Tudor Ghost Story Competition

By Wendy J. Dunn

Once upon a time – shaking my head in disbelief, it was over eighteen-years ago – I wrote a regular Tudor column for Suite101, once a very popular site for writers and readers worldwide. Tudor England Suite101 not only gave me the opportunity to write about my Tudor passion, but also to launch a Tudor Ghost Story Competition as an annual Christmas treat for my readers. This contest still holds a very special place in my heart (I love finding ways of helping other writers get published), and thanks to Natalie Grueninger, it was rebirthed for the readers of On the Tudor Trail in 2015. Natalie and I are both busy with our own writing projects, so we decided a biennial competition would work best for us.

So, it is with immense delight we announce the Tudor Ghost Contest will be open for entries on July 4th.   Entries will be closed on December 5th, with the winner and place getters announced on December 15th.

Please send your entries to tudorghost2018@gmail.com 

Stories must be a ghost story (1500 to 3000 words) using Tudor history in some way.

There is no entry fee, but we do encourage writers who enter this competition to donate to their favourite charity. If you do this, please let us know so we can promote this charity and calculate the donations.

The winner receives a signed copy of my novel Falling Pomegranate Seeds: The Duty of Daughters and a copy of any of Natalie’s Tudor books.  They will be published online at On the Tudor Trail and, thanks to the support of Claire Ridgway, in the December magazine of the Tudor Society Magazine. Second and Third place getters will also gain publication at On the Tudor Trail.

And, yes, I will be judging the competition once again.

The very first winner of the very first contest, a wonderfully crafted story by Fred Pachter, which we re-publish here for your enjoyment, really set the bar for future entries.  Fred’s story, called The Visitation, was written through the voice of Barnaby Fitzpatrick, one of Edward VI’s closest friends.

Enjoy!

The Visitation by Fred Pachter

Three months. Can it only be that long? Here one gray and endless day follows another, me only companions bein’ the bone-chilling drafts and the limestone walls. Imprisoned, I am. Brian Oge MacGiolla Phadraig, Lord Upper Ossory, accused, convicted, and imprisoned on the word of mine own cousin, Black Tom Butler. Three months, in the dead of winter.

Jealous! Envious he is, ever since the day Great Harry called me to London, to be a companion and a schoolmate to his Royal Highness, Prince Edward. So envious was he that his father begged the King, till he obtained a similar position for his darlin’, neglected son. From that time till this he’s done his utmost t’shame me at every turn, and his thairst for self-importance has led–to this! Disgraced, dishonored, and detained in Dublin Castle

As I gaze up at a curious niche where wall and roof and window arch meet in intricate show of the stonecutter’s craft, it seems mine eyes can see nearly as well–nay, better than by daylight.

‘Tis the mind numbin’ sameness of ninety days and more, caged by these same four walls, playin’ tricks on me addled brain. Or is it? For along wi’ the light I can feel –can it be?–yea, warmth! A breath of spring! Sure, an’ summer’s comin’ on a wee bit early this year.

“Barnaby,” a voice behind me calls. It’s been some years since I heard m’self so called.

“Barnaby!” the voice repeats, more insistent this time. I turn, or try to turn, me joints so stiff, like rusty hinges, that I fairly hear me arms and legs creak. Still, I manage to roll m’self onto me stomach, prop me head on one hand, and look up. Me eyes blink at the sheer brightness of the sight that I behold. Growing accustomed to the glow, a form takes shape, small in stature but royal in bearing. What means this apparition?

“Ah, m’Lord,” I hear the strange sound of mine own voice croakin’.

“Can it really be yer Majesty?” Yet there he stands, robed as he’d been on his coronation day, all white and silver and precious stones. “Yea, my friend, I am here.”

‘Tis the voice that laughed with mine and quarreled with mine and debated with mine these long years past! Mine eyes well up with tears of joy, but I cannot speak his name. He comes and kneels close to me addled head.

“I understand,” he says and places his hand lightly on my brow. “I’m quite aware of all that’s befallen thee since we parted last.” The glow that envelopes him is dimmer now, tarnished, no doubt, by contact with the likes of mortal flesh.

Strength seems to flow from out his fingertips and reach to the depths of my world-weary soul. “How come ye here, my King, in this God-forsaken prison cell?”

“Call me not king, friend Barnaby, for a Queen rules England now, my sweet sister Temperance. Titles belong to the earth, where I left mine these twenty-eight years past. Now I am merely Edward, your friend.”

“How come ye here, yer–yer Friendship, to visit me here?”

He chuckles at me awkward speech, much as he did when first I was crossed from Ireland, when we were both so young and wide of eye.

“Do you remember, upon our first meeting, how you tipped me from my horse and we landed in a heap?” His clear blue eyes twinkle with merriment. “And do you remember how you cowered before my father when he called you to account?”

My stiff old limbs shed thirty years at his bidding, and I re-enact the scene:

“Oh, yer Majesty! Forgive a poor Irish lad who’s clumsy and foolish and deservin’ t’die! I ask only that I not be hanged as a common thief, but that I might have me head cut off, as befittin’ a noble son of Ossory.”

“To which my father replied, ‘Tell me, lad, do all the Irish look upon me as some sort of monster?’ And you said yes!” His musical laugh is all it takes to melt the ice that’s holdin’ my achin’ heart captive. “And then we went to shoot the bow. I taught you rovers that day.”

“And a good pupil I was, too,” says I, “and an asset on your side, whenever a contest might be afoot.” There had been wonderful contests, I recall, not only of shootin’, but also of runnin’ at the ring, of ridin’ horseback, of wrestlin’, and of swordplay. “I remember one contest in particular when you shot a twig off a mammoth oak tree.”

“Henry Brandon won that day,” he says as sweet and open faced as ever, “as I was showing off and missed the mark he chose.” It’s things like that, how honest he was, that bound our hearts together from the first day of our association till his passin’.

“But those golden days ended far too soon. Father….” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard.

“I remember how cruel and abruptly they told you of his passin’,” I tell him. He nods. “Is he–is he with thee in heaven?”

“I’m bound by oath not to reveal the destiny of any that have passed this way,” he says, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t mean to conjure up a painful thought,” says I. Of a truth, the thought of King Henry’s death was to me a gloomy thing as well, for they had used me for bearin’ a standard in his train. “Let’s speak of lighter things. Of your coronation.”

“Lighter, did you say, my friend? With all those heavy burdens laid upon me by old Cranmer? ‘Reward virtue, revenge sin, justify the innocent, relieve the poor, and lead your people to God.’ No weightiness in that, to be sure.”

A wry smile flits across his lips, and I notice that the scar made by his uncle’s knighting-sword is gone, dwelling in a glorified body as he now must. Neither is there sign of the bedsores and boils that plagued him at the end.

“Then what of that spaniel pup given you by your uncle the Lord Admiral?” I ask him, attemptin’ to change the subject t’lighter thoughts.

“Like so many events from my brief mortality, a tarnished scene, Barnaby. To think of the pup only brings me thoughts of the night soon thereafter when, at the hand of the Admiral, the pup lay dead, shot after warning my guards of his evil intent.”

“I remember. I carried him to the servants who laid his flesh at rest.” I had forgotten the sad, sad endin’ of that episode in me old friend’s life.

“It was not my intent, my friend, for you to cheer me with thoughts of bygone days. I come with a different purpose.” His tone is urgent now, all jest and sport put by. “Do you remember old Dr. Cheke?”

“O’ course,” says I immediately. “A scholar an’ a gentleman an’ the finest teacher on God’s green airth.”

“That he was. Indeed. And do you recall the many occasions when we opened the Holy Writ and talked of holy things?”

Me mind runs back to a dozens times and more that, while we were translatin’ from the Greek, Doctor Cheke would expound upon his doctrine and its basis in the Holy Book.

“Aye,” say I, “a good many.”

He goes on, the airgency buildin’ with each well-chosen word.

“More than once he told us of the Savior who stands at our heart’s door, knocking, waiting for an answer from within.”

“I remember,” I answer. “‘Tis one of me most lastin’ impressions of our teacher.”

“Barnaby,” he begins again, his eyes burnin’ into me soul, “I must know one thing most urgent. I’ve come halfway across the Universe to ask it, and answer it you must.”

“Speak on, Your Majesty, and I’ll answer, an’ I’m able.” I fall back into that old familiar pattern of address, and his brow becomes clouded by a frown.

“You see how easy it is for us to fall back into the old familiar patterns of our youth? That, my friend, is what I fear most–that in the end you’ll leave the new-cut paths–of scripture and light in Christ–and return to the old familiar ways of pomp and Popery.”

How could I answer him? How could I give him comfort? For now I know this visitation comes of a restlessness that reaches far beyond the grave, till assurance be given and the spirit is eternally at ease. I gather me thoughts, moisten my lips, and make mine answer.

“Edward, dear friend,” the words catch in my throat as I conjure the scene in my mind. “I admit that–for a time–I followed the good Doctor’s path in deference to me Sovereign’s wishes. In fact, I had decided that I might return to the faith of my youth, if it meant the preservation of me life under the rule of Mary thine elder sister.”

“So much were my suspicions,” he tells me with a sigh.

“But, ’twas on that fateful summer’s eve, with lightnin’ flashin’ and thunder rollin’, that I heard a weakly whispered prayer, ‘Lord, thou knowest how good it were for me to be with thee; yet for thine elect’s sake, give me life and strength that I may truly serve thee.’ D’ye remember those words?”

I need not have asked, for if the world remembers a king’s dying words, does not the king himself? He nods, and bids me, “Go on.”

“Not long after, this same speaker said, ‘Lord Jesus, take my spirit,’ and with that he gave up the ghost. What could a poor Irish lad do, but bow his heart to the Christ of one whose so great faith sustained him through turmoil, sickness, loss–and even death? And that, my brother in Christ, is the truth, sure as a shamrock is green.”

The sunshine of his smile returns as we clasp in a manly embrace, not unlike the one we shared upon my parting from him into France. Again the tears flow free.

“My soul is at rest, Barnaby–friend and brother. But now I must away. Be assured, you shall be set free, and we shall meet again not many days hence. Give my love to your darling Joan, and sweet little Meg.” He backs slowly away, and as he does his form again begins t’glow with that heavenly light that announced his comin’.

As the brightness of his presence resolves into a vapor, the cold March winds again bring in drafts that plague my bones. But the warmth of his friendship remains and sustains me through the hours till the dawnin’ of the newborn day. No sleep comes to those who receive such a blessed, supernatural visitation.

True to his word, this new morn brings a pardon, carried by the hand of another faithful friend, Lord Leicester, and I return to hearth and home, to wife and daughter. They see the change Edward’s visit wrought in me, and wonder, but I tell my fantastical tale to no man–until this writing, which I leave in the hands of a twentieth century scholar, with hopes of blessin’ a heart or two who read these feeble words.

Those wretched months in prison take their toll. Before half a year is gone, my lifeless empty shell lies in a tomb in the heart of Dublin, near the home of Doctor Kelly, who tends me as I pass away. But I thank the Lord for such a king and friend, who came across the trackless void to make sure of this poor soul’s eternal destiny, late one cold March evenin’ in the year of our Lord 1581.

So sign me,

Your servant in Christ,

Brian Oge MacGiolla Phadraig, also known

as Barnaby Fitzpatrick.

Fred Pachter granted me permission to re-publish his winning story in 2000.