I know, I know, before you start...I'm doing it backwards...
Was toying with the idea of writing historical fiction on the early part of James VI of Scotland's (and I of England) reign. However, I've only written the prologue and the epilogue to it so far. And I'm not sure I like the prologue I have written.
Well, here it is anyway - for those of you who don't know the story, in 1582 as a young king of 16 James was kidnapped and held captive for a year by his own nobles, the so-called Ruthven Lords (or Raiders). The reason: they did not like James's favourite, his cousin Esme Stuart Sieur D'Aubigny (later the Duke of Lennox) who was frivolous and had ousted the previous regent, the Earl of Morton. They also believed that Lennox was leading James down a "sinful" path, and indeed, it is believed by many historians that James's homosexual tendencies sprung from his early relationship with his flamboyant cousin. While James was held captive, the Ruthven lords exiled Lennox, and he died a while later.
disclaimer: the poem at the very end is actually by King James, I've just put it into modern English.
1584
“You called for me, sire?”
James looked up absentmindedly at the servant in front of him.
“Ah, yes…yes I did.” He looked back down at the manuscript in front of him. The parchment was creased, stained and torn. And yet, he felt as if to let it leave his sight was to lose part of himself. It had been with him for so long, and to let go of it now, was to let go of him forever.
But it would not be letting go, James reasoned. Not really. It would be immortalising him forever in words. A defiance to those who had separated them; who had ended all their hopes, their dreams for Scotland.
And James’s dreams for the two of them. He would never now know whether Esmé had felt the same. They had been sinful thoughts, he knew, an abomination in the eyes of the Kirk, but they had been thoughts beyond his control for all that. More than thoughts…feelings. He missed them now.
There was a faint creak of leather as the servant shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whether to remind the king of his presence.
James stroked the fluff on his chin – the beginnings of a beard at last. It was almost symbolic of his new status in Scotland. He felt he had finally become a man.
A man would not be scared to let go of the past. A man would want to defy those who had dared to lay hands on the royal person. A man would…
“We want you to take this to the royal scribes. Have it copied up neat. And then it must be sent to the printers. It is to be published for all to read. We wish our subjects to be enlightened.”
“Of course, your majesty,” the servant held his hands out to receive the manuscript.
James held it firmly for a few more seconds, and then finally relinquished it. A weight lifted from his shoulders and he gave a sigh.
“But I lament my Phoenix rare, whose race,
Whose kind, whose kin, whose offspring, they be all
In him alone, whom I the Phoenix call.
He used to soar, and fly through diverse realms,
Out through the azure skies, while he did shame
The Sun himself, his colour was so bright,
Til he was abashed in beholding such a light.”
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