When all of history sits on your doorstep,
the adventures never end!
A Serialised Novel suggested by Readers
Chapter 1
Lizzy ran through the royal nursery pursued by her sister and a strong smell of burning. “Come back with my tinderbox!” Mary shrieked. “I’m experimenting.”
“You’re always experimenting,” puffed Liz. “Nursey’s slippers are charred to a crisp, and half of Edward’s books have gone up in smoke.” She bounced across their huge, four poster beds. “I’ll not let you burn my maps!”
“Why not?” Mary gained on her. “You’ll never use them, and I NEED MORE KINDLING.”
Grabbing Liz’s sleeve, she sent them both crashing down into a large embroidery frame; one of many stood round the room in forlorn hope the girls might stick a needle in them. Liz, as always, was first to spring back up.
“Pfla, pfla,” she spat out her ruff. “I’m not saying you’re not clever, Sis. Just that I should keep this,” she held up the lighter Mary had fashioned from a silver-ring box packed with flint and firesteel. “Until you cool off maybe?” Lizzy dropped the lighter down her dress. “Hot,” she jumped, “still hot!”
“See,” clapped Mary, “my experiments do prove metal holds heat! But would Father listen?”
“To be fair,” puffed Liz, “you had just set his hair on fire.”
“A few tufts,” conceded Mary. “Nothing he can’t cover with his crown.”
“I fear Father didn’t see it that way.”
“Ha, Father doesn’t see anything our way.” Her sister’s voice splintered. A dry stick at the best of times, the weekly Royal Nursery Visit always made Mary snap. Henry was no less harsh to Lizzy of course, but she’d learn to strategise. Fixing a dutiful smile on to her face, she’d let her mind race off through the realms of her maps. While Father hammered home the female virtues (Mute, Meek and Marriageable) Lizzy would soar through the sky in a shining Spitfire, or ride her chariot to victory in Ancient Sparta!
Today’s daydream had been a corker: Lizzy was winning a gunfight in the Wild West (Billy the Kid at her back) when reality had yanked her back. Crash, she found Mary fighting back tears, her precious crucible smashed and ground under their father’s gouty foot. Liz had leaped to her big sister’s defence. “Don’t call her a fool girl, Father. She’s a total know-it-all.”
“And you’re an interfering strumpet!” Henry had bellowed. “Even worse than your mother. Christ’s wounds, can someone BRING ME A CHICKEN.” He stomped off in search of more drumsticks, prompting Mary to furiously fashion a new firelighter. And Liz to chew mutinously on her curls. Red as her dad’s, you’d think they’d score her some points? But no - having failed to be born a boy, Lizzy could only keep on failing.
“Pax, sis,” she sighed, “we’re both stuck in the same fix.” She nodded at the rickety table at the back of the nursery. The only corner not taken up with their brother’s books, it was here in the shadows that Mary stored her shiny metal powders in twists of paper; her jars of lye and meticulously-labelled plant oils. And it was here, among her sister’s dismissed discoveries and overlooked experiments, that Lizzy dared smuggle in the odd map. “If I give back your lighter,” she sighed, “promise not to burn my dreams?”
“Dreams?! Pah, what business does a Tudorgate princess have with dreams?” cried Mary. “These maps you pore over in secret, they’re constructed from fables, charting flights of fancy! Face facts,” she said bitterly, “you’re not going anywhere. Neither of us are.”
Together, the sisters gazed out through the narrow nursery window to the castle courtyard - their portcullised playground. Then Mary’s eyes lit on her tinderbox, and Liz saw something dangerous spark. “I’ve stashed a sack of saltpetre in the kitchen,” said Mary. “Want to get in on some explosions?”
“Not. Around. My maps!” Liz bolted from the bedroom. Picking up speed – and several layers of petticoats – she dropped to her knees, and slid down the Long Gallery on a sea of skirts. Finally, she was flying!
“Oof,” Mary slid into the back of her, locking them both into a skid. Like a sledge on silk runners, they hurtled towards a massive oak dresser. Trying to brake, Lizzy grabbed at a wall-hanging. The vast, faded tapestry depicted Henry VIII of Tudorgate in his golden youth – all confidence and bulging calves. Lizzy clung to them! And brought the whole creaky canvas crashing down.
It took a moment for the dust to clear. Coughing, lurching to her feet, Liz found herself looking down at a small boy. In a very big doublet. “Crikey, Squirt,” she flattened her ruff for a better look. “What’ve they forced you into now?”
“An old doublet of Dad’s.” Her bookish brother blinked down at his preposterously-padded front. “Apparently he wore it to cow the French. What do you think?”
“Mmm...” Stuffed to the point of bursting, the golden yellow doublet drooped down to Ed’s knobbly knees. Encased in baggy red tights, his skinny legs were splattered with ink and quill feathers. “You look like a chicken,” she said. His little face fell. “Relax, you’ll be cock of the yard!” She grinned, ruffling his hair. Then giving it a sharp tug...anything to create height their dad demanded.
Poor Ed, she sighed, straightening his specs. It was only his brain getting bigger. However much Henry hurled his royal heir at the hunt, or forced him to joust, the sensitive 9-year-old saved his mental focus (immense) and physical strength (minimal) for learning.
“Whatchyer reading?” Lizzy caught the vast vellum slipping from her brother’s spindly arms. “Fartus Bumms Volumius?” She pretended to peer at the Latin text. “Odourus Constipatotorium?”
“Close,” he beamed. “The History of That Which We Excrete. In small chunks.”
“Ach, yer’ll not be popping out any chunks today, pet.” A matronly servant bustled in, clutching a steaming chamber pot. “No time for nothing but tinkles. The King wants you lot in the Great Hall.”
In one brisk movement, the muscular maid hoiked up Edward’s tights, smoothed down Lizzy’s ruff - and tugged Mary out from under the tapestry.
“Now which of yerr’s got that wee burny-box?” She gave the royal sisters a suspicious sniff. “A-ha!” She plunged a fist down Lizzy’s bejewelled bodice. Extracted the tinderbox – and dropped it into the chamber-pot. Plop.
“Nursey, no!” shrieked Mary. “What are you doing?”
“Tidying. There,” Nursey sloshed the pot behind a wall-hanging, “much better. Have you forgotten it’s Elizabeth’s big banquet tonight?”
“It’s not my banquet,” Liz crossed her arms, “I never asked for it.”
“Course not. You’re a girl,” Edward volunteered cheerfully. “You don’t get to ask for anything.”
“No kidding,” puffed Liz.
“So why keep fighting it, Lambkin?” said Nursey. “It’s just the way things are.”
“But why?” Lizzy craned to see beyond the palace battlements. “Why can’t I get out there, see new worlds?”
“Because rules is rules,” harrumphed Nursey, “leastways they are in the City of Conturbabimus. When the sands of time settled, The Grand Council set them into stone.
“Stone walls, that’s all.” Liz crossed her arms. “But why build them so high?”
“Well, how else they goin’ ter carve their Grand Council decrees into ‘em? In letters huge as a house! Not that I can read them, o’ course.” She heaved her bosom. “Lucky we’re learned ‘em with our manners. Recite with me, children!”
“We must be bound by our borders,” muttered Mary,
“Stay true to our kingdom,” sighed Edward.
“And know our place in it.” Nursey tucked Lizzy’s red curls into her headpiece. “Your place, dear, is ter be a Tudorgate Princess.” She rapped at Lizzy’s stiff brocade bodice with a red-raw knuckle. “While I’m stuck scrubbing your undies, your job is to embroider hankies, play the lute and get betrothed.”
“But I’m only 13!”
“Exactly,” beamed Nursey. What better age to sign your life away to a man you barely know! Aren’t you excited?”
“Excited?” A clanking noise came up from the castle courtyard: the scrape and rattle of the portcullis being raised. “I’m about to be led out like a prisoner -”
“Princess,” Nursey corrected her,
“To be forced AGAINST MY WILL —”
“Joyfully betrothed,” nodded Nursey,
“To a monster!”
Prologue
Do you see that shooting star? No, not that one – look a little to the left. Yes, that’s it! Peer closely at that star, and you might see a small thatched cottage inside...
Chapter 2
A blast of trumpets drew them to the narrow nursery window. “It’s him,” Mary peered through the lead bars. “The Earl of Hogwitch.”
Chapter 3
“M’lady.” Maids of honour closed round her like an armed escort. “The King awaits.” With a crackling of skirts, Liz was led down the stone steps...
Chapter 1
Lizzy ran through the royal nursery pursued by her sister and a strong smell of burning. “Come back with my tinderbox!” Mary shrieked. “I’m experimenting.”
“You’re always experimenting,” puffed Liz. “Nursey’s slippers are charred to a crisp, and half of Edward’s books have gone up in smoke.” She bounced across their huge, four poster beds. “I’ll not let you burn my maps!”
“Why not?” Mary gained on her. “You’ll never use them, and I NEED MORE KINDLING .”
Grabbing Liz’s sleeve, she sent them both crashing down into a large embroidery frame; one of many stood round the room in forlorn hope the girls might stick a needle in them. Liz, as always, was first to spring back up.
“Pfla, pfla,” she spat out her ruff. “I’m not saying you’re not clever, Sis. Just that I should keep this,” she held up the lighter Mary had fashioned from a silver-ring box packed with flint and firesteel. “Until you cool off maybe?” Lizzy dropped the lighter down her dress. “Hot,” she jumped, “still hot!”
“See,” clapped Mary, “my experiments do prove metal holds heat! But would Father listen?”
“To be fair,” puffed Liz, “you had just set his hair on fire.”
“A few tufts,” conceded Mary. “Nothing he can’t cover with his crown.”
“I fear Father didn’t see it that way.”
“Ha, Father doesn’t see anything our way.” Her sister’s voice splintered. A dry stick at the best of times, the weekly Royal Nursery Visit always made Mary snap. Henry was no less harsh to Lizzy of course, but she’d learn to strategise. Fixing a dutiful smile on to her face, she’d let her mind race off through the realms of her maps. While Father hammered home the female virtues (Mute, Meek and Marriageable) Lizzy would soar through the sky in a shining Spitfire, or ride her chariot to victory in Ancient Sparta!
Today’s daydream had been a corker: Lizzy was winning a gunfight in the Wild West (Billy the Kid at her back) when reality had yanked her back. Crash, she found Mary fighting back tears, her precious crucible smashed and ground under their father’s gouty foot. Liz had leaped to her big sister’s defence. “Don’t call her a fool girl, Father. She’s a total know-it-all.”
“And you’re an interfering strumpet!” Henry had bellowed. “Even worse than your mother. Christ’s wounds, can someone BRING ME A CHICKEN.” He stomped off in search of more drumsticks, prompting Mary to furiously fashion a new firelighter. And Liz to chew mutinously on her curls. Red as her dad’s, you’d think they’d score her some points? But no - having failed to be born a boy, Lizzy could only keep on failing.
“Pax, sis,” she sighed, “we’re both stuck in the same fix.” She nodded at the rickety table at the back of the nursery. The only corner not taken up with their brother’s books, it was here in the shadows that Mary stored her shiny metal powders in twists of paper; her jars of lye and meticulously-labelled plant oils. And it was here, among her sister’s dismissed discoveries and overlooked experiments, that Lizzy dared smuggle in the odd map. “If I give back your lighter,” she sighed, “promise not to burn my dreams?”
“Dreams?! Pah, what business does a Tudorgate princess have with dreams?” cried Mary. “These maps you pore over in secret, they’re constructed from fables, charting flights of fancy! Face facts,” she said bitterly, “you’re not going anywhere. Neither of us are.”
Together, the sisters gazed out through the narrow nursery window to the castle courtyard - their portcullised playground. Then Mary’s eyes lit on her tinderbox, and Liz saw something dangerous spark. “I’ve stashed a sack of saltpetre in the kitchen,” said Mary. “Want to get in on some explosions?”
“Not. Around. My maps!” Liz bolted from the bedroom. Picking up speed – and several layers of petticoats – she dropped to her knees, and slid down the Long Gallery on a sea of skirts. Finally, she was flying!
“Oof,” Mary slid into the back of her, locking them both into a skid. Like a sledge on silk runners, they hurtled towards a massive oak dresser. Trying to brake, Lizzy grabbed at a wall-hanging. The vast, faded tapestry depicted Henry VIII of Tudorgate in his golden youth – all confidence and bulging calves. Lizzy clung to them! And brought the whole creaky canvas crashing down.
It took a moment for the dust to clear. Coughing, lurching to her feet, Liz found herself looking down at a small boy. In a very big doublet. “Crikey, Squirt,” she flattened her ruff for a better look. “What’ve they forced you into now?”
“An old doublet of Dad’s.” Her bookish brother blinked down at his preposterously-padded front. “Apparently he wore it to cow the French. What do you think?”
“Mmm...” Stuffed to the point of bursting, the golden yellow doublet drooped down to Ed’s knobbly knees. Encased in baggy red tights, his skinny legs were splattered with ink and quill feathers. “You look like a chicken,” she said. His little face fell. “Relax, you’ll be cock of the yard!” She grinned, ruffling his hair. Then giving it a sharp tug...anything to create height their dad demanded.
Poor Ed, she sighed, straightening his specs. It was only his brain getting bigger. However much Henry hurled his royal heir at the hunt, or forced him to joust, the sensitive 9-year-old saved his mental focus (immense) and physical strength (minimal) for learning.
“Whatchyer reading?” Lizzy caught the vast vellum slipping from her brother’s spindly arms. “Fartus Bumms Volumius?” She pretended to peer at the Latin text. “Odourus Constipatotorium?”
“Close,” he beamed. “The History of That Which We Excrete. In small chunks.”
“Ach, yer’ll not be popping out any chunks today, pet.” A matronly servant bustled in, clutching a steaming chamber pot. “No time for nothing but tinkles. The King wants you lot in the Great Hall.”
In one brisk movement, the muscular maid hoiked up Edward’s tights, smoothed down Lizzy’s ruff - and tugged Mary out from under the tapestry.
“Now which of yerr’s got that wee burny-box?” She gave the royal sisters a suspicious sniff. “A-ha!” She plunged a fist down Lizzy’s bejewelled bodice. Extracted the tinderbox – and dropped it into the chamber-pot. Plop.
“Nursey, no!” shrieked Mary. “What are you doing?”
“Tidying. There,” Nursey sloshed the pot behind a wall-hanging, “much better. Have you forgotten it’s Elizabeth’s big banquet tonight?”
“It’s not my banquet,” Liz crossed her arms, “I never asked for it.”
“Course not. You’re a girl,” Edward volunteered cheerfully. “You don’t get to ask for anything.”
“No kidding,” puffed Liz.
“So why keep fighting it, Lambkin?” said Nursey. “It’s just the way things are.”
“But why?” Lizzy craned to see beyond the palace battlements. “Why can’t I get out there, see new worlds?”
“Because rules is rules,” harrumphed Nursey, “leastways they are in the City of Conturbabimus. When the sands of time settled, The Grand Council set them into stone.
“Stone walls, that’s all.” Liz crossed her arms. “But why build them so high?”
“Well, how else they goin’ ter carve their Grand Council decrees into ‘em? In letters huge as a house! Not that I can read them, o’ course.” She heaved her bosom. “Lucky we’re learned ‘em with our manners. Recite with me, children!”
“We must be bound by our borders,” muttered Mary,
“Stay true to our kingdom,” sighed Edward.
“And know our place in it.” Nursey tucked Lizzy’s red curls into her headpiece. “Your place, dear, is ter be a Tudorgate Princess.” She rapped at Lizzy’s stiff brocade bodice with a red-raw knuckle. “While I’m stuck scrubbing your undies, your job is to embroider hankies, play the lute and get betrothed.”
“But I’m only 13!”
“Exactly,” beamed Nursey. What better age to sign your life away to a man you barely know! Aren’t you excited?”
“Excited?” A clanking noise came up from the castle courtyard: the scrape and rattle of the portcullis being raised. “I’m about to be led out like a prisoner -”
“Princess,” Nursey corrected her,
“To be forced AGAINST MY WILL —”
“Joyfully betrothed,” nodded Nursey,
“To a monster!”
Prologue
Do you see that shooting star? No, not that one – look a little to the left. Yes, that’s it! Peer closely at that star, and you might see a small thatched cottage inside...
Chapter 2
A blast of trumpets drew them to the narrow nursery window. “It’s him,” Mary peered through the lead bars. “The Earl of Hogwitch.”
Chapter 3
“M’lady.” Maids of honour closed round her like an armed escort. “The King awaits.” With a crackling of skirts, Liz was led down the stone steps...
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Email us to get more ideas for history fun. BE FIRST to read new Nick in Time chapters as we write ‘em!
