[3rd Person POV: Perkin Warbeck]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
London, England.
The thick London air of July seeped through the half-open windows of Sir William Stanley's residence, carrying with it the stench of Thames mud and the distant murmur of a city that never truly found its peace. Inside the study, however, the silence was almost solid.
Perkin Warbeck watched dust motes dance in shafts of golden light, feeling the weight of his brocade doublet and, above all, the weight of his own farce—or his truth, depending on who was listening.
Perkin, son of Edward IV of the House of York and former King of England, had escaped an attack in 1483. He had remained under the care of his tutor, Edward Brampton, while traveling through Europe to flee the conflict ravaging England. After Henry VII rose as King, Perkin—determined to oppose him—sought internal aid. He landed in Ireland to seek support for his claim to the English throne, but his mission failed.
Turning to external help, he appealed to Charles VIII of France. However, bound by a treaty with England, Charles could not support any partisan opposed to Henry VII and rejected Perkin's petition. Yet, it was because of this quest for support across Europe that he met Margaret in Burgundy.
Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy, finding a striking resemblance between Perkin and her brother—despite not having known him as a child—gave him her immediate support. She had backed other pretenders before in her opposition to Henry VII, and supporting a family member was, to her, an even greater cause.
Perkin, still haunted by the failure in Ireland but emboldened by the backing of his 'aunt' and several local nobles—Sir Simon Montfort, Sir Thomas Thwaites, and Sir Robert Clifford—had decided this time to land directly on English soil and assert his aspirations to the throne with local support.
However, Margaret, with her formidable political instincts, opposed her nephew's move. She had warned him in a voice as cold and authoritative as ice, words that still echoed in his ears: "You must be wary of Henry, especially his latest maneuvers... Furthermore, it is better that you seek more reliable allies within England itself."
Margaret, with her hawk-like eyes and hands heavy with rings of old gold, had forbidden him from landing in Kent with the pomp of a legitimate king.
"England breathes a strange air, Richard," she had told him, using the name he claimed. "Something I cannot quite decipher. Do not enter as a conqueror; enter as a shadow... At least for now."
And there he was, a shadow seeking shelter in the office of one of the most powerful—and vulnerable—men in the realm.
"The wine is from Guyenne; I trust it is to your liking," Sir William said, breaking a silence that had stretched too long.
Perkin nodded, though he barely wet his lips. They had spent the first hour speaking of trifles: the unusual summer heat, the repairs at the Tower of London, the price of grain. Sir William, a man of sharp features and shifty eyes, fidgeted constantly with the seal of his ring.
As Lord Chamberlain of the Treasury, Stanley was the guardian of Henry VII's coffers; sitting across from a pretender to the throne was not just treason—it was financial and physical suicide.
"It is a fine wine, Sir William," Perkin replied, lowering the glass with studied elegance. "But we both know I did not cross the Channel to discuss vineyards."
Stanley stiffened. The slight tremor in his hand as he set down his own glass did not escape Perkin's notice.
"England needs more than an administrator on the throne," the young man continued, lowering his voice to a sibilant whisper. "It needs the blood that was snatched away. A pure heritage, not the murky blend that occupies Westminster today... You were at Bosworth, Sir William. You know the crown was plucked from a hawthorn bush. You know the dead do not always stay where we leave them."
Silence fell once more, but this time it was bitter. Perkin felt small beneath Stanley's scrutinizing gaze. He knew that despite his expensive garments and perfect diction, he lacked that magnetic aura people attributed to the Plantagenets. He was all too aware of his own nerves. Stanley, for his part, stared at the door as if expecting Henry's guards to burst through at any moment.
"It is dangerous to speak of the dead, boy," Stanley murmured. "Especially when the living has ears in every wall."
"My aunt, Duchess Margaret, does not share that opinion," Perkin remarked with calculated nonchalance.
The effect was immediate. Stanley looked up, and for the first time, the fear in his eyes was replaced by a spark of astonishment. If the 'White Lady' of Burgundy, sister to the York kings, placed her seal of approval on this youth, the situation changed drastically. Margaret's support was not merely political; it was a validation of blood that Stanley could not ignore.
"The Duchess sends you?" Stanley asked, his voice barely a breath.
"She recognizes me," Perkin affirmed, straightening his back. "She knows I am the son of her brother, the true Duke of York. She would not support an impostor, Sir William. She seeks to restore the divine right that Henry has trampled."
Stanley sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the surprise had hardened into a frigid seriousness—the look of a man weighing gold coins on a rigged scale.
"Listen well," Stanley said, leaning over the table. "You claim to have the blood, and perhaps it is true. But Henry has something stronger: he has the future bound in iron knots. His son, Prince Arthur, has already been betrothed to Catherine of Aragon. Do you understand what that means? The blood of the Catholic Monarchs, the purest in Europe, will mingle with the Tudors. Against that, your claim is but an echo of the past."
Perkin felt a sting of irritation but kept his face impassive.
"Furthermore," Stanley continued relentlessly, "you speak of discontented nobles. And there are some, of course. Henry stifles us with his laws of treason, watches us with his spies, and fines us for the simple act of keeping servants. But..." he paused, gesturing toward the window, "his trade treaties—his cursed Magnus Intercursus—are filling the pockets of the counties. Even those who hate him are prospering. A noble with a full purse rarely draws his sword for an uncertain cause... Moreover, he has gained very rich and powerful allies."
Stanley's words felt like slaps. Perkin felt resentment burning in his throat. How dare this bureaucrat compare the sacred right of a king to the dealings of a merchant? Henry VII was not a king; he was a bookkeeper with a crown, and that was what hurt Perkin most: that the world seemed to prefer the stability of money over the honor of lineage.
"I see that your loyalty is as tied to your office as Chamberlain as your judgment is to the Treasury," Perkin retorted, forcing a polite smile that did not reach his eyes.
"My loyalty is to survival, young man," Stanley decreed. "And I advise that yours be as well."
Perkin stood up, adjusting his gloves with deliberation. The air in the room had become unbreathable.
"I thank you for your time, Sir William. And for your wine."
"May God keep you on your path," Stanley replied without rising from his chair, his mind already set on how to erase any trace of this meeting from his ledgers.
Stepping out into the street, Perkin felt the July heat stifle him. London felt like a trap of stone and commercial law. He looked north, where the air was colder and men, perhaps, were less cautious with their coins and more faithful to their steel.
If England was blinded by Henry's gold, he would have to seek steel elsewhere.
Scotland, he thought, as his carriage vanished into the crowd. James Stuart will understand what Stanley refused to see.
[3rd Person POV: Juan, Prince of Asturias]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Barcelona, Spain.
The city, submerged in the usual sweltering haze of these months, seemed to exhale a heavy vapor that filtered even into the coolest corners of the Minor Royal Palace.
Juan, the Prince of Asturias, observed the beautifully painted walls bathed in sunlight streaming through the Gothic window, highlighting every brushstroke. It was something he compared to his own life over the past months.
At seventeen, Juan was no longer the fragile child his parents, the Catholic Monarchs, feared losing every winter. He now sought his place in the kingdom through his own intelligence and capabilities, bolstered by the support of his inner circle.
Although the official tutelage of Peter Martyr d'Anghiera was more a courtly formality than an educational necessity, the prince valued the presence of the Italian humanist. Peter, alongside minds like Nicolás de Ovando and Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, had sculpted in him a vision of the world that stretched far beyond the borders of Castile and Aragon.
"So, my Lord Peter, is Charles VIII's ambition truly limitless?" Juan asked, turning his gaze from the window to the maps on the table.
Peter Martyr sighed, adjusting his robes. His eyes, ever analytical, reflected the fatigue of one who knew the depths of European politics.
"The Valois' justification for claiming the crown of Naples is, to be generous, ridiculous, Highness. It rests on the rights of the Anjou which time and law have turned to dust. Your house, the Trastámara, are the legitimate heirs to that land. Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba does not just fight for territory; he fights for the truth of your lineage."
Juan nodded, though a shadow of doubt crossed his mind. "How much blood does a dynastic 'truth' cost?" he wondered. Just as he was about to ask about the human cost of the Italian campaign, the heavy oak door swung open with a vigor only one person in the palace dared to show.
Juana, his sister, entered the hall with a firm step and a fiery gaze. Despite the heat, her presence seemed to stir the stagnant air.
"Highness," Peter greeted with a respectful bow, which she acknowledged with a curt nod.
"Sister," Juan said with a slight smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your leaving our mother's chambers?"
"To the fact that the Royal Palace is a hive of sweating courtiers and shouting ambassadors," Juana replied, dropping into a chair across from them. "The news of the League of Venice's victories has driven everyone mad. It seems half of Europe wants to celebrate that we have contained the French."
Juan understood immediately. He and Peter had taken refuge in the smaller palace precisely to escape that human tide.
"That is exactly what we were discussing, Princess," Peter intervened smoothly. "How the union of your crown with Venice, the Holy Roman Empire, and Milan will ensure a lasting peace under the Cross of Christ... Victory was inevitable."
Juana arched an eyebrow, turning to her brother with a spark of cunning in her eyes that Juan knew well.
"Tell me, Juan... if victory is so certain and the outlook so 'bright,' don't you think our parents will decide it is time to hasten our destinies?"
Juan tensed imperceptibly. His sister's analysis was sharp. At the beginning of the year, with cannons thundering in Italy, the double marriage alliance with the House of Habsburg had been ratified: he to Margaret of Austria, and Juana to Archduke Philip.
A sudden longing, warm and strange, blossomed in Juan's chest. He had seen portraits of Margaret; he imagined her voice, the scent of northern lands, and the possibility of a future that was not just duty, but companionship.
"It is very likely, Juana," Juan replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Success in Italy strengthens our hand to receive Maximilian's ambassadors."
"Look at him, Peter!" Juana exclaimed with a silver laugh. "My brother is already imagining himself sailing toward Flanders! Don't try to hide it, Juan; your cheeks betray you more than your words."
"Do not toy with me, sister," Juan pleaded, though he could not stop a smile from touching his lips as Peter Martyr let out a discreet chuckle behind his hand.
Juana leaned forward, observing her brother with more genuine curiosity. The afternoon sun highlighted a vitality in Juan's face that was not usually there.
"Jokes aside... you look well, brother. Your complexion has a livelier color. You no longer look like the wax prince who grew exhausted just from climbing a staircase. To which saint have you been praying?"
Juan let out a small laugh and shook his head.
"To none new, I assure you. I owe it to Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo... He has been obsessed with the reports coming from the Kingdom of Suaza, across the ocean. Apparently, those people have a conception of health that we ignore."
"Suaza?" Juana frowned. "The ones who trade heavily with the English?"
"The very ones... Gonzalo taught me their customs: a much more rigorous hygiene, frequent baths, and, above all, a more varied diet. I have started trying those fruits they bring—less heavy meat and more of their grains. I feel... revitalized, Juana. As if the air itself were lighter."
Juan fell silent for a moment, reflecting on the geopolitics of that knowledge. "England is being bold," he thought. He knew Henry VII was not only seeking gold; there were even rumors he wished to link his blood with the lords of Suaza through his daughters. His own parents, by contrast, moved with a caution that sometimes bordered on distrust.
"I only know that this 'cacao' is a blessing," Juana said, licking her lips mischievously. "And those sweet fruits that look like jewels. If that kingdom can make us feel this way, perhaps we should pay them more attention than the French."
"The problem," Juan added with a sigh, "is that we know almost nothing of them. They are shadows on Columbus's maps."
It was Peter Martyr who delivered the final stroke to the conversation, reclaiming his tone as a privileged informant.
"If you wish to know the truth, and not just merchant rumors, you must look toward Seville," the tutor said, capturing the siblings' total attention. "Rodrigo de Escobedo, who was on that first voyage of encounter, has returned. They say he lived a whole year among them, as one of their own."
Juan felt a spark of pure curiosity.
A year among them.
"Does Escobedo know more than Columbus?" Juan asked, his eyes shining with interest.
"Columbus saw coasts and savages," Peter declared. "Escobedo, they say, saw an empire."
Juana and Juan exchanged a look. In the heat of Barcelona, the promise of a fresh and mysterious kingdom across the sea felt much more real than the old wars of Naples.
[3rd Person POV: João II]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
The Royal Palace of Alvor, Alvor, Portugal.
The air in the palace was saturated with the thick scent of incense and the acrid smell of medicinal ointments. It was July, and the heat of the Portuguese summer filtered through the heavy curtains, making the chamber stifling.
On the carved oak bed, the man once called 'The Perfect Prince' now seemed a shadow of himself. João II, King of Portugal, breathed with difficulty, staring at the ceiling as if he could read the destiny of his nation in the beams.
He felt his body, once vigorous, was now a prison of failing flesh. Despite his state, his mind remained a battlefield; he suspected that poison, and not nature, was the author of his decline, but the time for reprisals had run out. There was only time for the succession.
The door creaked, interrupting his bitter thoughts. Manuel, his cousin and brother to Queen Eleanor, entered with a hesitant step.
"Your Majesty," Manuel said, bowing with a reverence that bordered on funereal solemnity. He approached the bedside, trying to hide the shock of seeing the monarch so consumed.
João nodded slightly, a gesture that seemed to cost him the world. His eyes, however, retained that steely glint that had kept rebellious nobles at bay for years.
"Manuel..." he whispered in a raspy voice. "Come closer. I have no breath left for unnecessary protocols."
Manuel took a chair, sitting on the edge.
"You summoned me with urgency, cousin. How may I serve you? My loyalty, as you know, belongs to the Crown."
João closed his eyes for an instant.
"You know what my wish is. Jorge, my son..." he paused to catch his breath. "Jorge de Lencastre should carry this weight. He is my blood. But your sister Eleanor is relentless, and Rome... Rome prefers legitimacy to aptitude. They oppose him as if he were a sin staining the throne."
Manuel lowered his gaze, feeling the tension in the room.
"Jorge is a capable youth, João," he remarked softly. "But the kingdom is restless. If Alfonso... if your son Alfonso were here, none of this would be necessary. It was a tragedy that God took him so soon."
The mention of his late son caused João's expression to turn icy. A skeletal hand clenched the sheet.
"God had nothing to do with that fall from the horse, Manuel. It was an orchestrated dance," the King said, his voice gaining a sudden and terrifying strength. "Álvaro de Braganza and his henchmen in Castile do not forgive me for stripping them of power here... It was vengeance. And this sickness consuming me now..." he touched his chest feebly, "is the same poison with different faces. They are killing me, Manuel, and they know it."
Manuel recoiled physically; his eyes wide.
"You believe you have been poisoned by them? It is an accusation that would set the peninsula ablaze!"
"There will be no fires if there is no one to hold the torch," João cut him off, shifting subjects with the coldness of a strategist. "Listen well. I will not let Portugal fall into the hands of vultures. I will change my will. You, Manuel, shall be the next King of Portugal."
Manuel sprang to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair. His lips moved, but only unintelligible sounds came out—a mix of terror and an ambition that was only beginning to wake.
"I... Majesty... I cannot... I am not..."
"Sit!" João commanded. "I do not seek your astonishment; I seek your understanding. You will be King, but you will be a watched King. Be wary of the nobles; they are like dogs that lick the hand only to find the tenderest place to bite... Follow the path I have blazed: power resides in the throne, not in the courts of the dukes. Keep the realm in order, or they will devour you before the crown cools on your head."
Manuel nodded stiffly, sitting back down as his mind processed the enormity of the burden he had just received.
"There is more," João continued, his gaze fixed on his successor. "You must marry Isabella, the daughter of the Catholic Monarchs. That union is the shield Portugal needs against the ambitions of Castile."
Manuel frowned, regaining some of his voice.
"But João... the monarchs of Spain will set conditions. It is rumored they will demand the expulsion of the Jews to purify the faith before handing over their daughter. Portugal depends on their knowledge, their finances. Exiling them would cripple our economy at a critical moment."
João sighed, a sound that resembled a dry whistle.
"That is a decision King Manuel will have to make. I give you the crown and the strategy; you will set the price. But do not forget the most important thing: the sea... The explorations cannot stop. I have laid the foundation for the route; you need only walk it."
Manuel leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"And what of the Suaza, João? I have read the reports from our informants and merchants. That kingdom... in that 'Great Quyca' they speak of. Their ships are faster and larger. What shall we do with them?"
João remained pensive, the name of the Suaza evoking images of the Tequendama who patrolled the Atlantic as if they owned the horizon.
"Be wary of Chuta," João warned. "That young leader possesses a wisdom beyond his years. My explorers tried to skirt the south, seeking a route to the west, and discovered that their territory is vast, ungraspable. Their waters of influence reach much farther than their official maps admit. If you confront them, let it be only out of absolute necessity."
"Should I then invite the Suaza to Vasco da Gama's expedition?" Manuel asked. "Cooperate with them as they propose in their trade treaties?"
João shook his head, his eyes shining with one last spark of nationalist cunning.
"Make the expedition yourself, or seek out Spain. Let the marriage with Isabella serve that purpose. I know revealing the route to the Castilians seems like a loss of advantage, but heed my counsel: it is preferable to have a neighbor like Spain—whom we know and can manage through blood—at our side, than to allow the foreign Suaza to expand their nets into our private routes. The Suaza are a force the world does not understand; do not open the door to your garden if you do not want them to end up as masters of the house."
Manuel remained silent, watching the King. The sun began to set in Alvor, bathing the room in a bloody orange. He realized that the world he was about to inherit was much smaller, and yet more dangerous, than he had ever imagined.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I want to mention that all the characters mentioned are historically accurate. Also, the locations and events are real.
This means I spent at least 5 hours researching for this chapter, haha.
Second, each of the perspectives primarily highlights Chuta's future problems.
The complexities of the local courts in Europe, the internal wars, and also the exploration of Portugal. Each of these will be influenced in the chapters that follow Chuta.
Third, there is a lot of implied information and historical changes.
One of them is Perkin's perspective. William should have been executed that year for 'conspiring' with Perkin, but the situation in England changed, and consequently, so did the decisions those people made.
Another is the health of Juan, the heir to the Spanish throne. After her death (in 1497), her sister's sons were candidates for the Spanish crown, which would eventually lead to the coronation of Charles I, one of the most powerful kings in history. But now the situation could change, or not.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
Just one thing, this chapter is one of the longest, I think, but I don't think it can be repeated. It took me too long and almost a day to finish.
By the way, this is the type of chapter that will follow the external or internal perspectives of the narrative. As you can see, I didn't spend two chapters explaining the context of each character; instead, we only see well-set scenes with realistic interactions and plenty of information.
I hope you liked it; I enjoyed researching this.
And there are one or two more chapters like this to come.
By the way, have you seen Code Geass?
For those who have, do you remember the map of the empires?
This is something like what I expect from the novel's ending: the entire world divided into a few kingdoms and empires, not 200 countries. Although this is obviously in a fairly distant period within the novel, and something Chuta won't live to see.
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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.]