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

by Betty Younis

  She nodded.

  “And you must listen to the timbers.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He had never called her by her maiden name before.

  “Elizabeth, you must hear carefully the creaking of the bones of the ship, the cries of the timbers of her spine. Accustom yourself to their pace and pitch. Do you understand, lass?”

  She nodded and he continued.

  “Against that you must, you must, measure the depth of the roll. Should it become necessary, bring Roberto and Consuelo, Agnes and your father to this deck.”

  “But how will I know?” she cried out as yet another spray drenched the deck.

  But Ransdell had disappeared into the cold wet darkness, and only the sound of him and his men screaming above the rising wind provided her an answer. She slipped into the hold and made for the captain’s quarters.

  Agnes had put the children to bed and sat at the supper table with Thomas. Fear was evident on their faces.

  “Elizabeth, Captain Ransdell says we are flying into the face of a storm,” began Thomas. She felt for his hand as she answered.

  “Aye, father, he told me the same.” Seeing the look on their faces, she could not bear to tell them the rest of her conversation with Ransdell. “He says we are in for a rough night but that we shall make landfall at Malaga by dinner time tomorrow.”

  She looked at Agnes.

  “He laughed, dear Agnes, and said that you will finally get to see if he has been raising his children in a pig’s sty, or if he has been telling the truth about his habits of cleanliness.”

  Agnes seemed to relax a bit, and spoke for the first time.

  “I shall join the children, then, and try and get some sleep.”

  “Do,” enjoined Elizabeth. “‘Tis likely to become very rough, but by dawn we shall see landfall.”

  Agnes disappeared into the small quarters where she and Elizabeth slept with the children, but left the door open.

  Elizabeth laughed at her as she spoke.

  “Agnes, I will roll out of my tiny bunk should I try to sleep there,” she said. “I will sit with father for a bit.”

  With that she pulled the door tight. Turning to her father, she let him read the concern which now colored her countenance.

  “So ‘tis bad, is it, child?”

  Elizabeth said nothing but listened to the ship. Thomas crossed himself and began praying.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Agnes. Agnes!” Elizabeth was screaming. “Get the children!”

  As the ship pitched and rolled and the timbers groaned, Agnes sat up. Elizabeth was amazed that the woman had slept during the past six hours. She had somehow braced herself against the wooden lip which ran along the outer edge of the bunk. Her right foot was securely hooked through a beam which supported the back of it while her left arm hung around its counterpoint on the opposite end. The children were nestled between her and the cabin wall. Elizabeth ran out of the cabin to help her father. Another wave hit the Phobos and Agnes stumbled from the bedchamber with a child under each arm. The roar of the storm could now be heard unfiltered by the deck and the window. Each time the ship pitched, the dip of the room towards the sea below became deeper and deeper. It was like taking a cup and turning it on its side again and again. It was only a question of time before the great salt sea began pouring in over the rim.

  The storm had come upon them slowly. Initially, Elizabeth had sat and listened intently but soon realized that the rhythm and the depth of the pitches were fairly constant. She had reassured herself and her father with this knowledge, and Thomas had lain down to try and sleep. The sailors must have misjudged the severity of the storm, she told herself. After a bit, she begin to hear an occasional “pop” of the joists. At first, she almost jumped out of her skin and was halfway to the door of the bedroom when she realized that these noises were simply the ship adjusting to the unusually frequency of the high rolls. But in the space of half an hour, all that had changed.

  Without warning, a great splintering sound followed by a huge thud and a shaking of the very fiber of the ship had jolted her out of the shallow comfort provided by the steady noises she now recognized. Her father sat up and clutched his cane. Elizabeth threw open the bedchamber door and screamed for Agnes and the children.

  An unholy rush of water hit the ship and burst through the windows of the cabin. Agnes appeared with a child under each arm. As the wave ebbed from waist level to their ankles, Elizabeth and Thomas forced the door to the outer hallway open against the water which now secured it. With a great rush, they ran for the stairs. Elizabeth saw that her father was on his way up and turned for Agnes and the children. The cabin door stood open, and another wave hit the ship and swept through the hallway, almost knocking her off her feet. Someone shouted at her from above and a hand reached down the stairwell to help her as yet another great shock rocked the ship.

  Above deck was a chaos she had never dreamed could exist. The ship was being torn asunder with each crash of every new wave. Elizabeth watched in horror as the deck at the bow suddenly split open, and the huddle of men who had been standing upon it disappeared into the darkness below. She turned and found Agnes clutching the children. Her father had disappeared.

  “Roberto, Consuelo, you have told me you know how to swim,” she screamed above the din of the storm.

  They nodded, their eyes wide with fright.

  Elizabeth grabbed their hands and placed them tightly on a piece of mast which floated past with the crash of another wave.

  “Agnes! Hold tight to them and this! It will carry you…”

  But another wave hit and Elizabeth was carried free of the ship and into the frigid waters. All manner of cargo and flotsam and jetsam whirled about her as she struggled for air. She threw herself over a passing barrel only to have it roll from beneath her. She went under again, spluttering. As she rose with the next wave, she grabbed a piece of timber which floated on the water. Again and again she slipped under but she held tight to the stave, for it always rose back up to the surface. But her strength and breath soon ebbed, and each time she rose for air her breath choked in her throat. A passing piece of timber caught her unawares and hit her full across the back.

  “Henry,” she screamed. “Henry!”

  As she sank beneath the waves, she clutched desperately at the ruby cross which hung always about her neck.

  *****

  Half a world away, he woke in the pre-dawn hours in a cold sweat. A great fear rose around him and took hold of his soul, and he stumbled from the bed to shake off his sleep. Embers still burned in the fire and without waiting for a servant he threw kindling and wood upon them and blew until he saw a small flame rise. He was shaking and sat heavily in the chair facing the great mantel, waiting for the fire to catch hold.

  What had he dreamed? He closed his eyes and tried to remember, but all he knew was that the nightmare had involved Elizabeth, and that she was taken from him. He rose and moved to his writing desk and picked up his quill but the words refused to come. Instead, he worked assiduously on patterns which entwined her initials with his, the E and the H eternally linked by an uncommon love.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 10, 1503

  Henry guided Governatore across the Greenwich Road. There was no traffic for the guards to halt that morning, for the spring rains had turned the entire thoroughfare into a sea of mud for miles in either direction. Wagons and horses had long since been caught in the quagmire which led onto this particular section of the road by the palace, and so Henry crossed it as he had left Greenwich: alone.

  He had needed a moment to himself, time to take in the past year. But where to begin? As always, when the demands of his position began to encircle him too closely and he felt the need to reflect, he turned to Coudenoure. Once he entered the wood, he relaxed his grip on the reins. Governatore knew the way and picked carefully through the muddy undergrowth of the forest. He was in no hurry
and neither was Henry – it was that kind of morning. The light filtered through the new green leaves and picked up their color, casting a cool, sublime hue throughout the forest. Regardless of what was on his mind, it was always at this point in his journey to Coudenoure that he began to feel a decompression take hold of his muscles and thoughts. This sense of relaxation would inevitably increase until finally, reaching the meadow which separated the wood from the mighty Thames, he would break free of the bonds that for the past year had held him without mercy.

  Governatore seemed to enjoy the sun which now shone directly overhead, and Henry paid no heed as the great bay meandered and nibbled the fresh grasses. His attention was taken up by the stately form of a distant oak rising in solitude amidst the new growth upon the meadow. The faintest hint of green encircled the great branches, providing an almost mystical cloud of ethereal color around its dark branches. It provided a surreal point of focus for him as he continued on across the meadow towards the muddy path beside the Thames. But by the time he reached it, his thoughts had turned against his will and once again to the administrative matters of the kingdom. As Governatore plodded on, Henry turned back to the past year.

  Without a doubt, a blow was struck to his equilibrium by the death of his beloved mother. He had never been close to Arthur, and while his brother’s death changed his circumstances, Henry could not honestly say that his mourning was more than skin deep. His affection for Arthur had never penetrated his heart, nor did his grief when he died. But his mother. Even now he teared up as Governatore ambled along. It had been sudden – first the child died at birth, and then, barely a week later, his mother succumbed to death as well. For the kingdom, the news was devastating. Elizabeth of York was known far and wide for her charity and kindness. The bells of St. Paul’s tolled the sad news and their somber message was picked up by churches all across England. And while the death of Arthur had been a blow to his father, he at least had Henry, whom many believed, with his vitality was better suited to the throne. But now the King had no one, for his marriage to Elizabeth had been a love match. Their wedding had united the great houses of Lancaster and York, it was true, but by a happy and serendipitous turn they had discovered true love for one another.

  But it was not just King Henry who felt he had lost everything. Young Henry had only known true and abiding love from two women, Elizabeth and his mother. He unconsciously compared all other women to them in what sometimes seemed to him a desperate and needy search for unconditional acceptance, for true family. The king was as cold and detached in his dealings with his children as he was in matters of state, and Margaret Beaufort, his grandmother, was overtly scheming, too manipulative to be nurturing and far more interested in outcomes than in individuals. Henry was left with only his sisters, Mary and Margaret, but they, too, fell short of the virtues he so loved. When he had arrived at Coudenure that fateful day and found Elizabeth gone, he had assured himself that at least his mother would be there to see him through until his lady love returned from Rome. But suddenly, like a passing breeze which blew from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly, she was taken from him as well.

  Such a sad year. And so much change! Henry’s world began long after the societal upheavals which ended at Bosworth Field. The patterns of his childhood had gradually become the patterns of his youth. These, in turn, were set against the never-changing background of an agrarian world still filled with the last remnants of the medieval age. But now, the woman he loved had travelled to a far away court, and his mother had left him as well.

  So many details to manage now. There had been Arthur’s funeral, and even though he had not been involved in that somber state ceremony, there had been corollary duties to be performed along with it – processions had been held throughout London and the kingdom declaring Prince Henry the successor to Henry VII, and on such occasions, Henry’s presence was required. These weighed heavily on Henry, for he had been brought up as a second son, one whose role was necessarily not in the limelight to such an extent.

  King Henry’s fear of losing his sole remaining heir had abated somewhat, but even as his grief diminished his concern for young Henry increased. For the first time, he looked upon his son not just as a pawn to be played in the great game of marriage, but as the future ruler of the kingdom for which so much blood had been shed. It was jolting to realize that Henry, whom he was now busily proclaiming heir apparent, had no particular education in matters of governance, of state, or international politics. This omission had been deliberate on the old king’s part, for he decried familial battles for kingship. His generation had been torn asunder by the civil wars between the great houses of the Plantagenet line – the Lancasters and the Yorks. He had therefore sought to instill in Henry a love of art, of music, of sculpture and painting and architecture. Henry could champion these cultural niceties, in hopes of giving England some preeminence in the arts. At the same time, he could marry according to his father’s wishes but hopefully in accord with his own, thus helping cement a social fabric that would not easily be ripped apart by rival claims to the throne.

  All that had changed, however, with Arthur’s death. Henry smiled ruefully to himself. Before the past year, he had certainly known of the Chancery – that great arm of government which served as the secretariat for administrative matters. But he had known it in what turned out to be extraordinarily limited capacities. He certainly knew that the right of kingship of the Tudor line could be found in the genealogical records maintained by the Chancery; he was aware that the oblata rolls, or the fine rolls as they were commonly called, contained the records of gifts of land, of estates, jewels and other valuable resources to the crown. Henry was aware that minor local officials such as sheriffs and escheators held office through appointment calendars maintained by the Chancery, and that no contract was binding unless recorded by writ kept in the Chancery. But that was where his knowledge ended.

  The exact mechanism for transferring property to the crown? Henry was oblivious. The method of insuring that the goods and services contracted for by the crown were actually received? Oblivious. There were the Parliament Rolls with their endless petitions and answers and bills, and the Statute Rolls for all acts which pertained to the kingdom at large. Of course there were the Patent Rolls with their recording of inventions, of land grants and licenses for widows to remarry, for wardships, pardons and charters for various causes and groups, and the Liberate Rolls for payout of crown pensions, stipends and salaries. There were the Originalia Rolls for payments of fines and Scutage Rolls for tracking those who wished to pay their way free of military service. In his mind, all the esoterica of government seemed endless, but the real problem for Henry came not in memorizing the names of the various rolls, their functions and functionaries, but in actually administering a huge and cumbersome state system. And that was only the Chancery!

  The Exchequer, responsible for all of the financial dealings of the state both within the kingdom and beyond, interacted with the Chancery and the Crown in ways that Henry simply did not understand and truth be told did not want to understand. The Great Roll – the record of all royal financial transactions, was kept by the Exchequer, but no account was closed until the Barons of the Exchequer received proof of royal receipt. Henry crossed himself as he rode silently on towards Coudenoure and thought of all the gibberish he had learned thus far as the future King of England.

  In the future, he must govern. That much had sunk in over the past twelve months. How he would go about that – the details of the machinations of government, he did not know. Administration was a talent that he had not been born with and a necessity in which he had not been schooled. That was to be Arthur’s job, not Henry’s. Henry’s job was to marry well and support the arts. His wife, Elizabeth, would look after their various estates, and Henry would look after culture within the kingdom.

  The first time King Henry had taken the young prince to court with him and sat him beside the throne as he dealt with administrative issues of
the kingdom, Prince Henry had thought he might possibly go mad. The droning of the petitioners, the strident voices of the ministers, the hubbub and milling of hundreds wanting access to the king morning, noon and night was not something he was interested in – it was as simple as that. That afternoon, Henry had dozed and fallen off his chair. It was at that moment the king knew he had a problem.

  And so for the remainder of the year, young Henry had been ripped from the tilting yards and tennis courts of his extreme youth and taken to the court of his father the king. More change. There would be no more gamboling adventures in the countryside with other young noblemen. No. No more hunting. No. No more youthful schemes. No. He would remain at his father’s side. There, his mornings were to be filled with interminable lessons from the King’s treasurer himself, Lord Hubert de Burgh. The great lord was patience personified, but not in a virtuous way Henry had decided. Rather, he would pose a financial query to Prince Henry, and then, with the patience of a dull-witted sheep, wait for an answer. He would sharpen his quill while Henry thought. He would rise and look out the window while Henry fidgeted. He would tap his yellowing nails upon the old wooden table at which he always conducted these lessons. Most every afternoon Henry found himself examining de Burgh’s head, the strange medieval cut of his hair as a border of brownish gray around a shiny circular pate. Sometimes Henry eventually stumbled upon the answer, and at other times de Burgh graciously helped him find it. But regardless of how the answer was reached, or when, there was no respite for the young Henry.

  His afternoons were taken up with the politics of the great houses of Europe and England. After an early supper, he frequently found himself looking into the wages of various tradesmen who worked for the king. Easter, Whitsun and Christmas were holidays for everyone, but there were so many days recognizing so many saints that it was not feasible to allow time off for all of them. A system had been worked out whereby workmen received every other feast day off as a holiday, but this was simpler said than done, much to Henry’s sorrow. As King Henry informed him, he would not in the future be paying his workmen directly, but he must needs know the mechanism through which it was achieved.