PREVIOUSLY (Chapter 118)
[January 4, 1493 | Month 11, Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar. Shene Palace, London, England.
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Henry dismissed him (John de Vere) with a sharp gesture. Once alone, he approached a map of the European continent. He traced the perimeter of the British Isles with his finger, his expression one of quiet confidence. With a hint of ambition, he drew an imaginary line toward France, his eternal rival. Then, with a flicker of hope, he traced a bold, new path toward the West.
His mind raced with visions of a future where England, and not Spain, would secure exclusive trade with this new realm. Should he master this route and win the favor of this mysterious kingdom, wealth would pour into his coffers. To conquer European territories or dominate the high seas would no longer be a distant dream for the House of Tudor.]
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Shene Palace, London, England.
January 1494 || Year 11 of the SuaChie Calendar, Tenth Month.
The Sunday morning light filtered through the high lancet windows of Shene Palace, casting pools of liquid gold upon tapestries that chronicled glories of ages past. Henry VII, the first monarch of the House of Tudor, paced through his private chambers with an agility he seldom displayed before his court.
His lips, usually set in a grim line of concentration, relaxed today into a barely audible murmur; he was humming old battle chants—melodies that had not escaped his throat since the blood-soaked days when he claimed the throne at Bosworth Field.
His mood was, to say the least, renewed. The cause lay not in the prayers of the morning mass, but in the ledgers resting upon his oaken desk. For nearly a year, England had been trading with the Suaza Kingdom, 그 formidable and mysterious entity that awaited on the far side of the Sunrise Ocean.
Initially, Henry had shared the blindness of his European peers, imagining that the ships of this realm hailed from the legendary lands of Cipangu or the domains of the Great Khan. But the reports from his agents had been stark: they were not pale-skinned Asians, but men and women of a deep, bronzed complexion—a middle ground between European pallor and the ebony of the African kingdoms.
To Henry, however, the color of one's skin mattered as little as the color of the wind, provided the wind blew in favor of his treasury.
The monarch halted before a grand map. His mind traced the routes of wealth that had transformed England in a mere twelve months. While he squeezed opposing nobles with stifling tributes to secure his position, Suaza goods had granted him a political and financial escape.
Jewels wrought with techniques that defied London's finest goldsmiths; precious metals of insulting purity; exotic foods that challenged the English palate; and spices that made common pepper seem like mere road dust.
Most astounding—and what fueled his deepest suspicions—was the barter system the Suaza imposed. They did not crave gold; they craved life. Provisions and seeds, beasts of burden or livestock, tools, art, and knowledge.
Given that the kingdom accepted only this manner of payment, Henry had commanded his allied nobles to foster the exchange. The Suaza Kingdom paid with such staggering generosity that England could resell the surplus to other European realms with a scandalous profit margin.
The European pie had been carved with surgical precision: England dominated trade with the Kalmar Union in the north; Portugal handled France and Northwestern Africa; and the Spain of the Catholic Monarchs flooded the Mediterranean.
Fortuitously for England, ever hungry for more foreign wares, the Suaza had permitted European vessels to dock in their ports. And though England initially lacked ships capable of such a feat, the cunning Tudor had wrested two Naos from King Charles VIII of France as part of a recent truce.
"Fortune favors those who know how to wait," Henry whispered to himself, eyeing the documents that detailed the profits from England's first two transoceanic voyages.
At that moment, the heavy oak door groaned open. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford and his most loyal counselor, entered, followed by a gallant-looking noble in travel-worn attire: James Norrington.
Henry did not wait for the flourishes of protocol. He turned to them, his eyes glinting with greed and expectation.
"Well?" the King demanded, his voice cutting the air like a razor's edge. "Norrington, tell me your holds are ready to sink the wharves of the Thames. Where is the gold? The stones? That bitter cocoa the nobles now drink as if it were the very blood of Christ? The maize?"
James Norrington and John de Vere exchanged a fleeting glance, masking their surprise at the monarch's vehemence. Both knew the English economy was moving from the anemia of the Wars of the Roses to a vibrant gold fever, but to see the ever-composed Henry so anxious was a sign of how heavily the crown now leaned upon these expeditions.
"Your Majesty," John de Vere began with a bow. "The cargo exceeds all prior estimates. The draft animals we sent, along with the volumes of history and pieces of sacred art, were received by the Suaza as treasures fallen from the heavens. In return, they have delivered a quantity of metals and spices that shall swell our current treasury by a vast percentage."
Henry let out a sigh of relief that seemed to strip ten years from his frame. However, Norrington's face remained somber.
"Nonetheless, Majesty... we encountered a setback," the noble said, lowering his gaze.
Henry's mood shifted instantly. His brows knitted together, casting an ominous shadow over his pale eyes.
"A setback? Pirates? Storms? Has Spain dared to interfere?" he asked, his voice turning glacial.
"Worse, Majesty. Or stranger," Norrington replied. "We were detained at the port of Sunrise City. The Suaza inspectors forbade us from offloading for days. They claimed the presence of... vermin and sick men."
Henry blinked, bewildered. He let out a dry, mirthless laugh.
"Rats? Sick men? Norrington, is there a ship in this sinful world that does not carry rats or sailors with fevers? Why do the Suaza make such a clamor over the trifles of a mariner's life?"
Norrington cleared his throat, visibly uneasy. He recalled the almost terrifying efficiency of the Suaza men, clad in white robes and linen masks, inspecting every corner of his nao.
"They do not consider it a trifle, Sire. To the Suaza, the rats of Europe are 'sources of invisible plagues.' They boarded our vessel, captured every rodent with traps the likes of which I have never seen, and took them away to be burned. Then, they quarantined my sick men."
Henry listened without interruption, while John de Vere nodded beside him, as if this were not the first such report.
"They did not rob us, Majesty," James continued. "But they rejected entire shipments of flour and wheat simply because they found mouse droppings in the sacks. They said that 'unclean food is poison for the soul and the body'."
Henry turned to John de Vere, seeking confirmation of such madness.
"John, have you heard the like before?"
"Regrettably, yes, Majesty," De Vere replied. "Reports from Portuguese and Spanish ships mention the same. The Suaza rejects any product poorly packaged or that has been in contact with vermin. Their rigor is absolute. If the wheat is not clean, it does not enter their realm, regardless of how much gold we offer in exchange."
Norrington stepped forward, his tone now heavy with profound intrigue.
"But there is more, Majesty. Something that should interest you more than gold. These Suaza guard their health in a manner that borders on magic or forbidden lore. Their rules are strict because their results are... astounding. I observed, while waiting in the port, that in their cities the children are as well-nourished as if they were all the sons of dukes. One rarely hears the tolling of funeral bells for infants. They say their healers know ways to treat wounds and fevers that would make our finest physicians look like butchers. Their children rarely die, Sire. They grow strong, with all their teeth and without the pits of the smallpox."
The silence that followed was heavy. Henry felt a lump in his throat. His mind flew immediately to his firstborn, Prince Arthur. The boy was the hope of the Tudor dynasty, but like every child in England, his life hung by the fragile thread of health. Fevers and pestilence respected no crowns.
"Children who do not die?" Henry whispered, his political ambition yielding to the primal instinct of a father—or perhaps both drives racing through his mind at once. "They grow strong?"
The King sat slowly in his chair, his fingers drumming against the wooden armrest. Wealth was necessary for power, but power was futile without an heir to uphold it. If those bronzed "savages" across the sea possessed the secret to keeping children alive, that knowledge was worth more than all the cocoa and gold in their mountains.
"John," Henry said, his voice regaining its authority, yet tempered with a new urgency. "We have that scholar, the man from Oxford who has been studying the tongues and texts of the Suaza envoys... Thomas Linacre, I believe his name is."
"Yes, Majesty," De Vere replied. "He has been working closely with the scribes who arrived with the last embassy."
"Summon him," Henry commanded. "Bring him before me at once. I wish to know what these Suaza say regarding the air, the water, and the flesh. If they have a way to protect the lives of the newborn, England shall have it as well. I care not what it costs. If we must burn every rat in London so that my children may live as theirs do, then let it be so."
Norrington and De Vere bowed deeply. As they withdrew, Henry looked back at the map. The West was no longer merely a source of revenue; it was now a beacon of medical hope that he would seize for his kin. The House of Tudor would survive not only by the sword, but by the strange, puritanical knowledge of a kingdom that seemed to understand disease better than they understood themselves.
One month later.
Placentia Palace, Greenwich, England.
February 1494 || Year 11 of the SuaChie Calendar, Eleventh Month.
The air in Placentia Palace had always possessed a thick flavor—a mixture of stale humidity from the Thames, the soot of chimneys battling the winter, and that lingering scent of old leather and sweat that defined the English nobility. However, in the last month, Henry VII had noticed a change bordering on the supernatural.
Upon entering his children's wing, the palace no longer smelled of "palace." It smelled of nothing. Or rather, of a sharp freshness, like pines after rain, mingled with the citrus aroma of the soaps the Suaza merchants had begun to introduce to the court as part of their "courtesy gifts."
Henry walked through the oak gallery, its grain now gleaming under a layer of wax so clean he could see the reflection of his own boots. His thoughts drifted back to the meeting he had held weeks ago with Thomas Linacre.
The scholar, fresh from his studies with the foreign scribes, had spoken to him with a passion that verged on heresy.
"Majesty," Linacre had told him, his eyes alight. "The Suaza are not merely masters of gold; they are masters of the invisible. They believe that death does not always enter by the sword, but crawls upon the skin and swims in the water we drink. They say the gods grant us a pure body at birth, and every time we touch filth without washing, we surrender a part of our soul to the darkness of disease."
Henry remembered his initial skepticism. To a man who had won his crown in the mud of Bosworth, the notion that daily bathing and boiling water could save a kingdom sounded like the charlatanry of a fairground. But Linacre was no charlatan.
He had shared with Henry his experiment with the orphans of London's parishes, the results of which had been staggering. Henry still remembered the skin of those children: once covered in pustules and scabs, now firm, supple, and of a healthy hue rarely seen even among the children of dukes.
Reaching the main courtyard, the King stopped behind a pillar, hidden by the shadows of heavy tapestries.
He watched his firstborn, Arthur. The six-year-old prince was chasing a hoop with a vitality that made Henry's heart leap. Months ago, Arthur had been a child of wheezing breath and restless sleep. Now, his cheeks were flushed with effort and his laughter was clear, devoid of that trace of phlegm that had once haunted the royal physicians.
Margaret, his three-year-old daughter, sat on a stone bench beside Queen Elizabeth. Both watched as a nursemaid cleaned the little girl's hands with a cloth dampened in a clear solution before allowing her to eat a piece of fruit.
Elizabeth, his wife, looked up, and though she did not see Henry, her face reflected a peace the King had not seen in her since before her first labor. Infant mortality—that shadow that always stalked the Tudors like a hungry wolf—seemed to have retreated before the hope that "Suaza cleanliness" promised.
"If hygiene is their shield, and knowledge their sword, what then are we?" Henry mused with a mixture of envy and ambition.
The health of his children was not merely a father's relief; it was the stability of his dynasty. If his sons lived, England would not return to the Wars of the Roses. If his children were strong, his marriage alliances would be the anvil upon which he would forge a Europe under Tudor command. He had even begun to consider not betrothing his daughter Margaret to James IV of Scotland, but rather to the young King of the Suaza.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps upon stone. A servant, chest heaving, bowed before him.
"Majesty, the noble James Norrington and the envoy of the Suaza Kingdom have arrived at Placentia. They say they bring news that cannot wait for tomorrow's council."
Henry nodded, his face returning to that mask of analytical coldness that characterized him. He mentally bid farewell to the family scene and headed for his private quarters.
One hour later.
The atmosphere in the audience chamber was tense. The beeswax candles sputtered, casting long shadows over the map of the world Henry kept upon his table.
Before him, James Norrington stood flanked by Apqua, a copper-skinned man whose gaze was as sharp as a hawk's. Apqua did not dress like a savage; he wore a robe of dark silk and a mantle of fine wool that displayed a level of refinement that unsettled the English courtiers.
"Majesty," Apqua began, his English perfect, almost devoid of an accent. "The Young Chuta has asked me to convey an invitation extended only to the realms he deems... visionary."
Henry leaned back in his chair, interlacing his long fingers. "We are listening, Envoy Apqua. James has spoken to me of your rigor in politics and trade. I trust this news is heartening."
Apqua smiled, a slight and diplomatic curve.
"We have discovered a passage in our lands—an isthmus where the earth narrows and the seas nearly touch. We call it the Mixed Passage. Should you cross there, you will find a vast ocean your maps do not yet name: the Sunset. On the other side of that ocean, Majesty, lie the East Indies... the true ones."
The silence that followed was absolute. Norrington shifted restlessly, and Henry felt his pulse quicken. The Indies? Bypassing the Turks and the long detour of the Portuguese?
"The Young Chuta invites England, Spain, and Portugal to a joint expedition," Apqua continued. "We grant passage without taxes. It is a zone of peace. We shall provide the ships in that new ocean for your crews. You may purchase them in the future, but initially, they shall be lent for exploration and trade."
Henry processed the information with lightning speed.
"And why not sell us the ships here, in this ocean?" James asked, voicing the doubt Henry already held. "If they can sell ships in that ocean, what prevents them from doing the same in this one?"
"Because our vessels in the Sunrise are our sustenance and our defense," Apqua replied with glacial frankness. "We do not sell the keys to our home, Noble James. But we offer you the keys to a treasure we shall share. The Young Chuta believes in mutual benefit, but also in the balance of power."
Cunning, Henry thought. He offers us the wealth of the East so we stop looking at his own realm with eyes of conquest. He wants us as partners in the 'Sunset' so we remain dependent in the Atlantic.
It was a masterstroke of statecraft that the Tudor could not help but admire. This Chuta, at only eleven years old, was playing the kings of Europe like pieces on a chessboard.
He accepted the proposal that very night, sealing England's fate with a signature upon parchment.
Eight months later.
Shene Palace, London, England.
October 1494 || Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Seventh Month.
Winter had returned to London early, and although it wasn't as cold as the height of winter, the chill could already be felt in the bones, but the royal coffers were warmer than ever. Trade with the Suaza had transformed the city's wharves into a hive of wealth. Henry sat in his private study before Edward de Vere, the son of his closest ally, John de Vere.
Young Edward, barely eighteen, wore heavy traveling clothes. His gaze was steady, reflecting the strict education Henry had personally overseen for the youths they would send west.
"Do you understand your purpose in Dawn City, Edward?" the King asked, his voice resonating with an authority that now stretched beyond the British Isles.
"I understand, my King," the young De Vere replied. "I go there not merely as an explorer to witness the results of the Indies expedition. I go as the bridge for the House of Tudor. My mission is to win the favor of King Chuta, to prove that England is his most loyal ally, and above all, to lay upon the table the proposal of a marriage union with your daughter, Princess Margaret. I must ensure England is the first realm to receive their medical science and technology—before Spain can even react."
Henry nodded, satisfied. He had temporarily discarded the alliance with Scotland. Why waste time with James IV when he could bind his blood to the lords of the future?
"If you can make Chuta see England as his twin in the East," Henry whispered, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder, "you will have secured a thousand years of peace and dominance for the Tudors. Go, Edward. Bring us the secret of their longevity and the key to their seas. Let the Spaniards keep their prayers; we shall keep life and gold."
As Edward departed, Henry looked back at the map. His fingers traced the line from London to Dawn City (Cuba). The world was changing, and he—the king many considered a miserly usurper—was about to become the most powerful monarch in Christendom, thanks to the wisdom of a child who lived where the sun sets.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
First, since everyone commented so actively (no one) on the Central Mansion image, I'll briefly describe it.
It's a two-story mansion with a mix of local style and structural improvements. The materials are mortar and wood, along with iron for joints, nails, screws, and more. Just so you know, for the Muisca people, only one corner of the mansion was their temple before Chuta's arrival.
Back to this chapter.
As you noticed, we're back with Henry of England.
This chapter was originally going to be published much later, as it shows the trade dealings from the other side. Also, I wanted to mention Margaret, who will be Chuta's fourth fiancée.
And here's the problem: there are already four fiancées, and I honestly hadn't planned on so many, but the story is progressing on its own, and I had two other female characters I wanted to develop. And I don't know what to do. Also, I obviously won't give away any spoilers about what will happen to each of them, but I'm curious what you all think.
By the way, this chapter also came about because of the request to keep everything chronological. If I published it a year later, narratively speaking, it would feel a bit out of place.
Also, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm trying to make the chapters more varied, with more sections. It's no longer just about greetings and formal meetings in palaces, like these chapters, but about giving it more breadth and including historical changes from a European perspective.
UFD: Of the seven children Henry VII had, only three reached adulthood. Arthur lived to be 15, and his other three children, including Isabella, who has already been born in the novel, died in childhood or as newborns. Isabella, specifically, died at the age of three, something that might change in the novel.
By the way, one of his daughters, Mary, was considered the most beautiful woman in Europe in her time, and I'll take advantage of that and make Margaret beautiful too. Hahahaha
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]