An English Tale
First officer Francis Drake had never been the presence of a royal before, let alone the king. But Henry VIII was not like his father or the kings that came before him. For one thing they called him the ‘Iron Crown’, a title he apparently took to heart. One might think that this meant that he was inflexible and as hard as that ore but this was not where the name came from. It came instead from a reputation for a disdain for the trappings and ceremony of the royal office. The jewels and gold, ermine-trimmed robes and silken cloaks fit ill on the man who had read philosophy, theology, studied war and finance, a man fit for business or the battlefield more than the royal court. And so, except for those occasions where it was impossible to avoid these trappings, he wore instead a simple chain shirt and a nobleman’s or hunter’s leathers. And his crown, indeed, was iron, though he kept his father’s bejeweled gold one for those occasions when it was absolutely necessary. The iron crown was simple and unpretentious; a reminder to the king himself of the man he strove to be. The chain shirt was a reminder, a very real reminder, of the looming threat of warfare or assassins and a symbol of the weight of his office; first and foremost he was the temporal protector of the English. Or so that was the rumor. Drake was eager to compare the reality of the man to the legend of the man.
And so Drake, whose greatest claim to fame was that he had once shared a meal with the admiral of the royal English navy’s western fleet, was now escorted into the presence of the king. Today the king of the English was holding court in the royal garden. Servants had set up a target dummy at one end, while the king, dressed in leathers and with his famous iron crown lying crocked atop his head, stood at another and took aim at the dummy with a pistol. On a table at his side were several pairs of shield and sword, slightly out of date but deadly none-the-less. The king was surrounded by a large retinue, many of them obviously military men or various nobles. Several young ladies, their bodices tightly laced to make the best of the blessings of God, curtsied and smiled coquettishly at Drake as he entered, obviously intrigued by his naval uniform, scars, and casual aura of lethality. Drake only recognized one man, the admiral he had once shared a meal. He now reclined on a sofa dragged into the garden from some well-appointed courtly chamber. In his hand was a brandy sniffer which he held casually as he made conversation with one of the young ladies. When Drake saluted, he nodded and mouthed without saying, “At ease.”
Using a series of pre-loaded pistols, the king fired several times at the practice dummy, striking it several times in the chest, but never through the heart. Drake tried not to smile as a look of almost child-like frustration came over the king’s face. So the king, for all his so-called humility, still didn’t like to lose? Indeed the legend and the reality were not the same; they never were. King Henry’s face, with some effort, returned the magnanimity befitting a royal and turned to Drake. Grunting, “You try,” he thrust one of the pistols on the table at the naval officer.
Drake fired quickly; used to firing pistols, it didn’t take him long to aim carefully and release the hammer (OOC: is that right?). A smoking hole appeared in the dummy’s heart. The king motioned to the other pistols on the table. If Drake had been a more adept politician, he would have refused or else purposefully fired poorly but instead he picked up one pistol and fired it, hitting the dummy in the heart again. He put the pistol down and taking two more, fired again, one in each hand, striking the dummy in the heart and slightly to the left of the heart.
Smiling he turned back the King Henry… who was not smiling. The king grunted, obviously not willing to praise the officer for his sharpshooting. Instead he motioned to old style longswords and shields. Now King Henry quickly proved his mettle, easily besting Drake who had little training in swords other than the modern saber and épée.
Satisfied, the king motioned to a table set up near the main building; together they walked over to it. The king spoke first, “The Admiral somehow has decided that you are a man of creativity and leadership, a strategist and a fine sailor. To me you have the look not so much of a sailor in my navy but of an adventurer.” It wasn’t clear to Drake if that was a good thing or not.
“Your majesty, I spoke but once to the admiral over a dinner not so long ago. Truly, I was of the impression that he had only been half-listening to my plans and that he had been much more interested in…” he motioned to the ladies presently flirting with the admiral.
The king motioned to the table where a rather incomplete map of the New World, what the Spanish called New Spain but which the English did not was rolled out. On it were miniature boats and soldiers, cannons and cavalry, all done in Spanish yellow, Portuguese red and green, Scottish blue and of course English red. There were a lot of yellow pieces and precious few red ones. There was also a bible, translated in French. “No, I assure you Mr. Drake, that the admiral has very keen ears even when he may appear otherwise preoccupied.”
The king must have caught Drake’s eye looking at the bible and inquisitive look at the King himself and so the king continued, “Yes. I read French. But don’t worry, I assure you, I do love to lay with women; there will be an heir. Regardless, I would like you to tell me of the plan you had earlier discussed with the Admiral. Your captain, Sir Edward Black is being called away to the eastern fleet and so you are now captain Mr. Drake, of the Monmouth. I want to hear what you plan to do with her.”
