A Prospective Short Account from Arthur Tudor

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
In the reign of Henry VIII, the monarch tolerated little critisism from both his council and subjects. However I wonder what would have happened if Henry had listened to this short account form his spectoral brother one night. This is a propective short account form Arthur Tudor to his brother the King and his subjects. This fantastical statement also serves as a piece of base education of Henry VIII's reign and the Tudor family .

Submitted: November 25, 2016

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Submitted: November 25, 2016



Although in life I was denied much, it would seem that the Almighty has granted me the opportunity to recite a short account from beyond the grave to you the many that are still living. With my words I hope in all good faith, I tell thee.

I was the eldest son of the seventh Henry of England, and the serene rose that was my mother, Elizabeth of York. My brother the younger was Henry, who was conferred by blood and my passing to be the eighth King of England to bear the name Henry.

I was reared to succeed my father no more thus to become the next King, but my opportunity was diminished at an early age. My spirit did not question the Almighty decided to exit me so early, however the humanity that still beats in my soul wondered why the Almighty decided upon that action. Anyway I digress…

My brother the younger, Henry was reared to be a priest, so naturally his fascination with auspices and amateur scholarly detail was the basis of his early living pathos, but with these issues throughout his reign as the monarch of this wondrous island, I looked down from Paradise and understood that these were the foundations of such a downfall.

I suppose if by cosmic decision that if I had lived and my brother the younger ascended, I would have cemented a more cold swiftness in politics and a more military approach to the Kingship. For example I would have employed the use of my good Lord Norfolk to be my most chiefly of councillors, who’s wit was as a good as his sword. However as a natural choice my brother the younger the apprentice priest turned overnight monarch elected the son of a butcher turned Cardinal, Thomas Wolsey to be his. As Wolsey’s robe was as red as the blood on his father’s cleaver, from afar with my dead eyes even a dead Prince like me could see that this was a certain negative foreshadowing of what his reign would achieve.

Obviously my brother the younger’s reign was sure to give birth to many a decapitation (some justly, but mostly out of mistimed, childish spontaneous sincerity). Such sincerity that was embroiled and fired by greed and corruption, in my opinion I would have wished him to be more judicious in his choice of battles by protecting his people first rather than his petty egotistical sentimentality. I can forgive in his certain choices of military decisions both they be foreign or domestic, and I appreciate the sacrificees, martyrs and casualties they produced, but the humanity that still pumps in my soul I cannot forgive on one count.

My sweet Katherine, my Spanish rose, my widow who’s cries I have seen from the other side, I yearned for the day that we would be reunited so that the horrid cold wind of persecution that was forged by divisions of faiths, politicians and the boyish greed of my brother the younger would exist no more, and that when he joined with us; that he would answer not only to the Almighty but to us for such inexplicable treatment. When we were reconciled for me it was like all of the light of Heaven became brighter and my bitter longings for the battle with my brother the younger escaped for a moment. However in addition to the hurt he caused my flower from Aragon, I remembered that his thoughts so improper nearly bastardised my sweet but strong niece Mary made my preparation like that of Leonidas of the three hundred. It is no wonder that a loveless father was the catalyst to her perilous reign that had its horrors, but “to understand is not to excuse” as I said to her when she joined us in death.

To conclude this brief (and I hope educational) statement I will tell you avid readers of the first words I ejaculated vehemently to my brother when he joined us in the afterlife. They read:

“You may put a crown on a man, but through and through he is but a man! Divinity in man is nigh on unattainable, especially if deeds are performed out of base desire rather that through pious duty. I forgive you for your reign as a whole, however for the mistreatment towards those you loved, you have indeed found me; finding you; with my sword poised to strike at you!”

Yours Truly

Arthur Tudor

Prince of Wales (1486 – 1502)


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