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

by Betty Younis

  “Consider it done. I think I shall start at Woolwich.”

  “Why Woolwich?” asked Henry.

  “It has troubled me for some time, my lord. How did the captain of an ocean going vessel communicate with your grandmother? She knows no such types.”

  Henry nodded.

  “Yes, I have had the same thoughts.”

  “After that, I shall go where the trail leads me. What day is the wedding so that we may plan our rendezvous before you meet with the king?”

  The conversation continued in quieter, conspiratorial tones. Finally, both satisfied, there was purpose in their parting.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The progress north was a triumph. Princess Margaret, small even for thirteen, showed no outward qualms concerning her approaching marriage to the thirty-one year old King of Scotland. Each day, entire villages turned out to cheer for the beautiful princess on her way to a fairytale life in the far north. They strained and pushed and pulled against one another to better eye the young girl. Her litter, covered in satin and lace, was open faced on all sides, and she smiled and waved shyly at the crowds. This marriage had been part of her life since the age of six, and she had been well-prepared for cleavage from her family, friends, culture and home. But there was no preparation that could overcome homesickness, no remedy for the ache she felt in her heart as she left the familiar behind and faced her future.

  Behind her on liveried horses her thirteen ladies’ maids followed, and beside her rode the Earl of Surrey. The train of dukes and earls, each with their own retinues and households, stretched along several miles of road, and the brightly colored pennants which waved from each one made the day bright and meaningful. A small band of drummers and lute players accompanied them as well, announcing their presence to all who could hear. It was a spectacle intended to impress, and the idolization and awe apparent on the faces of the townspeople was not lost on young Henry. A dawning of the uses of grandeur not just for propriety’s sake but for the impression of power it conveyed to the people was planted firmly in his mind. Even as they crossed the Scottish border and made their way to Edinburgh, Henry continued to be amazed at what pageantry could accomplish without the raising of a single sword or giving a single command.

  Charles and he had called it correctly. King Henry’s men were anxious to take him aside and discuss his marital prospects. But they had to jockey with their own wives, for not being privy to the King’s plan concerning Catherine, the women put their own daughters forward as potential mates. Henry found these particular conversations easy to manage. He verbally twisted, ducked, turned and dodged their various attempts to bring the conversation round to this beautiful and talented maid or that lovely and accomplished young woman. But he did so with such chivalry and such kind wit that they only redoubled their efforts. The conversations with their husbands required more direct rebuffs, and to avoid offending the King’s men, Henry rode much of the way alone.

  The celebrations continued in Edinburgh, where the entourage stopped for feasting and jousting. There was no shortage of scarves and colors thrown at him each time he mounted for a joust, just as there was no lack of dance partners each evening. Despite missing Elizabeth, Henry found he enjoyed court life of this order. He had never been exposed to this side benefit of wealth and power. His father’s court reflected the personality of the king himself, and King Henry had no taste for what he considered wasteful entertainments.

  From Edinburgh they journeyed on to Holyrood, where Margaret was given in marriage to James. Henry watched, fascinated, dreaming of the day that he would take Elizabeth as his wife. Margaret looked small in her royal vestments, stiffened sleeves and arched wimple. Henry hoped she would be happy, but more than that, he wished for the Perpetual Peace to hold. If his father had taught him anything, it was that secure shores and borders were one of the great necessities for a secure reign.

  The feasting and merriment had been drawn out into the third week before Henry found an opportunity to leave. It would have been impossible before that without offending half of Scotland, and after that, some of the King’s councilors would surely have insisted on accompanying him, since they too would be leaving shortly. As the sun rose on his appointed day, Henry rose with it. He had arranged for the stable boy to meet him on the edge of the castle, beyond the gatehouse, thus ensuring that the hammering of his horse’s hooves alerted no one to the departure. He would be well away before they could join him, and James would tell them of the urgent business Henry had been called to look into at Coudenoure, something involving his young friend Charles Brandon. As part of their plan, Charles had arranged fresh horses and food at way-stops along the road back to Greenwich. Henry dressed as a commoner, for it would be impossible for him to frequent such places should his identity be known. And if he stopped at estates or castles, his father would expect him to stay until such time as it was seemly for him to leave. That could take weeks.

  There was a freedom to riding alone on the open road, and Henry enjoyed it mightily. No one knew who it was that sped past them on the fine thoroughbred that towered above their field horses and wagons. Such solitude gave him time to prepare for the coming conversation he would have with his father. There was no easy way to tell the king, and the snippets which had leaked out around the edges of the many conversations he had had with his father’s men in Scotland had alerted him to the truth of what Daubeney had told him at Hampton Court. But Henry was confident, and the ride home was sunny and warm. He took it as a good omen of his future with Elizabeth.

  As planned, he rode first to Greenwich to confer with Charles. Lights shone in the chapel of the palace friary as the monks lit the candles to celebrate Matins. Henry handed his horse off to the waiting stable boy and gave a coin to the doorman to let him in. A quick wash was followed by a clean nightshirt but as Henry tumbled into bed, a soft knock came upon his door. It was Charles.

  “Good Lord, man, I am exhausted, can you not see? Our business can wait until dawn, unless…unless…can it be that you have news of my Elizabeth? Letters?”

  Henry began to chatter excitedly and danced about the room lighting the candles. He did not look at Charles.

  “So how is she? Is she here? Are there letters? CHARLES! I command you! Speak!”

  Henry turned to his friend and for the first time saw the look of grief written across it. Charles had been weeping, and his red swollen eyes made Henry’s heart almost stop.

  He sat down, still staring at Charles.

  “‘Tis news you have, then, is it?”

  Charles nodded.

  “And does it come from Woolwich?”

  Charles poured himself a drink from the decanter of wine which sat nearby. He poured another for Henry and sat down beside him. This had not been part of their plan, this conversation, and he was uncertain how to proceed.

  “My Prince, Woolwich was only the beginning. Lady Margaret paid her groomsman handsomely to arrange passage to Rome for the Lady Elizabeth and her family.”

  Henry nodded. Charles could barely speak.

  “My friend, that ship, the Phobus, never made port in Rome. I traced it, through the tales of sailors at Woolwich, until its passage of the great Pillars of Hercules. At the same time, I sent urgent messages to the King’s ambassadors at the Vatican and in Spain, seeking any information they might have.”

  Henry’s blood ran cold. Charles could hold back the knowledge no longer.

  “Henry, the ship was wrecked along the Spanish shores of the Mare Nostrum. There were no survivors. Elizabeth is dead.”

  Henry fell to the floor fists raised to heaven, screaming and crying.

  “My God, my God, the one thing I wanted, the only bit of happiness I have in this world. And yet you take it? You leave me without my Elizabeth? Why, God, why?”

  There was no end to Henry’s grief. For days, he refused to leave his bed or his bedchamber. He refused all ministrations and company save for that of Charles; food repulsed him as did conversation.
Over and over again, he fell to his knees and cried out to God for an explanation, but the only answer was the silence of an empty world. Elizabeth was dead. What would he do?

  One week later, his grandmother sent word that he was to eat per the king’s command. Days later, he was told that if he did not leave his room and eat, the king would call him to court and ask for an explanation of this odd behavior. It was then that Henry realized that his father had no idea at all as to the cause of his only son’s heartache. Further, he understood that his father’s concern was for the crown and the Tudor dynasty, not him. There would be no miracle, neither to bring Elizabeth back nor to change his father’s ice cold heart. His own heart was irretrievably broken, his grief so deep and wide that he could not see beyond it. And yet he must carry on somehow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The coastal road, lonely and seldom used even at the busiest of times, was deserted. The great storm had swept across the dry plains of Africa, picking up speed as it flew across the mighty Atlas range and searing the slopes of even the towering Jebel Toubkal. Down it came into the seaward valleys, shaking loose the sands of a thousand ages and carrying them along in its hot and angry breath. As it rolled out over the vast waters of the Mare Nostrum, it picked up speed, rising higher and higher until its winds covered everything in their path. The stars were nothing against such rage, the moon a mere candle flicker in the night sky. But just as it seemed it could not sustain itself, its leading edge reached the warm air of the Spanish coastline. It fed on the warmth, obliterating all that came before it. No one could remember such a wicked gale ever gaining such momentum.

  Finally, like all anger, there was nothing left to vent. But its death throes proved as terrible as its life. It whimpered and screeched and tore at the Spanish coastline, writhing in fury and dumping so much sand and water and debris that the coastal road disappeared entirely, leaving the beach in wrecked isolation.

  The small village of Malaga had not escaped, and as the townspeople unlocked their shutters and set their small homesteads aright, word began to filter out of a wreck upon the coast just south of them. At first, it was dismissed. Tales of wrecks and bounty washing up upon the shore were legend in this part of the world. But when the first children raced up from the beach clutching a barrel stave and a large swath of canvas sail bearing a familiar mark, fear gripped the village – the Phobos was due back this month, and many of the townsmen had put to sea with her. More children appeared, talking of dead bodies and vast quantities of timber. People hurriedly yoked oxen to their rickety wagons, gathered up blankets and went in search of the living. Those who stayed back begin brewing broth and hot soup, warming covers by the fire for any who might have survived.

  The tide was working against them that day, and for every two men they managed to pull free from the wreckage and debris another one was caught and taken by the relentless and fierce ocean waves. In an effort to save as many as possible, they began working in teams, with some running ahead and dragging the bodies to safety above the reach of the tide where they would lay until the wagons came abreast. Wagon after wagon loaded with men and debris made their way back to Malaga, where the sometimes mournful, sometimes joyous efforts of loved ones began. Slowly, the villagers picked their way up the beach, their oxen heaving the wagons over the sand-strewn road which wound along the tidal crest above them. It was a macabre business, made more so by the time lapse between the storm and their efforts – almost a full twenty-four hours. It became routine not to check for a beating heart in the swollen corpses, but to save their efforts for those who looked as if they still held a spark of life. From up the beach, a sudden cry arose. In the distance, men began waving their arms in the air to bring help. Wagons on the crest hurried to assist.

  Two of the shipwrecked sailors had seen the villagers and cried out for help. They, too, had been pulling bodies from the surf in an attempt to save lives. A line of wretched souls stretched out along the sand dunes and grass which covered the line between the road and the beach proper. Some were sitting, some lying, some huddled together to try and generate warmth. As the villagers came into view, a feeble roar went up from these survivors. Help had come. The wagons arrived and the villagers began triaging the men until a sudden cry caught their attention.

  “Roberto y Consuelo! Ellos viven!”

  Women surged forward with blankets, knowing only too well that the call could only refer to Ransdell’s two small children. They cradled and wrapped them, speaking in soothing low tones to the tiny survivors. Roberto’s eyes flickered open momentarily before closing again. Consuelo barely breathed. But the strangest thing to the rescuers: the children had been found tucked into the embrace of a matronly woman. She had evidently crawled and clawed her way with them to a point just beyond the surf line, covering them with her body against the elements. As they aided her, the villagers wondering silently what a woman had been doing on this cargo ship which plied between England and Italy. No one spoke the question aloud, and she was loaded, unconscious, onto the wagon with the children.

  The morning became midday which slowly bled into early evening. It had been several hours and miles of coastline since they had found any bodies or survivors. It was decided to turn for home. Those left in the search turned ocean-ward, and sent a prayer over the waves for those they would not see again. It had been a cruel day, one which had followed on the heels of the cruelest storm they could remember. They turned and began walking to the last wagon which had been set aside for them. As they crested the dune, a lone villager turned to look out one last time over the vast and mighty ocean. The sun’s rays were almost gone, and he crossed himself, thinking of the power of God and how it could alter lives in an instant, as quickly as a dove might take to flight. As he turned to climb on the wagon, the glint of the last ray of light caught upon something far down the beach. He squinted, trying to determine what he had seen. Just as the last light caught the lip of the horizon and disappeared, he saw a human figure, waving weakly towards the wagon. With a cry, he ran towards it.

  A few others followed on behind him carrying blankets. It was dark now, and they begin to stumble and grow fearful of the great surf. The man ran onwards, oblivious to the cries of caution from the others. He almost passed it.

  A body lay crumpled in the path of the approaching surf. He screamed and clung to it as a wave washed over him, the current pulling his legs from beneath him. He choked and screamed from the roiling water, and this time his fellow villagers located him and the body he was clinging to in the gathering gloom. It took all four men to pull them from the clutches of the surf. In the darkness, they wrapped them both in blankets and began the trek back to the wagon. It was a long ride, and they were met at Malaga’s outlying huts by townsmen with torches and more blankets. The doors to the sanctuary of St. Nicholas’ had been thrown open and the church served as it always did as a place for the community to gather. The candles were lit and torches illuminated the shadows. Laid out all around were those who had survived the terrible wreck of the Phobos. Villagers ran to and fro attending to their needs and as the final two were carried in off the last wagon, they were placed near the great hearth that ran along the outer wall. There was great interest in the one last survivor – for those who had lost someone it was their last chance to have them back. A crowd gathered. As the soaked blankets were removed, a gasp went round the crowd.

  The final survivor was another woman.

  *****

  She had been in the meadow for a while, now. The sky was so blue and the clouds so full and white that with the smallest effort she could reach up and touch them. She lay on her back on the soft grass and all around her were the gentle lavender blossoms, the wild daisies and fritillary of Spring. So it was Spring now! What a happy time! She really should rise and make certain Cook was at the hearth, for Henry would be here shortly. Wait! Too late! She smiled as she lay listening to the heavy thundering hooves of Governatore as he galloped up to the Manor. Henry threw himself fr
om the saddle and embraced her with his whole being. He lay beside her in the meadow and told her of his day, of the great and many accomplishments he had wrought, all in the name of God. And of England.

  He moved closer to her, and a great white light shone from behind him, illuminating his kind face like a halo.

  “Drink this, my Elizabeth, you must drink this.”

  She frowned. Someone was pulling her away from Henry, and she did not like it. She tried to shake her head, but to no avail.

  “My lady, drink.” Elizabeth did as she was told, hoping that Henry had waited for her there, in the meadow where they lay. But it was late, and rather than try and find him again, she slept a deep and dark slumber, so warm and enveloping that she knew not when it might end, nor did she want it to.

  *****

  The sound of children laughing woke her. Sunlight flickered across a spotless stone floor and a bright fire burned merrily in a hearth nearby. Elizabeth lay motionless, taking in the scene. Agnes was not at her needlework, but was mending some garment. The children, Roberto and Consuelo, played together on the floor with small wooden figures. Agnes alternated between talking to them in broken Spanish and focusing on her work. After a moment, she rose and with a great wooden ladle stirred a huge pot simmering on the iron spider settled into the hearth near the edge of the flame. She noticed a figure in a chair drawn close to the fire and with a wince turned to inspect the person. It was her father.

  Thomas seemed older somehow, his hair whiter, but his cane was beside him, and his nose was buried in a great tome bound in illuminated vellum. The image was intimately familiar to her, tied up inextricably with Coudenoure and all she held dear. If a faint scent of lavender had accompanied the scene, she might have thought she had only to open a door to be home. A faint smile crossed her lips as she listened carefully and heard the familiar snore of his afternoon nap. So perhaps it was dinnertime, she mused. That would explain the delicious aroma emanating from the pot on the fire. A small cough escaped her lips. The room burst into activity.