BLOG 12: Historical Fiction: The Coronation. Short Stories by Arthur T, Merryn B and Zachary N
SHORT STORY 1 - CLEOPATRA'S BATH
Swenet, 21st March 51BC
Dear Diary,
I have just had the most unexpectedly incredible experience. Yesterday, as planned, I set off before dawn to find some Oil of Aswan for Mother’s worsening skin condition. It is in short supply across the region, so I promised to do my bit to bring back as much as possible for everyone who needs it.
Rameses (Rami, as I call him), my beloved donkey, carried me loyally for two hours to the shores of the river. Leaving him with a granite merchants’ warehouse by a pontoon on the riverbank, I paid one bronze drachma to the merchant for a place on his boat to take me across the Nile to Philae. I was told they had stockpiled oil for an important ceremony that was due to take place in the Temple of Isis.
The boat was half wood, half papyrus – with all the cargo loaded onto the wooden side. It was busy with travellers, but I found space to perch on a slab of granite, my feet resting on a bag of grain. I watched as the buildings and temples grew smaller as we left the shore. The river seemed as bustling as ever, perhaps even more than usual, with fishermen, cargo and passenger vessels going about their business.
The wind and current were not in our favour, so the journey was slow and uncomfortable. After a while, the sails were lowered, and the crew had to row for the final bit of the trip. When we arrived at the quay, the merchants dropped the anchor, and I stepped off the vessel onto the busy shore. I had hoped to hitch a lift on the back of a cart to the temple, but there were so many people doing the same that I had to go the rest of the way by foot.
By the time the magnificent temple buildings came into view, I should have felt excitement but only felt weary. My feet ached, and I just wanted to go home as I was already missing Rami and Mother. But I knew I must go on if I was to bring home the oil.
I guessed that I might be able to discreetly source some from one of the bathing houses next to the big temple. But I realised it would take a lot of work to get inside with so many people and officials around. The island seemed unusually busy, and a large crowd seemed to be forming outside the temple. I wondered if there was a special celebration or event taking place. It all felt quite overwhelming. I began to worry I wouldn’t get to the oil.
Then, I noticed a kindly old man with a weathered face watching me with a look of concern from his position on a low temple wall. Unlike my usual self, I somehow plucked up the courage to ask him where I might find some Arwan Oil. He seemed surprised at my question, so I explained it was for my poor mother. He seemed to take pity on me and directed me to the largest of the bathing houses, right inside the middle of the temple complex! I would never have gone in there of my own accord, but I assumed he knew what he was talking about, so reluctantly, I ventured in.
As I approached the building, the scorched earth crunched under my poor, tired, papyrus-sandalled feet. Suddenly, a young but powerful-sounding female voice beckoned loudly from inside the bathing chamber, causing me to jump out of my skin! “Who goes there, servant? There are only three hours until my big moment, and I am not yet cleansed and purified. I must insist that you come and help me prepare this bath for me!”
I was stupefied! Who? Me? Her servant? I looked around, but there was nobody else in sight. I realised the owner of this voice, which sounded highly confident and self-assured, might be my ticket to the oil that l so desperately needed! My thoughts were racing fast, but it took a while for the spark to ignite in my head. Impulsively, I grabbed a fancy-looking robe from a row of neatly laid-out garments, which I assumed were for temple workers just by the grand entrance to the building. This would cover my shabby kalasiri and enable me to blend in as one of the bathing-house workers.
Leaving my worn-out sandals by the door, I took a deep breath and nervously stepped into the grand chamber. I spotted a huge, gilded bathtub in the centre. The plumes of steam rising from the bath made it hard to work out where the voice had come from. I noticed a large calcite jug of milk on the side of the bath. How luxurious, I thought! After a while, I could just make out a figure submerged in the steaming water and covered in sweet-smelling rose petals - a young woman, so beautiful and serene she made me gasp.
She spoke to me again, authoritatively, but with an air of gentle kindness, “Pour in my asses’ milk, will you, my girl? I must make sure my skin is more glowing than my brother’s!”. I did as I was told. I wouldn’t normally interact with a stranger, but this woman compelled me. I grabbed the closest alabaster phial and poured the rich milk into the foot of the tub. Why was she bathing in milk, I wondered?
“Next, I’d like some Scent from Delos and some from Delta”, her voice echoed around the chamber as she pointed towards a table with many jugs and jars of oils and potions, “Oh, and we must add that amazing Iris perfume from Corinth, don’t you think?” I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded politely and played along in my new role as …bath-maker?! “When I become Queen, I want to bathe in this manner every day! Queen Cleopatra must have her Saffron Oil from Rhodes, right?” she said.
I froze. So, this was Cleopatra! Of course! Now I knew why the crowds were gathering by the temple! I had heard she was in line to become Queen of Egypt but had no idea it was happening so soon or even that her father, Ptolemy XII, had died. Rumour had it that he had been ill. But I also heard that he had nearly killed in battle and that he had been exiled –so such stories are not always to be believed! I continued to pour sweet-smelling liquids from numerous unguent jars into the bath. At the same time, Cleopatra cleansed and purified herself for her upcoming coronation, chatting as if she wasn’t very used to having company.
After her bath, Cleopatra asked me to help her put on lavish robes for her big occasion. She invited me to remain her companion for the day, then told me all about her complicated relationship with her brother (who was to become co-regent), her love for her home city of Alexandria, her enjoyment of her studies in Latin and Greek, her passion for astronomy, and how she believed she was called to this job as the living incarnation of Isis. For me, it felt like I was meeting the Goddess herself! I could not believe my luck that this powerful, beautiful and wise Queen-to-be would take me into her inner circle. I sensed she needed a friend. I told Cleopatra about my mother and the oil, and she pointed to where it was kept and told me she would ensure I would not leave the island without it as repayment for my services.
I accompanied Cleo (as she asked me to call her) from the bathing house to the main temple building. And, as a reward for my service, I was allowed to remain and watch the coronation ceremony. She took her leave from me and walked gracefully to join her brother, Ptolemy XIII, at the grand altar. They were immediately surrounded by high priests and officials who chanted and said lots of long and incomprehensible words. Ornately decorated crowns were placed on their heads, and both siblings were anointed with sacred oil.
I watched in amazement as important people brought food, drink and scented powders and sticks (I think these are called incense?) to the altar for the gods. Cleopatra offered a sacrifice to the gods, which was a picture of Ma’at (the Goddess of truth and justice), and received ankh (the key of life) back from the gods. After that, the priests and important people pledged their allegiance to our new Pharoah, Queen Cleopatra!
As they left the temple in a long procession headed for the streets of Philae, I saw my chance to leave. But not before I had managed to slip back to the bathing house to find some Oil of Aswan to take back to Mother. I did not want to leave such an exciting and joyous occasion, but I knew that Rami would be growing restless, and Mother would be worried. With a little smile spreading across my face, I found the oil packed neatly in the corner and slipped as many bottles as I could into my pockets (twelve, to be precise). I remembered what Cleopatra had said and hoped I had earned them! One final glance at the bathing house, then I hurried to the riverbank.
Suddenly, I heard someone shouting at me. I turned around. A man wearing an elegant uniform seemed to be chasing after me and yelling. Tripping over my own feet, I ran towards the boat. Finally, the shouting stopped. I looked back. The man appeared to have stopped and come face to face with none other than Cleopatra! Wincing so I could see, I made out that he was pointing towards me. That’s when I realised, he was the owner of the bathing house. He must have seen me taking the oil! A sense of fear rushed through me. Will I be killed? Will I go to prison?
Cleopatra appeared to intervene because the man eventually headed back in the direction he came from. Looking down at the riverbank, I could have sworn she winked at me, but perhaps it was just how the light caught all the heavy makeup around her eyes. She held up her hand.
“Go and help your people!” she called to me. At that point, I was ushered towards a huge and ornate boat. Someone told me it was the Royal Barge! I have never seen such a beautiful boat. My journey home was a lot more comfortable than my journey to Philae. I slept most of the way.
It was getting dark when I got back to shore. I disembarked and found my way to Rami, who greeted me, bobbing his head and gesturing for me to untie him. I hauled myself wearily onto his back. Eventually, I could see the stalls and shops and some late-night traders closing up as Swenet came into view.
When I got home, mother was in bed asleep. I gently poured oil onto the wound on her forehead and covered it with linen to leave overnight.
I have just peeled off the linen from Mother’s forehead this morning (as I sent a wish to the gods). I jumped for joy when I saw that already it had begun to heal!
“You’re my hero Meritamen, and I’m so proud of you”, Mother said as we hugged. As I’ve been writing this diary entry, I have been telling her all about my adventure. Mother has suggested that we might set up a stall in the market to sell the remaining oil. My hope is that we can use the drachmas to buy Rami a new saddle.
By Merryn B, Year 7
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SHORT STORY 2 - TO BECOME A REBEL
Murky clouds spat heavy rain onto the muddy, beaten ground. We had been waiting for days, but we finally had entered London; cold and tired, but good spirited – we would get our reward soon. We had spent so much time coming here - it was already December. The hard ground was coated with a thick frost and snow was falling slowly from the cold night air – Normandy seemed to be in a different life, so joyous and so long ago. But, all that mattered now was this slight city, submitted to Duke William at Berkhamsted Castle, after bribes and violence. The army sheltered in rough, hastily assembled tents, near to the moss bitten city walls. William was to be crowned tomorrow, on Christmas Day; what a great occasion.
***
The morning was frosty, the crooked London houses, painted a shimmering white by the night frost, glinting in the bright morning sun. There was a buzz of excitement as we marched merrily towards Cripplegate, thawed by the mild winter sun’s glow. The service was to take place in Westminster Abbey, the work of King Edward the Confessor, the last king of this stubborn nation. The merry bells chimed joyfully, filling the busy streets with anticipation and excitement. People shouted their praises to William as we paraded through the streets, problems like Edgar, the ‘‘true’’ king of England seemed distant. The pleasure seemed to mask the people who bore the scars of battle, jeering insults and threats as we passed swiftly by.
My name is Eustace II, I am the Count of Boulogne, and part of Duke William’s army.
We arrived at Westminster and there was much suspense lining the thick air. I, along with many other joyful men, was instructed to stand outside and keep watch of the elated crowd, who were jostling to catch a glimpse of the prestigious ceremony. A ring had formed around the impressive, stone building. We stood guard, in the breeze, trying to listen to the service slowly processing behind us. We craned to hear the Duke of Normandy, distinguishable as the grey-haired archbishop of York, taking the service, with a counterpart translating his words into French for the Duke.
Then, suddenly – out of nowhere, the crowd within the Abbey began to uproar in a language so unfamiliar, it was greatly threatening to hear. Someone gave the orders to attack the crowd, to keep the newly crowned king safe. Soldiers slashed through the crowd, burning anything in their way as they drove back the rioting congregation. Smoke filled the Abbey and the people within started to panic. The service continued in a faster, hurried tone. The scene was anarchic, most were fleeing, whilst others were standing helplessly watching their houses burn. The brilliant reds and oranges engulfing the houses in a great inferno. The smoke surrounded me and then everything went dark.
***
I awoke suddenly, my head was pounding in agony. Someone was shaking me lightly, whispering “wake up,” softly into my throbbing ears. I had never seen her before, she was beautiful. Her fair hair blowing gently in the breeze, her face kind looking and smiling at me. She bore fresh scars and had a tough sense about her, but she still looked kindly all the same. The smoke and chaos around us seemed to be blocked out in this sort of peaceful trance. This couldn’t be real, those soft blue eyes and gentle, warming hands. “No,” I thought to myself, “No, it can’t be.”
I coughed, soot falling out of my matted, black hair; my once handsome face blanketed in filth, it’s fine features now broken. “What has happened to me?” I whispered, my voice quavering as I battled against the smoke trying to fill my lungs. She helped me up, smiling still. I stumbled, my shoes becoming charred on the embers that littered the panic-struck scene. Rain shot down from the sky, running down my cold back. The mysterious woman, took me in her arm away into a small alleyway nearby. The street was damp, with rats chasing one another down the dingy throughfare, searching for scraps of food within the waste piled up around them. Rain trickled between the buildings, bowing towards each other, forming a little stream with ran down hill along the putrid back-street. The smell awoke me suddenly, “why was I here - could she be about to hurt me, rob me?” I felt so uncertain, so insecure. But no, not her, she wouldn’t – I thought, reassured a little.
She pushed me heavily against the derelict wall, “just for safety,” she pressed, her eyes fixed like rods on the family crest embroidered on my robes. Her expression changed suddenly, conflicted by caution and excitement. “Forgive me Sir, are you Eustace II of Boulogne?” she ventured. I spluttered, nodding in confirmation. She took a deep breath, and said “I am part of the resistance.” She paused, studying my face for a reaction before summoning the courage to continue. “My father and brothers all fought at Hastings, none of them came back.” She paused again, it was like she was staring into my conscience, her eyes dilated. “William and his army killed my family and my friends – I have sworn to avenge their deaths, along with all the other rebels in the country. He is harming the English, I can’t / we can’t let him continue, it is barbaric!"
Her eyes now darting with excitement, her voice insistent, she asked, “are the rumours about you true? You too have been wronged by William?” I looked to the floor, I was too ashamed to admit it and could not hold her stare. “Can you be persuaded to help us?” she pressed. “I know that you and William have had differences, how can you trust him to re-pay you? How do you know that William will give you land? How can you be sure he will give you what you deserve? If you help us overthrow William, you will be given great lands that stretch far beyond the horizon, vast amounts of money and you will have the honour of England.”
I was speechless. She was beautiful, yes, she argued well, yes, but would I really risk everything for this? Could I trust her, believe someone I had only just met? I did not know.
“You could make the difference, use your great position and influence to find William and give him what he truly deserves. And if you do, our leader, Edgar Ætheling will provide you with land and riches beyond your dreams.” My pulse quickened with her directness, it was as though she knew me better than I knew myself.
“Are you in?” she asked.
Before I could even think what I was doing, saying; my eyes fell upon her steely, determined face and I considered what to do. She was right, I have never really had any sort of loyalty to William, I only joined him as I believed that this dreary mission could bring great profit to my proud, ambitious family, faithful in me to restore our position. William is in a shameful family of un-religious and law defying vassals, so why should salient people like me, bow down to disgraces like him. I have been warned against him by my ally, Count William of Arques, the man too ashamed to call himself the uncle of William. William has promised nobles the land seized from the English people; but I know that this will be in a remote part of these bleak, useless lands and come with demands for taxes and the provision of knights for William’s stolen army. Maybe these people could be persuaded that I could be their ruler, strong rich and powerful. That I could be King. What’s more, William is holding my own precious son hostage back in Rouen.
I told her “Yes.” A spark of ambition in my eye.
What I was thinking in that dark byway, I do not know, but I do not regret that choice to go along with her, to become one of her band. To become a rebel.
***
I left that passage stumbling, the rain hammering down on me; smoke and flames still rising from the buildings nearby more enthusiastically than ever, despite the barrage of water brawling to put the fire out. The mysterious woman, slunk back into the alley, into the darkness. I felt hungry, desperate for power. I straightened my uniform to “look the part,” as I was always told by my mother back home in Normandy. I puffed my chest as I marched back to my post, trying to project composure and authority in order to suppress my anticipation and worry. “How to do this?” I thought to myself. Immediately I ordered the soldiers to stop the destruction, noticing for the first time, the horrific consequences of our actions. “How could we have been this monstrous?” I thought to myself, quietly hating what I’d become. Soldiers and crowds were pouring out of the Abbey a great speed, “there mustn’t be many left within,” I wondered to myself precariously.
The Abbey was empty, I was ready, sword crouching in the sheath deceitfully, exited for its new prey.
I made my way to the proud-standing Abbey, into the shelter from the dark, tempestuous day. The sun was blotted out by the copious amounts of smoke-filled, sombre rainclouds, continuously emitting legions of rain. Each footstep echoed loudly off the brilliant stone floor. The Abbey was empty but for the lingering smoke, completed with numerous carved objects of all creatures known to man and vast stained-glass windows, telling thrilling biblical stories of resilience and bravery. My sense of guilt conflicted within me. Could I do this?
Then I saw him, sitting on his large carved throne, trembling; abandoned; defenceless. This was the perfect opportunity to commit my deed and become a heroic leader to this broken nation. I drew my grand sword from its sheath, gifted to me by my father on the day I ascended to my title. I felt empowered by that memory, and raised the sword ready to strike.
Suddenly, the would-be king, caught sight of me and dropped from his chair onto his knees, quaking, and pleaded on the floor to let him be. In that moment, as I held the course of history in my grasp, I suddenly saw our similarities. Both ambitious and strong, both greedy for riches and power. The vast building echoed with his cries. Confounded by the power I now held in the presence of God, I was overwhelmed by guilt and fear and I dropped my sword, collapsing on the cold stone floor in front of the altar.
I had failed.
What would happen to me, I did not know, but I had failed.
But then, the newly crowned king picked up my sword, and stood up trembling. ”What was he going to do, could he be about to kill me?” I thought, terror-stricken. I pleaded for him to stop but he didn’t hear, his face became contort with rage. “How dare you!” he exclaimed, his voice booming around the vast hall. Then silence fell.
William’s sword stopped, mid-air, inches away from my head. Sweaty and confused, William stared at the altar, his rage restrained by his responsibility in service to his Lord. “Alas we shall not be enemies, after all you have helped me greatly. You shall live Eustace.”
I turned around, relieved, shocked but more confused than ever, unable to think what would happen when the rebels discovered I had failed, what might happen to my son back in Normandy? William lowered his sword and declared regally “You may not speak of this meeting to anyone, not even your closest family. This event shall never be repeated, or told of to anyone. I must rule this land by fear. Yours is the last life I shall spare. Do you understand?” William paused, towering over me, he passed his sentence.
“You shall forever be in my debt, you will serve me better than ever before, on longer, more arduous tasks. Your land shall be mine and you will defend my lands with all your heart, to preserve your family’s honour”.
***
Dejected, I left the Abbey and stepped slowly out of the majestic building, rain drenching me, like a relentless waterfall of shame, torturing me more with every step I took. The king behind me, more confident and power-hungry than ever. “What was I thinking,” I thought to myself, exhausted and disconsolate.
Then, I saw her, looking up at me, stony-faced and wet-haired and I felt that surge of ruthless ambition stir within me again.
I looked at her, she nodded.
It was not over yet!
By Arthur T, Year 7
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SHORT STORY 3 - THE BOY WHO WANTED TO BE KING
Intro
The year is 1953, King George VI has died after not being able to recover from an operation on his left lung due to him being a heavy smoker, on February sixth, 1952, in Sandringham. He was only fifty-two at the time. Therefore, Princess Elizabeth II has become Queen. The coronation was held on the second of June 1953. This story is about that coronation, the crown jewels and a young boy named James King who wanted to be a King himself.
Chapter 1
Meet James.
James King was not a special boy for his time; he was homeless, wore a flat cap, dirty overalls, peeling shoes and a ripped shirt. His house was bombed by the Nazis ten years ago during World War two, when he was just five. His parents and siblings were killed but he managed to get out from under the rubble and run into the deserted street at the crack of dawn. Ever since that fatal day he had been homeless, living off the food he would steal from the nearest shop and dash away with it before the shopkeeper noticed him, eating it quickly. People passing by would look down on him and maybe toss him a pound or two. He also would like to nick newspapers from passers–by when they weren’t looking and read them. Usually, they were boring with names like ‘West thinks again...’ or ‘Who tried to Gatecrash Society?’ But one day he picked up a newspaper that he could not put down...
Chapter 2
Coronation.
The front cover of the newspaper detailed Princess Elizabet II upcoming coronation. “Oh, golly Princess Elizabeth is getting crowned next week!” Exclaimed James as he read, this gave James an idea. On the day of the coronation, he would sneak into Westminster Abbey and use the crown jewels to coronate himself! “’I mean, my surname is King after all.” He thought as he sat reading. Since James had not attended school since he was five, he wasn’t exactly the brightest spark. You couldn’t blame him because he was homeless after all. So, he waited until the second of June to start his master plan.
Chapter 3
Master Plan.
At dawn on the 2nd of June James woke up and travelled to Westminster abbey London. When he got there, he hid behind a bush so the guards couldn’t see him and noticed that the guards had already started patrolling. “Hmm what do I do now?” He thought. Just then he had an idea. Since the guards were wielding rifles (SA80 to be exact) he would have to be careful. In the corner of his eye, he noticed a true temper rocket curved claw framing hammer lying nearby. It must have been dropped by a house decorator on his way to work. James seized the chance, he went over to the bench it was lying on and he picked it up. It was heavy, but James could carry it. So, he went over to the Soldiers on duty with his hands behind his back so the guards couldn’t see it and said in a small voice: “Excuse me, ‘a don’t know how ‘a got ‘myself in this pickle and ‘a don’t know how ‘ta get myself out.” The guards just turned their backs on him and started discussing what they should do with him. James took this opportunity; he lifted his hammer in the air and clunked both around the head. They both fell, obviously unconscious, from the hit. James crept inside; it was now two o'clock in the morning, and there right in front of him, the Crown Jewels.
Chapter 4
How not to coronate yourself.
One thing you must remember about James is that he was not smart, so obviously he didn’t know the purpose of the Crown Jewels! James proceeded to plonk St Edward’s Crown on his head and shouted at the top of his voice “I am king!!!!” And slowly walked out because the Crown was very heavy (2.23 kg to be exact). Now, workers were setting up stands, cameras and even police signs. James found it harder to run, hide or get around now because he was wearing the Crown on his head. Just then, disaster struck. One of the Bobbies (Policeman) noticed him strutting around with St Edward’s crown, literally one of the most valuable items in modern history, on this dirty street boy’s head. “Oh, my gully gosh, he’s wearin’ St Edward’s crown” With that the policeman simply fainted, with the remaining policeman and policewoman beginning to charge at him.
Chapter 5
The miraculous event in which James's wit helped him take on a whole army of bat – wielding policemen and policewomen. While wearing St Edward’s crown.
James tried to run, but unsurprisingly failed. The bobbies were now getting close to him. James panicked and, just by his reflexes, bent his head to headbutt the bobbies. But since he was wearing a 2.23 kg crown on his head, he fell over on the first Bobbie in front of him and just like dominoes the Bobbie fell on the one behind her and then the one behind her fell on top of... yeah you get the idea. Soon all the bobbies were on a heap on the floor with James on top of them.
Chapter 6
The End.
James put the Crown back on his head and walked down the street, into the sunrise to the sound of Elvis Presley.
That was the story of the boy who would be king,
And on the day of the coronation, none of the choirs sang,
No one saw the Queen get crowned,
All they did see was a very big frown.
THE END.
(By the way the Queen did get coronated, this is a fictional story after all.)
By Zachary N