The Imposter

Devil's Bastard

The source of the population's rising terror, Ursula Shipton, stood innocently looking up at the King. She was singularly ugly, with a hideous, deformed face. Henry hated her eerie end-of-the-world predictions, but the soothsayer possessed an uncanny track record when it came to foreseeing future events. As a monarch, he carefully took into account her unprecedented understanding of human nature.

"What mayhem have you been up to, Ursula?" Henry VIII respected and feared this woman, the one people called, Old Mother Shipton. She had successfully predicted his winning campaign in Boulogne that summer. What would she predict next? The people believed every word she wrote.

The old crone cackled, showing toothless gums. She swiftly bent her crooked body, nimbly retrieving a cheap, three page pamphlet from her apron. "My newest poetry, your Majesty. Hot off the press."

A guard took Mother Shipton's proffered leaflet, then handed it to Henry with a bow. He received it gingerly. As if it were a gift from Satan, afraid it might burst into flames and singe his fingers. "I see you've been busy writing."

"If I didn't keep my head busy with my poetry, I'd certainly lose it." As the hag cackled at her own jest, her eyes disappeared under a labyrinth of wrinkles, her face scrunching up like a dried, dead apple. Although covered in enough warts to frighten off the fiercest Inquisitor, it was her crafty ploy to mask premonitions she scribed as poetry that had successfully prevented her from being condemned as a witch.

"Well said, Mother." Reading quickly, Henry confirmed everything she'd written about him was flattering. He wasn't surprised at her glowing narrative of his person. She wouldn't have dared to have personally hand delivered the pamphlet otherwise. What he couldn't fathom at the moment was her motive for accosting him. She usually had a copy of her newsletter delivered to Whitehall.

As if on cue, Mother Shipton began to yell.
"Don't throw your hand in with fickle fate!" Elocuting her words in a stagey manner, she raised her staff heavenward. "The Queen's gambit shall win the day." The crowd went silent as the sun passed behind a cloud. Neville noted the darkening sky gave her words a dramatic backdrop.

Henry shuddered for he had just played that positional open in a friendly game of chess with the Spanish ambassador. The meeting had been held strictly in secret, the two men discussing the upcoming alliance of their countries How had she known that meeting detail? I rarely use the Queen's Gambit. Only when I desire to show my opponent strength. Henry viewed her suspiciously. People thought the ancient soothsayer lived quietly in her cave on the periphery of town, but he knew this so called hermit persona was an illusion. She culled gossip from traveling merchants like a treasure hunter pulling golden nuggets of data from a human stream. He suspected she had access to a large network of spies. Either way she was like an intemperate black powder. Improperly handled, her propaganda could circulate through the kingdom, blowing up careers, setting wars in motion, and toppling kings.

Henry tested the waters, "Political prophecies tend to be invoked at a time of crisis. The sages of the past warned my predecessors of a Spanish invasion. I respect your advice, Mother Shipton, but it pleases me to decide my own fate."

"Well the ancient sages didn't have my track record, did they?" Shipton cocked her head sideways, a small, carrion bird fearlessly sizing up it's prey.

"Ha! That creature is an abomination." Sir Parry leaned over, sharing his disgust of the soothsayer's impressive act with Lady Ashley. "She should be burned at the stake!"

"Ignore her, she's simply a poppet on a string." Kat nudged him, pointing to a cloaked figure milling through the crowds. Face hidden, the mysterious robed figure trailed Neville. "There's the real master pulling the strings. The one who should be sent to the stake!" She watched the silent figure stealthily slip behind Neville, then follow him into The Bear Inn.

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"My Lady. May I have a word?" Neville turned to see a cloaked figure approaching. A hood masked the face, but Neville recognized the voice. He discreetly motioned the figure to join him in a privy stall. There was a odorous chamber pot in the stall. Neville had intended to use it, but held off. The wine he'd had earlier to calm his nerves had filled his bladder. Outside, they could hear the populace eagerly surrounded the King and Mother Shipton, the crowds yelling as they plunked down coins to buy her newly published verses.