quemuen," Edmund began, waiting for the guard to translate his every word into Suaza. "As your watchmen have undoubtedly noticed, a new fleet has arrived under the command of John Cabot. King Henry VII, in his boundless generosity and commitment to our alliance, has sent an abundant cargo from London."
Edmund gestured to his aide, who stepped forward and placed the heavy wooden chest on Quemuen's table, opening the lid to reveal rows of silver and gold coins, along with some valuable manufactured goods.
"With these resources," Edmund continued, raising his chin in an attempt to salvage his pride, "England wishes to settle, at least in part, the debt owed to the Suaza Kingdom for the vital supplies, tools, and assistance in building our initial docks and dormitories. We are not men who forget our debts."
The translator relayed the message. Edmund expected to see a flash of surprise, perhaps respect, or even gratitude on the Suaza officer's face at the sight of European gold and silver.
Instead, Quemuen glanced at the chest for barely a second before turning his gaze back to Edmund. His expression remained as inscrutable as the walls of his embassy. He nodded slowly; a gesture almost dismissive in its lack of enthusiasm.
Quemuen did not need the gold, nor was he impressed by the young lord's gesture.
Weeks ago, before departing from Dawn City, the Chuta himself had warned him about the nature of European expeditions and their fractured economies. He had made it clear that, despite their fine garments and their pride, the English would take years to truly pay what it cost to settle a civilization on those inhospitable shores.
…
The silence that followed the display of the open chest was thicker than the morning mist of the Dawn. Edmund remained standing, his back straight, waiting for a word of astonishment, a hint of greed, or at least a nod of gratitude.
But Quemuen barely spared a dispassionate glance at the gleaming silver coins before turning his dark, unfathomable eyes back to the English nobleman. The lack of response fell over Edmund's shoulders like a wet blanket, leaving him profoundly uncomfortable.
Curse it all, thought the young lord, swallowing discreetly. They don't care about the gold. What kind of empire despises silver in this manner?
Suddenly, the true motive of his visit became a mountain almost impossible to scale. He needed help. The English colony, without the umbilical cord connecting it to London, was on the brink of logistical and administrative collapse. Yet, how could a Howard, a representative of the Crown, beg for assistance from a foreign nation without looking like a desperate beggar?
He opted for the only path his pride allowed: the illusion of diplomacy.
With a soft clearing of his throat, Edmund gestured to his secretary. The man, trembling slightly under the severe, martial atmosphere of the office, drew from his leather portfolio a series of thick parchments sealed with red wax.
"In addition to settling our debt," Edmund continued, measuring each word so the translator could keep pace with precision, "I have prepared these agreements. We have considered granting exclusive trade privileges... a special and preferential favor to the merchants of the Suaza Kingdom who choose to make Massachusetts Town their port of call. In exchange, of course, for establishing a constant supply route to our town."
It was a bluff. The "contracts" were drafted with exquisite calligraphy and impeccable language, but at their core, they were an empty shell. They offered no real guarantees of payment nor tangible short-term advantages, only promises wrapped in bureaucratic velvet.
Quemuen listened to the translation without a single muscle altering in his weathered face.
When the guard finished speaking, the Suaza captain kept his eyes fixed on Edmund for a moment that felt eternal. Then, he turned his head and issued a curt order, almost a sharp murmur, to one of the aides stationed in the shadows of the room's corner.
The aide bowed swiftly and hurried out through a side door.
Edmund blinked. He looked at his own Suaza translator, hoping he would explain what had just happened, but the guard remained in absolute silence, deliberately omitting the translation of that internal order.
The English nobleman stood there with the parchments suspended in the air, trapped in a limbo of uncertainty. Cold sweat began to pool beneath the collar of his linen shirt.
Were they throwing him out? Had he insulted the captain with his disguised offer?
A couple of minutes passed in which the only sound was the creak of solid wood settling against the wind outside.
Finally, the side door opened again.
The soldier returned, followed by a figure that contrasted starkly with Quemuen's ruggedness. It was a young man, astonishingly young—perhaps a couple of years younger than Edmund himself—who walked without the burden of armor.
He wore civilian clothes, but the impeccable cut of the fabric, the sober tones, and the discreet piping denoted a uniform of a different nature: that of an elite military bureaucracy.
The newcomer stepped forward with a firm stride. He stopped in front of Quemuen and greeted him with a bow that blended the strictest martial respect with a fluid familiarity, speaking a few words in his language. Quemuen nodded smoothly, showing a hint of approval for the first time, and then turned to Edmund, gesturing to the youth.
The translator intervened: "The captain presents Chaieta."
Edmund observed him, intrigued.
What the nobleman was completely unaware of was that this serene-faced young man was no mere clerk; Chaieta was a brilliant military support officer who had forged his intellect both in the military academy and in the demanding halls of the Simte Academy. His mind was a fine-tuned machine for logistics, commerce, and strategic planning, in addition to possessing a polyglot talent that included Spanish and English.
Forcing a diplomatic smile, Edmund mustered his courtly charm and bowed his head slightly. "It is an honor to meet you."
The young man returned the bow and, with an astounding naturalness, replied: "The honor is mine, Lord Edmund."
Edmund felt the ground shift beneath his feet. His eyes widened, losing his composure for a fraction of a second. Another one! Not only the rustic soldiers at the gate, but this youthful-looking officer also commanded his language.
What kind of educational system did the Suaza operate?
"Officer Chaieta," Quemuen continued, reverting to his language as the guard translated, "has been in charge of designing and overseeing all our logistics in this settlement. He is the one with the authority to handle these kinds of deals."
Still bewildered by the youth of his counterpart and his surprising command of English, Edmund handed him the contracts. Chaieta took them delicately, unrolling the first of them beneath the light streaming through the window.
Silence once again claimed the office.
For several minutes, Chaieta read. He did not merely skim; his dark eyes scrutinized every line, every deceptive clause, every loophole that Edmund's scriveners had attempted to conceal beneath flowery words.
With every passing second, Edmund's nervousness grew. He shifted on his feet, feeling as though his clothes were beginning to suffocate him. His hands, hidden behind his back, clenched until his knuckles turned pale.
Finally, Chaieta looked up. His gaze met the Englishman's. There was no hostility in his eyes, but rather an analytical and dispassionate clarity that, to the nobleman, proved far more terrifying. Without looking away from Edmund, Chaieta addressed Quemuen in Suaza, his tone calm and highly professional.
The guard cleared his throat and translated the assessment for Edmund: "Officer Chaieta remarks that, although the documents appear to be well drafted, there is absolutely no mention of actual payment. Furthermore, he points out that Suaza merchant ships will not necessarily gain anything by making a stop here, and therefore, the terms lack any genuine economic incentive."
Edmund went as stiff as a board. His heart skipped a beat. They had read him like an open book. In a matter of minutes, that young man had dismantled his sophisticated deception, exposing the raw truth in front of everyone in the room. They had uncovered his plan to secure supplies on infinite credit.
Quemuen, who listened to the report with an unalterable expression, made a slight wave of his hand. As a military man, he loathed meddling in the labyrinths of commerce and numbers he did not command.
"The captain orders Officer Chaieta to take charge of the matter," translated the guard, taking a step back.
Chaieta rolled up the parchments with precise movements and turned to the English nobleman. This time, he spoke directly in Edmund's tongue, with a courtesy so impeccable it left no room for argument.
"Lord Edmund," said Chaieta, extending a hand toward the hallway door through which he had entered. "Please, accompany me to the building's lounge. There we can review this with the detail it requires."
The lounge to which Chaieta led him contrasted profoundly with the crude wooden cabins of Massachusetts Town. Upon crossing the threshold, Edmund immediately noted the absence of the biting cold that seeped through the cracks of his own buildings.
The place was hermetically sealed, illuminated by broad, expansive windows that let in the pale northern light. There were no ostentatious tapestries or banners with coats of arms; the elegance of the space lay in the neatness of its geometric lines, the finely polished wood of the tables, and the subtle scent of resin and an unknown herbal infusion floating in the warm air.
Chaieta directed him to a straight-backed chair across from a broad, uncluttered work table. Once they were both seated, the young military officer set the English parchments aside, not even bothering to open them again. He rested his hands on the table and looked at Edmund with a pleasant expression, yet one imbued with a cutting practicality.
"Lord Edmund, I shall be frank," Chaieta began, his English flowing with an impeccable cadence. "The exclusive trade benefits your Crown offers in these documents are not necessary to us. We do not seek port exemptions on a dock that, with all due respect, our own men helped build."
Edmund felt a lump in his throat but kept his face impassive.
"Then what is it that the Suaza Kingdom seeks in exchange for keeping our supply line open?"
Chaieta did not hesitate. "Land. And a guarantee."
The Englishman frowned, bracing himself for an astronomical demand that would decimate the colony's sovereignty. "I am listening."
"We propose that England formally cede to us a territory on the northern bank of the nearby river," the young officer explained, tracing an imaginary line on the table with his index finger. "The ownership of the land shall be exclusively Suaza, but administratively, the area will be governed under the mandate of English law. We do not seek to usurp your legal authority over the settlement. However, our single, unwavering demand, the absolute prerogative for possessing that land, is the right to freedom of thought."
Edmund blinked, bewildered. "Freedom of thought?"
"Any inhabitant of that land, be they of our nation, yours, or even the locals, shall not, under any circumstance, be forced to practice Christianity or submit to its dogmas," Chaieta declared. The softness of his voice could not conceal the steely resolve behind it.
The English nobleman remained silent, processing the words. His mind, trained in the courtly intrigues of London, began to spin at top speed. The long-term implications were immense.
If he accepted, Massachusetts Town would be hopelessly intertwined with the Suaza. With their constant presence, their resources, and their culture radiating from the northern bank, the English would remain the nominal governors, but in practice, the Suaza would stand as the true "co-founders" of the city. The European enclave would end up tinted with foreign customs.
However, what disarmed him most was the apparent simplicity of the request. He had expected extortion in gold, silver, or political vassalage, and instead, they asked for religious tolerance.
Thinking it over, Edmund understood them perfectly.
Ever since they landed, the Catholic clerics accompanying him had become a genuine headache. Blind to their precarious survival situation, the priests paraded through the camp demanding the salvation of the "pagans."
Edmund had already received several missives and formal "petitions" from the expedition's high clergy to initiate aggressive evangelization campaigns. Although he himself was a devout Christian and considered it fitting to bring the faith to the New World, the priests' insistence on enforcing doctrine by force—even upon the Suaza soldiers who were helping them not to starve—struck him as diplomatic suicide.
Releasing a long, heavy sigh that deflated his aristocratic posture a little, Edmund leaned back in his chair.
"It is an... unusual request, but an understandable one, Officer Chaieta," he finally conceded, feeling a strange sense of relief. "I can guarantee that condition. My priests will be forbidden from crossing into your lands with proselytizing intents. Tell me, how much territory are you planning to occupy in the northern zone?"
"A few square kilometers will suffice for now," Chaieta replied, nodding at Edmund's reasonableness. "In truth, the majority of that land will not be for military or residential use. It will be dedicated to agriculture."
The word echoed in Edmund's head like the tolling of a bell.
Agriculture.
Suddenly, a bucket of cold water seemed to wash over his ego as expeditionary leader. Clouded by political problems, the lack of shipments, the shortage of meat, and diplomacy with neighboring tribes, he had completely sidelined the most basic problem of any human settlement: tilling the land.
He had blindly relied on London's sacks of grain and the Suaza rations. It was an amateur's mistake, an unforgivable oversight that this youth sitting across from him had already resolved.
Swallowing his shame, Edmund leaned forward, suddenly eager for information. Seizing upon the mention, he decided to inquire further.
"Agriculture is vital, of course," he said, trying to sound as though it had also been in his immediate plans. "Since you mention the subject, what are your plans in that regard? The soil here seems fertile, but the winter climate is brutal."
Chaieta offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Our expert agronomists from the Academy have been analyzing the soil composition and local climate cycles over the past few weeks. They have already identified and selected several crops that will not only survive but thrive in this weather."
"Which ones exactly?" asked Edmund, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Our ships brought seeds of crops that, as we understand it, originate from your continent," the Suaza explained, counting them off on his fingers. "We will plant vast fields of oats and wheat. In addition, we will introduce a tuber extremely resistant to the cold, hailing from the highlands of Southern Quyca: the potato. The rotation of these three will ensure the settlement never starves, even if the maritime routes fail."
Edmund was awestruck.
The image took shape in his mind with overwhelming clarity: vast expanses of golden fields rippling beneath the northern wind, the sound of mills grinding European wheat at the edge of the world. The Andean potatoes serving as an infallible sustenance for the winter. The news filled him with an optimism he had not felt since setting sail from England.
If they managed to make those wild lands flourish with grain and abundant food, these precarious settlements of wood and mud would be more than just a temporary exile. They could become, in the future, the beating heart of a prosperous and powerful empire in New England.
And for the first time, thanks to that agreement, Edmund felt that this vision was truly possible.
.
----
.
[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support.
First, I wanted to mention that I added a side chapter to volume 0 of the novel's maps. However, I only added the latest ones I uploaded. I'll leave the earlier versions in the comments for reference.
Second, it's been 5 months since my house burned down, and I'm going to remove the side chapters where I announced and narrated the incident. I only realized you were there reviewing and commenting on the map chapter.
Third, there's no UFD today, but I will tell you that John Cabot's son spent a considerable amount of time in prison after abandoning the circumnavigation mission, and was only released after a king, whose name I can't recall right now, pardoned him.
---
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.]