The 7th Wife of Henry the 8th: Royal Sagas: Tudors I

by Betty Younis

  Henry sighed, feeling as though a weight were beginning to lift from his shoulders.

  “And money? My father our great King Henry has been known to squeeze coin.”

  The Earl laughed.

  “Indeed he has, and we all know it. But again, ‘twill be no issue.”

  “But it will,” responded Henry, “For I am certain that my grandmother will see to it that the coin they travel with is all they will receive. You see, my father comes by his thrift naturally.”

  “Aye, but an allowance will be sent from my own purse, your Highness, through the same channels as the letters.”

  Henry looked at the older man with relief clearly written across his features.

  “I shall not forget this kindness you have done me, Lord Thomas. It will be to your benefit and to that of your family.”

  The Earl bowed deeply.

  “We owe all we are and have to the Tudors. It is an honor to serve you, my lord.”

  Henry pulled two rolls of heavy paper from within his vest. Each was sealed with high grain wax and stamped with Henry’s initials. He passed one of them to the Earl.

  “This is for my father,” Henry instructed him. “It states that I, too, am concerned with the rumors of plague and sweating sickness, and that I will pass the next few weeks at Coudenoure. Its isolation shall be my talisman against those evil diseases, and I wish to have privacy in which to mourn my brother.”

  “As you wish.”

  “It also states my desire to follow his wishes for my future, and begin to enhance my understanding of coming duties. As such, I have sent for the terms of the Perpetual Peace which I intend to study, and with his grace’s consent, I wish to ride north for James’ ratification.”

  Again, the Earl nodded. Henry then gave him the second roll, sealed in the same manner as the previous one.

  “I ask you to deliver this to Sir Robert Janyns. He is the architect for my father’s new chapel at Westminster, and I wish to review the plans with him.”

  “As you wish. Sire, the king’s glazier might also have plans you wish to view. He is responsible for the great stained glass work which shall be part of the finished design.”

  Henry nodded affirmatively. They stood for a moment, each trying to make certain that all necessary points for all arrangements had been adequately covered. Finally Thomas spoke.

  “Prince Henry, we serve your father and after him we serve you. And only the two of you. Should you need additional help or should you wish additional information on anything: matters of state, funding, politics – you need only speak the words.”

  “These matters shall keep me busy while at Coudenoure,” Henry stated, “…and that will be enough for now.”

  With that, they returned to the group. The old woman still lay prostrate. Liam could not bring himself to make eye contact, staring hard at the ground while Henry made small talk with the other nobles. Finally, having satisfied himself with the arrangements, Henry and Charles left for Coudenoure.

  It was odd not to take the bend in the river at a wild gallop. Governatore strained at the bit and pranced sideways in his efforts to begin the final run to the front door of the manor. Instead, Henry and Charles took the short distance at a walk, pausing at the end of the long gravel drive. Coudenoure looked strangely deserted. It was clear that the Earl of Surrey’s servants had not yet arrived, for there was no one to hear the steady beat of hooves on the drive and therefore no one at the door to meet them. No smoke rose from the chimney; no groundsmen worked the yard. As they pulled closer Charles gave a great cry announcing their arrival. After a moment, the great heavy door opened and Cook appeared there. She was middle-aged and portly with a clean white apron and a small white cap to indicate her status in the kitchen. She bowed deeply, waiting for permission to speak. Charles nodded and a torrent of words came forth.

  “My Prince Henry, oh thanks be to our good Lord in heaven! There is no one here! I beseech you to help us all for we know not what to do.”

  Henry moved towards her and helped her to her feet. Tears were in her eyes as she continued.

  “They took them away, my lord! Yesterday, Elizabeth, Thomas and Agnes were taken away on a barge to sail on a ship to the good Lord knows where. Oh my heavens!! We cried and begged but ‘twas no use – the Lady Elizabeth said it had been ordained by the Lady Margaret, the King’s own mother. Ach!! What are we to do, my lord?”

  The sound of wheels on gravel interrupted her and they all turned. At the end of the drive a large wagon had appeared drawn by two solid plough horses. On the rough seat were a man and a woman dressed in dark simple clothes. The man was clean shaven and narrow faced, while the woman was round and cheerful looking despite the oddness of the moment. As the huge horses pulled to a halt, they both jumped down.

  “My lord? We are seeking Prince Henry…” The man spoke as they both bowed.

  “I am Prince Henry, and you?”

  “Francis, your Highness, and this is my wife, Bess. We are come to assist you in any way we can.”

  “Aye,” Henry nodded. “You will run this estate while its owner, the good Baron of Coudenoure, is away on the King’s own business. The Earl of Surrey speaks highly of your service to his mother.”

  The woman blushed and smiled.

  “We are happy to serve.” Her eyes met those of Cook and the two women seemed to hold an entire dialogue in the silence which followed. Cook spoke first.

  “Come. I will show you your quarters, and Raphael…where is that boy? Raphael!” she shouted and a young boy appeared around the corner of the manor.

  “Raphael, take the baggage of these good people and afterwards bring them to me in the kitchen. Do you understand?”

  A slender boy with face besmudged held out his hand and looked plaintively up at Cook. From within the voluminous pockets on the apron, she produced a sweet tidbit and gave it to him with a scowl he ignored. In turn, he bowed and smiled before disappearing around the wagon.

  “And the groomsman? Where is he?” Charles demanded. “Henry, I shall rouse the stable folk.” He took the reins of both horses and began a brisk walk to the back of the manor.

  All assembled bowed and disappeared, happier now that Henry had arrived and order was being restored. For his part, Henry had never felt so alone. On a sudden impulse, he struck out across the yard. The neatly trimmed grass soon gave way onto the meadow, still blooming with the wild flowers Elizabeth loved so much. Normally, he would have picked the finer ones as he and Elizabeth walked to present them to her when they had settled beneath their tree. But there was no point in that today, and his hands only swept gently over the tops of the grasses and the flowers, feeling their textures and releasing their perfumes. The seed heads and leaves caught at his stockings as he walked and brushed against his vest. He sat beneath their elm and closed his eyes tiredly, recalling better days. A sharp tweet caught his ear.

  “Bucephalus, you old man! I have nothing for you today.” The chipmunk waited patiently, not believing the words.

  “‘Tis true, you and I are without luck it seems. Now move on.”

  But the small animal stood its ground and after a while, seeing that Henry truly had arrived bare-handed, went about its small business, collecting bits of grass and seed for its tiny lair beneath the gnarled roots. Henry sighed.

  He watched idly as the manor below him slowly came to life. Charles had lit a fire under those in the yard who might have chosen to see the day as one in which no work need be done. From around the corner came gardeners, small children and groomsmen for the wagon and the horses. The sound of smithing reached his ears soon afterward, the clang of the anvil on the nearly molten metal. Smoke began to rise from the chimneys, and after that, the faint smell of baking bread and meat wafted over the meadow on the breeze. The curtains in the great hall and the library were opened and Henry could see servants scurrying about in the library, setting things to right for when he would choose to return.

  He was exhausted. His brother
’s death, his sudden accession, his pre-contract, his grandmother’s scheme and Elizabeth’ and Thomas’ departure; the long rides from castle to castle; his father’s men and their adulation of him – yes, it had all worn him out. He sat beneath the tree and felt the stress and tension of it all in his muscles, in the very fiber of his soul. This was the right thing, coming here. Coudenoure was his home, and he needed it desperately at this moment. He would set it to rights for the day Elizabeth returned. He was almost asleep when he spied a large piece of paper blowing through the meadow. He watched it settle only to be picked up again when the wind blew. It skipped merrily along the breeze and Henry wondered what it could be. Henry ran down and grabbed the paper leaf before it could escape, then settled himself back under the elm to examine it. His heart caught in his throat.

  It was a geometric drawing in Elizabeth’s hand. He turned it to try and puzzle out its purpose and in doing so realized that it was Coudenoure and its grounds. She had drawn it as the hub of a web of gardens and buildings. But rather than the scattered layout which the estate currently possessed, she had brought order to it all. The great front lawn remained, but the drive was marked by four great statues: two as it left the river and began its straight course to the house; the other two to mark the narrowing of the drive by parterres. As one moved closer to the manor itself, the expanse was broken up by these two parterres, one on each side of the gravel way. They were complex and Henry laughed aloud when he realized that the interior of each was in the pattern of a series of stylized Tudor Roses.

  She had left the orchard on the immediate west side of the manor, but its trees no longer grew willy-nilly. Instead, Elizabeth had clearly marked them to serve as a colonnade through which long strolls could be enjoyed, particularly in the spring when they would flower. Henry nodded absently in agreement with the plan. But it was the grounds behind Coudenoure which she had attacked with vigor. Here, the out buildings were pushed farther from the house. They would face each other across a broad, cobbled avenue which would reduce the mud and dust which continually surrounded the current situation. Beyond them the avenue would give way to the neat, cultivated rows of crops on which the life of the manor depended. A low stone fence with a wide gate, set off with stone pillars, would provide scenic demarcation and an attractive view of the entire tableau.

  Henry’s mind’s eye gladly filled in the details. Where the out buildings had once stood immediately behind the manor house there would be a series of garden rooms, each with a designated purpose and geometric design. There would be Cook’s potager and a small glass house in which to grow greens for winter treats. There would be a garden of their favorite flowers, made private by a tall, yew hedge trimmed neatly round the perimeter. A room of roses beyond that, and finally, a green room to celebrate form in summer and winter. Henry felt a wave of happiness wash over him. She had planned for their life together at Coudenoure and he loved every aspect of what she had dreamt. He dozed under the elm for a long time before finally rolling the paper and tripping through the meadow back to Coudenoure.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was no member of the Spanish ambassador’s retinue returning home on the galleon. That, too, had been a fiction, like so much else of Margaret’s story. In fact, their little party of three constituted the entire number of those voyaging aboard the “Phobos” who were not employed to do so. To Thomas’ surprise, the captain was English.

  “I married a dark lass, you see,” the man offered as explanation. “Isabella, may God rest her soul.” He would have continued but two children, both dressed in dirty breeches and loose overshirts, swarmed up from the bowels of the great vessel, screaming and chasing each other around his legs. He attempted to ignore them but got nowhere.

  “Papa, papa, who these?” they squealed in pidgin English.

  “This fine lord and his ladies are sailing to Rome with us,” their father explained. One of the children shyly reached out to touch the satin skirt of Elizabeth’s dress. She rubbed the fabric gently with her tiny hand, obviously impressed. Agnes tumbled to the fact that the child was in fact a girl and was appalled.

  “Good Sir!” she exclaimed, “And do you let your daughter dress thus? And what are children doing on this wretched craft at all? Eh?”

  The little girl now rubbed the fabric of Agnes’ dress, and Agnes held her protectively against her legs. She continued without regard for the captain’s attempts to speak.

  “Little one, you are to come with me. Is that your brother? Hmm? Old man, what think you, bringing such tiny ones here?”

  The captain smiled a flirtatious smile at Agnes before bowing.

  “Might I be allowed to speak?” he cut in.

  “Good luck if that is thy plan,” Thomas said drily.

  “M’lady, these are my children, ‘tis true. But Isabella died, and I have no family in Spain. I brought them to England to live with my brother and his wife but they hid away until I consented to take them back home with me. What am I to do?”

  “Not this, ‘tis clear.” Agnes was firm now. She had enough maternal instinct for fifty women and worrying about her new charges, as she thought of them, took her mind off the dreadful fact that she was on the high sea, aboard a galleon surely doomed to shipwreck where all aboard would be lost. Agnes did not have an optimistic soul.

  “Good Sir, do we have quarters below deck?” Thomas changed the subject. Despite the wildly entertaining circumstance of the day, he was exhausted and could no longer keep up, no matter the excitement. The captain sensed this and without missing a beat called out to some of his crew.

  “By the by, I am Captain Ransdell,” he said to Thomas. “You will be sharing my quarters – ‘tis all we have on the Phobos.” He indicated the stern of the ship which was squared off and rose partially above the main deck. As they began to make their way there, Agnes spoke loudly to him.

  “I expect hot water immediately to wash these children. Do you understand? And I will need clean rags and they will need clean clothing…” Her voice continued but trailed off as she made her way below deck still talking.

  It was very late by the time they finished their initial tour of the ship and sat down to a light supper, and all three ate almost nothing though for different reasons: Thomas was too tired, Agnes did not trust the cooking, and Elizabeth was still lost in a dream world, caught between what her life had been a mere twelve hours earlier, and what it was now. The tallow candles provided dim and smoky light, and each dish on the table was heavily weighted at its base to retard its sliding to and fro with the rocking of the ship. Ransdell poured wine for the adults, and after a sip, Elizabeth pulled herself together enough to steal looks at him and the cabin. He was not as old as she had first thought. It was only the scruff of beard seeded with gray which made him seem so. His eyes were the palest green she had ever seen, and she compared their color mentally to that of the small, jade statue which sat in Agnes’ bedroom at Coudenoure. His brow was heavy, but his countenance was kind, even more so when he looked at his children. The quarters he called home while aboard the Phobos were small but Elizabeth was impressed with their cleanliness and order. Clearly, he was a tidy person – his clothes were clean, well-mended and neat – but one whose children ran circles around him when it came to discipline. His comments confirmed her thoughts.

  “‘Tis a good thing you travel with us, and I am grateful. My children speak only a smattering of English though they be English. I wish them to be educated, to be able to read and speak their mother tongue…” He broke off to speak sternly to them as they ran about the small space. The difference between their earlier attire and lack of cleanliness compared to their current state was remarkable. Agnes had ignored their screaming as she bathed them, continued to ignore it while she combed their hair, and refused to hear it while she found clean clothes for them. As a result, they had refused to give up their names, even when she pointed to herself and said, “Agnes”, to Elizabeth and said “Elizabeth” and them to them with a ques
tioning look. Elizabeth spoke for the first time and asked their names.

  “My son is Roberto,” said Ransdell. “And my lovely daughter is Consuelo. Lady Agnes, what a difference your ministrations have made to them this evening! I recognize them now as my own!”

  In the dim light, Elizabeth was almost certain she saw Agnes blush.

  As the conversation began to lag, they retired to their respective corners of the captain’s cramped but adequate quarters. It was decided that the children, Agnes, and Elizabeth would sleep in the captain’s tiny bedroom, while the captain and Thomas would make do in the outer chamber which doubled as a daily room and dining room as well. When they had finally closed the door to that outer chamber, Elizabeth stripped to her cotton shirt which reached nearly to the floor. She crawled tiredly into the tiny bunk allocated to her. Without waiting for an invitation, Roberto and Consuelo piled into bed with Agnes, and like a mother hen settling her wings protectively over her brood, Agnes pulled the covers round them all. Elizabeth blew out the candle and lay alone in the darkness, wishing she were younger and could curl up beside Agnes as well.

  It was hard to marshal her thoughts into a coherent narrative of the day’s events. In the coming years, when she looked back upon that day, some of it she wanted to forget, some of it she wanted to remember, but all of it was accessed through color and smell and touch. She had memories of it, certainly. But like all memories they were flat, and naturally filtered through the years which followed. But a mere scent or an unexpected flash of color could trip not just the memory of the event, but a complete expression of it. Even in later years, the sudden smell of lilac in the spring, when the wind rustled through the gray green stalks and rattled the perfume from the cool purple blossoms would always trigger complete recall of the ride on the wagon from the doors of Coudenoure to the dowager’s barge. Not just the memory but the sounds of the horses’ hoofs on the damp gravel, the creaking of the wagon boards, her father’s teary eyes and Agnes’ face in almost total panic: all carried through time by a single burst of lilac. Similarly, the smell of a wharf – that fishy, watery, seaweed damp air and cool salty mist always took her to the first time she saw the great Phobos with its gay flags bobbing on the Thames, water lapping against its hulk with each tidal rush. Unconsciously, her hand beneath the rough blanket which covered her rubbed the soft undershirt she wore, and instantly, then and always, the eyes of Consuelo as she had gently reached out and rubbed the blue satin of Elizabeth’s dress would be upon her.