[FANFIC] Three Times England Visits Whitehall
Title: Three Times England Visits Whitehall
Author/Artist: thewaterbandit
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England
Rating: U
Warnings: Beheading. Old English. Slight fudging of historical details.
Summary: My long-threatened English Civil War fanfic! England visits Whitehall three times during the English Civil War.This is my first big-boy fanfic- it even has footnotes.
Many thanks go to the folks at aph_footnotes , especially
puella_nerdii , who linked me to a couple of very useful history sites.
For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.
It should not be like this, England thinks as he paces the empty corridors of Whitehall. It should be full- a royal court, bursting with life. Now it is as plain and silent as a Puritan church, and about as cheerful. He was lucky to come on a day when there were few others around- the abandoned palace had become something of an attraction and the once carefully guarded halls now played host to the idle, the greedy and the curious. Food from the king's larder graced half the tables of London, and beer from his cellar had gone to toast Parliament and their righteous struggle against tyranny. England was somewhat unique in that visiting the palace was not a novel experience. He had, after all, been there back when it was called York Place and Edward I had stayed in it. Elizabeth had danced in these halls, and her father Henry had married Anne Boleyn under these vaulted ceilings. The new court at Oxford could not compare. Noisy, crowded, smelly- and with that seedy air that student buildings always had, even long after the students themselves had gone. England wonders if Charles, ever desperate for money, enjoys living in his borrowed halls.
He puts out a hand to the nearest wall, and an old poem comes to his mind unbidden, his voice sounding reedy and strange in the empty air.
"Often this wall, lichen-grey and stained with red, experienced one reign after another, remained standing under storms; the high wide gate has collapsed. Still the masonry endures in winds cut down, persisted on.." he pauses. "Persisted on..."
Damn. He has forgotten. He tries again, in the old tongue, the one that echoes with the beats and tides of battle and conquest, the one which he will always associate with poetry:
"Wonað giet se" The words are difficult, these days. "...num geheapen, fel on grimme gegrunden... grimme..."
Nothing. The rhythm falters, breaks. He curses, softly, and makes a mental note to go to Exeter and look it up. Alfred had been so determined to teach him his poems in his own language. All that effort, wasted with the years. He drags his hand across the dust on a table and looks at it distractedly. The legacy of kings is not as enduring as they would want it to be.
"For all which treasons and crimes this Court doth adjudge that he, the said Charles Stuart, as a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and public enemy to the good people of this nation, shall be put to death by the severing of his head from his body."
England does not get a front row seat for the execution of his erstwhile monarch. Rather, he stands at a window, jostling with the other onlookers, despising them as tasteless gawpers and straining to get a better view himself. He could have been up on the scaffold with Cromwell and the others, of course. Cromwell especially was rather keen on knowing exactly where the nation was at all times- something that England found especially irksome. The man always looked uncomfortable in his presence. It is easy to give orders to a nation- harder to command one face-to-face. He had refused, in any case. Absented himself as he had been wont to do, not even attending the trial. What would have been the point? England- and Cromwell- already knew the verdict.
Charles emerges, and the crowd erupts into mumbling. Though it is cold and he is not wearing a jerkin, the king does not shiver. England respects him for that- he has always been one to admire showmanship. Or he was, until the Puritans closed all the theatres. The king is offered a cap for his long hair and he accepts it. Next, the blindfold, and he is just another condemned prisoner, going to the gallows at Tyburn. He kneels at the block and disappears out of view. England curses foully, elbows a fat woman in the back and moves into her place as Charles utters a single word. England's eyesight has always been good, and he can read it on the king's lips.
"Remember."
As if he will ever forget.
The axe falls, the head tumbles from the body and there is one long, unbearable moment of silence as if the whole world has stopped. Nothing moves. Then, as if by some pre-arranged signal, the crowd surges forward, holding out handkerchiefs to dip in the martyr-king's blood. England turns away, suddenly dizzy, and is immediately and violently sick.
"It is no such difficulty as men make it to be, to alter the course of the world in this thing, and that a few diligent and valiant spirits may turn the world upside down."
The world turns, and England turns with it. Just a few short years ago he would have sworn that he would never accept the heir of Charles I on the throne- now he was welcoming him with open arms. Spain, so carefully keeping his king for all these years (though not in the best of style, but then what could one expect?) would never let him hear the end of it. It feels like aeons since he talked to his own kind. They have mainly kept away, as if revolution is catching. Still, it is all resolved now, and it seems like it has been a long time since he has greeted a new monarch. Cromwell, he has decided, does not count.
England is waiting in a side room when the new king is ushered in, and maybe England has changed more than he thought, for when he greets his new ruler he does not kneel as he did for Charles I (and James and Elizabeth and Henry and on and on, time out of mind). Instead, he sticks out his hand. Charles looks at it askance.
"I am your king." he reminds England frostily. England smiles at him (for outside the fountains are flowing with wine and the church bells are ringing to celebrate the return of the old ways) but his eyes still gleam with the fever of a decade of struggle.
"And so you are. And I am England- all of me, Protestant and Royalist, Puritan, Roman Catholic, Ranter and Leveller."
He looks outside to the cheering crowds. Revolution, he thinks, and remembers that in science a full revolution is where the motion ends at exactly the point where it began.
"And I have had entirely enough of kneeling."
The Palace of Whitehall has been the centre of England's government and the home of his court for a long time. Much of government business is still conducted there. During the Civil War,when Charles I's court moved to Oxford, it was abandoned and people really could walk in off the street and have a poke around.
During the period of 1641-1660, England went through a period of dramatic political upheaval, culminating in open war between the king and Parliament. This obviously went very badly for the king and led to his execution on charges of treason. Eventually, Cromwell died and, finding his son Richard to be a weak and ineffective ruler, several factions within England invited Charles II back.
The quote at the beginning is from the King James Bible: Isaiah 65:16-18. The second is from the verdict Parliament came to at the trial of Charles I, and the third is attributed to Leveller William Walwyn.
The poem England quotes is the Old English elegy 'The Ruin', found in the Exeter Book (which is why he wants to go to Exeter and look it up. He wouldn't have had much luck- the bits he has forgotten are damaged in the book). The 'old tongue' is, of course, Anglo-Saxon, which is what he was speaking around the time of Alfred the Great, who is the Alfred mentioned. I always wondered if he gave America that name for a reason..
Author/Artist: thewaterbandit
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England
Rating: U
Warnings: Beheading. Old English. Slight fudging of historical details.
Summary: My long-threatened English Civil War fanfic! England visits Whitehall three times during the English Civil War.This is my first big-boy fanfic- it even has footnotes.
Many thanks go to the folks at aph_footnotes , especially
puella_nerdii , who linked me to a couple of very useful history sites.
For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.
It should not be like this, England thinks as he paces the empty corridors of Whitehall. It should be full- a royal court, bursting with life. Now it is as plain and silent as a Puritan church, and about as cheerful. He was lucky to come on a day when there were few others around- the abandoned palace had become something of an attraction and the once carefully guarded halls now played host to the idle, the greedy and the curious. Food from the king's larder graced half the tables of London, and beer from his cellar had gone to toast Parliament and their righteous struggle against tyranny. England was somewhat unique in that visiting the palace was not a novel experience. He had, after all, been there back when it was called York Place and Edward I had stayed in it. Elizabeth had danced in these halls, and her father Henry had married Anne Boleyn under these vaulted ceilings. The new court at Oxford could not compare. Noisy, crowded, smelly- and with that seedy air that student buildings always had, even long after the students themselves had gone. England wonders if Charles, ever desperate for money, enjoys living in his borrowed halls.
He puts out a hand to the nearest wall, and an old poem comes to his mind unbidden, his voice sounding reedy and strange in the empty air.
"Often this wall, lichen-grey and stained with red, experienced one reign after another, remained standing under storms; the high wide gate has collapsed. Still the masonry endures in winds cut down, persisted on.." he pauses. "Persisted on..."
Damn. He has forgotten. He tries again, in the old tongue, the one that echoes with the beats and tides of battle and conquest, the one which he will always associate with poetry:
"Wonað giet se" The words are difficult, these days. "...num geheapen, fel on grimme gegrunden... grimme..."
Nothing. The rhythm falters, breaks. He curses, softly, and makes a mental note to go to Exeter and look it up. Alfred had been so determined to teach him his poems in his own language. All that effort, wasted with the years. He drags his hand across the dust on a table and looks at it distractedly. The legacy of kings is not as enduring as they would want it to be.
"For all which treasons and crimes this Court doth adjudge that he, the said Charles Stuart, as a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and public enemy to the good people of this nation, shall be put to death by the severing of his head from his body."
England does not get a front row seat for the execution of his erstwhile monarch. Rather, he stands at a window, jostling with the other onlookers, despising them as tasteless gawpers and straining to get a better view himself. He could have been up on the scaffold with Cromwell and the others, of course. Cromwell especially was rather keen on knowing exactly where the nation was at all times- something that England found especially irksome. The man always looked uncomfortable in his presence. It is easy to give orders to a nation- harder to command one face-to-face. He had refused, in any case. Absented himself as he had been wont to do, not even attending the trial. What would have been the point? England- and Cromwell- already knew the verdict.
Charles emerges, and the crowd erupts into mumbling. Though it is cold and he is not wearing a jerkin, the king does not shiver. England respects him for that- he has always been one to admire showmanship. Or he was, until the Puritans closed all the theatres. The king is offered a cap for his long hair and he accepts it. Next, the blindfold, and he is just another condemned prisoner, going to the gallows at Tyburn. He kneels at the block and disappears out of view. England curses foully, elbows a fat woman in the back and moves into her place as Charles utters a single word. England's eyesight has always been good, and he can read it on the king's lips.
"Remember."
As if he will ever forget.
The axe falls, the head tumbles from the body and there is one long, unbearable moment of silence as if the whole world has stopped. Nothing moves. Then, as if by some pre-arranged signal, the crowd surges forward, holding out handkerchiefs to dip in the martyr-king's blood. England turns away, suddenly dizzy, and is immediately and violently sick.
"It is no such difficulty as men make it to be, to alter the course of the world in this thing, and that a few diligent and valiant spirits may turn the world upside down."
The world turns, and England turns with it. Just a few short years ago he would have sworn that he would never accept the heir of Charles I on the throne- now he was welcoming him with open arms. Spain, so carefully keeping his king for all these years (though not in the best of style, but then what could one expect?) would never let him hear the end of it. It feels like aeons since he talked to his own kind. They have mainly kept away, as if revolution is catching. Still, it is all resolved now, and it seems like it has been a long time since he has greeted a new monarch. Cromwell, he has decided, does not count.
England is waiting in a side room when the new king is ushered in, and maybe England has changed more than he thought, for when he greets his new ruler he does not kneel as he did for Charles I (and James and Elizabeth and Henry and on and on, time out of mind). Instead, he sticks out his hand. Charles looks at it askance.
"I am your king." he reminds England frostily. England smiles at him (for outside the fountains are flowing with wine and the church bells are ringing to celebrate the return of the old ways) but his eyes still gleam with the fever of a decade of struggle.
"And so you are. And I am England- all of me, Protestant and Royalist, Puritan, Roman Catholic, Ranter and Leveller."
He looks outside to the cheering crowds. Revolution, he thinks, and remembers that in science a full revolution is where the motion ends at exactly the point where it began.
"And I have had entirely enough of kneeling."
The Palace of Whitehall has been the centre of England's government and the home of his court for a long time. Much of government business is still conducted there. During the Civil War,when Charles I's court moved to Oxford, it was abandoned and people really could walk in off the street and have a poke around.
During the period of 1641-1660, England went through a period of dramatic political upheaval, culminating in open war between the king and Parliament. This obviously went very badly for the king and led to his execution on charges of treason. Eventually, Cromwell died and, finding his son Richard to be a weak and ineffective ruler, several factions within England invited Charles II back.
The quote at the beginning is from the King James Bible: Isaiah 65:16-18. The second is from the verdict Parliament came to at the trial of Charles I, and the third is attributed to Leveller William Walwyn.
The poem England quotes is the Old English elegy 'The Ruin', found in the Exeter Book (which is why he wants to go to Exeter and look it up. He wouldn't have had much luck- the bits he has forgotten are damaged in the book). The 'old tongue' is, of course, Anglo-Saxon, which is what he was speaking around the time of Alfred the Great, who is the Alfred mentioned. I always wondered if he gave America that name for a reason..