by Betty Younis
The 7th Wife
of
Henry the 8th
Betty Younis
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portion thereof, in any form. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
Copyright © 2016 Betty Younis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1523479981
ISBN-13: 978-1523479986
Familiae Meae
Chapter One
April 2, 1502
She sat by the fire, warming her feet. Were the winters becoming harsher, she wondered idly, or did her advancing years just make them seem so. She shivered and drew her shawl closer round her small, bent shoulders. The wimple she habitually wore accentuated her sharp, birdlike features – her small narrow eyes, her thin lips and aquiline nose. The movement caught the eye of Joan, one of the women seated near her.
“My lady, are you cold?” Joan stood quickly, nodding to yet another woman who immediately disappeared into the shadows of the deep and cavernous room in which they sat, only to reappear moments later with a young boy in tow. As he added logs to the fire and fanned it to a hotter burn, Joan bustled round the old woman, placing another shawl across her legs. A dry smile of gratitude creased the old woman’s face, and her eyes strayed to the diamond-paned and leaded window nearby. The scene beyond confirmed her thoughts.
Barely had the trees budded, surrounding their dark and arching branches with only an ephemeral, ghostly hint of green which could be sensed but not yet seen. They began as single specimens standing mightily and alone on the great lawn, each with limbs too numerous to count but each with a natural symmetry that was wondrous to behold. Gradually, they increased in number as they fell away towards the great stone wall which formed the initial perimeter of the palace grounds until at last a large copse of ancient heritage all but hid the massive structure. Beyond that still, the rising hills of the park shimmered in the morning’s cold mist. She looked out a long time, remembering she knew not what, but praying for yet another year, another season in this life. Sighing while crossing herself, she returned to her work.
Her hands, gnarled with age and arthritis, carefully picked tiny stitches on the linen stretched tight in her embroidery hoop. Only the occasional crackling of a log in the fire broke the silence of the dreary day; only its leaping flames lent life to the stillness of the scene. Suddenly, a loud thudding of footsteps beyond the heavy oaken door of the chamber announced a visitor. She looked up and waited, a faint smile playing round her lips. As she had hoped, a young man blew into the room.
He was tall for his age, and too thin to carry such height. His auburn hair, cut bluntly across his forehead and shoulders, glinted in the firelight as he advanced and knelt at her feet. As she touched him gently on the shoulder, his deep gray blue eyes met hers and he rose.
“Where are you off to, my lord?”
The words were imperious, and he paused in deference to their demanding tone. Smiling inwardly, he composed his delicate features into a serious, yet innocent mask as he spoke.
“My lady, we are riding in the park today, as I believe you know. A fine stag has been seen recently, near the Thames’ edge. We shall bring him down.”
Before he could continue, a much older, much taller youth strode confidently into the room. His light brown hair, cut in the same manner as his friend’s, fell forward with a flourish as he doffed his cap and bowed so deeply that it almost swept the floor. The youth waited to rise until the woman again spoke.
“Oh, rise, young Brandon,” she said, smiling at his exaggerated courtesy. “So you are taking my grandson on the hunt today, are you? And shall you teach him courage and stealth as part of the day’s lesson?”
“Madame Beaufort, your grandson has the courage of his father and the stealth of his ancestors. He needs no teaching in these areas. He already outshines me, and I can only hope to learn from my most noble friend.”
“Indeed,” Lady Beaufort confirmed. “Indeed.” After a moment, she continued.
“Be gone, both of you. And see to it that you take care in the hunt and come back before the sun sets.”
The young men bowed again and backed slowly out of the room. The guard at the door pulled it behind them.
*****
“So, Henry, shall I teach you stealth today?” laughed Charles as they cleared the cloistered hallway and stepped onto the graveled surface of the drive. Two horses reared and snorted while the groomsmen struggled to keep them under control. With quick silky moves the youths mounted their chargers, took the reins in hand and adjusted their grips.
“No, I have it already, as evidenced by the cross tucked safely in my vest,” replied his friend with an equal laugh. “And yourself? Did you get it?”
From within his jacket, Charles produced a burgundy bag which clearly held something rectangular in shape. They nodded knowingly at one another and with a yelp galloped away towards a tall, narrow gatehouse situated within the wall which defined Greenwich’s innermost grounds. The guardsmen saw them coming from across the sweeping expanse of lawn and trees and opened the gates. Dressed in bright red and black Tudor livery, they stood at attention as the young prince and his companion thundered through and on towards the outer gatehouse. This massive, heavy edifice was more pedestrian and restrained in its decorative elements, and sat low to the ground relative to the arching one through which they had just passed. It boasted symmetrical turrets which projected from battlements on either side of its outer entryway, but was asymmetrical at ground level, with a pedestrian entry to the side of that intended for horses and wagons. Just as the inner gatehouse spoke of a noble and artistic appreciation for architecture with its soaring and finely carved stone, so the outer one spoke of ancient and entrenched power. Its heavy lines arose from a thick, fortified limestone wall which reached nine feet in depth and was taller than two men. On its exterior side lay the great road to London from the estuary of the Thames at Woolwich.
Henry slowed as they approached to give the guardsmen time to halt traffic on the road so that he and Charles could pass over and into the Greenwich Park, the King’s own hunting grounds. As he did so, he shouted over his shoulder to his companion.
“We did not lie to my grandmother about our intended destination, for we are going to the park. We just shan’t be stopping there.”
Another laugh ensued, and with a nod to the guardsmen at the far side of the road, they cleared it and disappeared into the forest.
The wood was dark and damp with the early spring. Signs of awakening life were still few, and the heavy black limbs of the primordial oaks still played a solitary tune twixt heaven and earth. The ground was ripe and smelled of dirt and leaves and death and life. The hooves of their galloping mounts shook the stillness of the place, but registered only a distant thunder in the moldy undergrowth over which they flew. Henry took the lead, but he barely touched the reins; Governatore, his favorite bay, knew the way well. Charles beat a steady second close behind. On and on they went until finally, breaking free of the forest, they entered an open meadow and turned abruptly towards the river, racing along the path which defined its shore. Already the spring rains had begun to erode its banks, and they frequently had to slow and pick their way through the undergrowth which rambled along the path’s other side. Their youth and excitement were evident in the ebullience which surrounded their every movement, their every shout, with an almost palpable joie de vivre. After a short while, a thin stream of smoke could be seen in the distance, rising from some as yet
invisible hearth. They were almost there.
Up ahead the river drew a sharp turn, forcing the path on which they rode to do the same. As though on signal, Henry slowed and shouted over his shoulder.
“Where?” He pulled up abruptly and waited for his friend.
With no answer, Charles surged ahead before pulling his own mount to a sudden halt and jumping off. He threw the reins over a nearby bush. Henry followed. Together, they plunged into the thick undergrowth but this time Charles led the way. He seemed to know where he was going and after a short moment bent low, feeling beneath the umbrel arches of a spirea.
“Ha!” He yelled as he hoisted a dark and bulky bundle upwards. “Ha – it’s still here!”
“Where else would it be, you nit?” asked Henry with a laugh. “Of course it’s still there. These are royal lands – no one else dares trod within them.”
Both began to pull frantically at their clothing. Jackets, boots, stockings and undershirts all came off and landed in a heap between the two. Just as quickly, Henry opened the bundle Charles had produced and began sorting the clothing within.
“Here – this is yours. This is mine. This is…yours, and these are my silk stockings.” On and on he went until the last piece had been divvied out. They dressed quickly, pulling on their boots at the last. Charles bundled their riding clothes back into the sack, and returned it to its hiding place beneath the brush. Henry backed away and struck a pose, silently questioning his companion. Charles looked critically at his friend before striding over and adjusting the gay peacock feathers which adorned Henry’s hat. He stood back and smiled.
Henry had donned a pale linen chemise and used the drawstring to pull it close about his neck. Over that thin garment a deep and rich burgundy velvet doublet over which he buckled a fawn-colored leather jerkin completed the formal look.
His upper hose, also of burgundy, were full and gathered at mid-thigh. Finally, a fine pair of buckskin boots reached to his knees while nether hose met with their upper counterpart. He smiled back at Charles, acknowledging his satisfaction.
“And you, too, my friend – you look as splendid as, as…”
Charles laughed and bowed.
“I look as splendid as needs be, although I think the blue of my slashes do not suit me. But never mind. Let us go.”
“Yes,” agreed Henry, glancing at the sun as it rose in the sodden sky. “I told her we would be there by noon.”
“We’ve missed that, your Highness,” shouted Charles. “But never mind – ‘tis good to keep a maid waiting.”
Chapter Two
She waited anxiously by the half-open window. Softly her servant spoke.
“Elizabeth, he will come. That is not the worry.”
The young woman beside her turned and as always, Agnes was struck by the beauty and intelligence of her charge’s face. Long rather than round, it was complemented by a high forehead. But just as the onlooker might begin to think that the forehead was not just high, but perhaps too high, his gaze would inevitably be drawn to her pert nose which offset the forehead to perfection. Her upper lip was slightly short, giving a glimpse of white, even teeth. But all of those features, even if they had not conspired to produce a charming and sweet visage, were naught when set against her eyes. Dark and almond-shaped, they were large and hauntingly beautiful, seeming to draw everyone and everything into their purpose and gaze. No pale skin could compare to her darker complexion and cascading chestnut hair. A simple wreath of wild flowers, picked by her that very morning, adorned her head, and when she smiled, sunlight seemed to fill the room.
“What is the worry, then, dear Agnes?”
Old hands reached out to caress the young face which stared at her intently.
“Elizabeth, you are very young. You have not yet reached womanhood, and yet you do this. I promised your mother I would protect you and love and nurture you. I am not certain of what you are about to do.”
“You are my mother,” Elizabeth replied kindly. “My mother died giving birth to me, but she left me with yet another. Do not worry, dearest and kindest soul, I know my heart.”
A sudden cacophony of magpie caws filled the air. A mighty flock of crows, disturbed by the break in the stillness, rose majestically, circling ever higher until they vanished in the distance.
Elizabeth felt her heart beat faster.
“He comes! My dress, Agnes, my dress – ‘tis good?”
She stood and smoothed the wrinkles from the simple, velvet frock she wore. A pale blue bodice, laced tightly beneath her breasts, revealed a finely woven linen underdress. A full skirt of the same blue was intercut with light velvet ivory panels, each adorned with intricately stitched bouquets of pale wild flowers. Agnes smiled.
“Elizabeth, only a blind monk could not love you, child.”
A man appeared in the doorway of the great room and moved to join them at the window. As he limped across the stone floor which was covered in deep and rich carpets, Elizabeth watched him tenderly. She knew of his exploits at Bosworth Field, knew in detail how he had plunged his horse in front of their King, Henry VII, in order to save that man’s life. He had done this, yes, but at his own peril: it was true that he had survived, but the crushing weight of his steed as they fell together that fateful day had rendered his right leg useless, and only with the help of a stout cane could he walk at all. The sword which had pierced his chest ensured a lifelong shortness of breath. He had been rendered useless even as Henry had been rendered great.
But the House of Tudor did not forget their own. In recognition of the sacrifice and loyalty displayed by her father that day, and in the many fitful days and months of the new reign which followed, Henry raised him from his relatively low standing as a knight of the court. Hence forward, declared the new king, Thomas de Grey would be Baron of Coudenoure. In honor of his service, he would receive a small annuity from the crown. A hunting lodge on the edge of Greenwich Park, originally built in the 13th century as a monastery and long since out of use, was ordered refurbished and appropriate lands assigned to the new baronship from the crown’s own property of Greenwich Park. It was here that Elizabeth had grown up, just as Henry had come of age at the nearby grand palace and park known collectively as Greenwich.
A loud thundering interrupted Elizabeth’s reverie, and all three looked out the window. Galloping at a mad pace up the long, straight drive of the manor house came Henry and Charles.
“Child of mine, you are certain?” asked Thomas of his daughter.
She nodded.
“Father, I shall never love anyone else.”
“Come then, let us greet our guests.”
The horses reared and snorted as Thomas and Elizabeth moved out to greet them, bowing low on the sweeping gravel scape as the two dismounted.
A warm embrace between Henry and Baron Coudenoure followed. Elizabeth hung back shyly, waiting.
Henry tossed his reins to the servant as Agnes bowed and stood by the wych elm double doors. Above their gnarled and polished exterior a heavy marble lintel proclaimed the family’s heraldic motto in huge block letters:
XXII AUGUSTI MCDLXXXV
REGI PATRIAEQUE OMNIA
“Come,” said Henry to Thomas, “We will talk as men.” Thomas smiled and led the small party back into the manor. Henry never looked at Elizabeth, nor she at him.
“Elizabeth, my child, take Lord Brandon into the great hall. Agnes will see to your needs. Henry and I have business to discuss in the library.”
Elizabeth did as she was told, and Brandon followed behind her. The old man limped slowly down the arching hallway, waving away Henry’s offer of assistance.
“Young man, you will be delighted with what I am about to show you,” he declared as he shuffled along. “Do you recall your last visit here?”
“Indeed,” replied Henry, uncertain where the conversation was going.
“And do you remember that your father, His Royal Highness, had very kindly remembered me when he was offered the cont
ents of that treacherous beast Lord Ritland’s library as part of the settlement for his disloyalty and overwhelming hubris?”
They passed beneath the heavy limestone lintel, a remnant of the original 10th century monastery which marked the entry into Coudenoure’s library. Henry attempted to reply to the question but Thomas kept talking, oblivious of the younger man’s eager attempt to join the conversation.
“Well,” he continued without waiting for Henry to reply, “Your father graciously sent to me yesterday…” he sat suddenly, almost violently, on a chair of deep repose, gasping for breath. Henry quickly moved to his side.
“Thomas, my lord, you are not well.”
A twinkle and a kind and knowing smirk met his concern. Henry laughed, but before he could take the chair next to the old man, Thomas waved his cane vigorously.
“I need no help to fall into a chair, young Henry, but there, yes – you see the crate? Yes, drag it over here and open it. I have been waiting since yesterday to open it.”
“You waited for me?” Henry was deeply touched.
“You are doubly dear to me, my son,” replied Thomas. “As the son of my prince, and as the son I never had nor will have till you marry my Elizabeth.” He looked down suddenly and his tone shifted as he clumsily wiped at his eyes.
“Now, open the damned crate!”
Henry stood for a moment, amazed at the open affection the old man felt for him. It was true that all during his childhood, lord Thomas and his daughter, Elizabeth, had provided a constant and nurturing second home for him. When his father was distant, when his mother was too busy with other children and the crown’s many households, when his domineering and demanding grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort was too much to bear, Henry had always been able to escape to a loving place of peace and warmth – Coudenoure Manor.
Nevertheless, Thomas’ overt display caught him off guard, and made him realize how lucky he was to have such unconditional love from such a loyal and intelligent subject. Coupled with his own love for Elizabeth, it made for a perfect future – he could not envision a happier place to be.
