by Betty Younis
“Tell me, you fine Captain, why is it that you never bring what I ask for? Eh? Do you think that God will drop cloth from the heavens with which to cover your offspring?”
“Well, if he did,” came the inevitable reply, “‘tis likely you would not use it for clothing in any case. Tell me, in England, did needlepoint truly take up all your time? You must have a tapestry there that stretches across the entire kingdom.”
“And this from a man who makes not his own dinner, but thinks that I shall! Goodness! You may just have porridge for the evening, kind sir, if you keep saying such miserable things.”
On and on they went, but Ransdell would always produce whatever household supplies Agnes had requested and she would always produce a delicious meal for the household. Throughout this repartee, Thomas would sit happily by the fire, sleeping or reading, while the children ran about or played in front of the hearth with the simple wooden toys Ransdell usually brought them from his travels. Elizabeth listened in amusement while she, too, read or wrote letters home. Home, to Henry.
Initially, her letters were short and stilted. So much had happened to her that she found it difficult to translate the recent past into the mold which had been her relationship with Henry. In hindsight, she realized what a simple life she had led at Coudenoure and how sheltered both she and Henry had been. He might be the son of a king, but their experience both individually and collectively had fallen within the normal patterns for those of nobility in England. Since setting foot on the Phobos, her universe had expanded exponentially. It was true that during the same time Henry’s had as well, for King Henry had wasted no time in beginning young Henry’s schooling for the kingship. And that was where the great divide began.
Henry deepened his knowledge of continental politics, of noble families and taxation and estates and patronage from the point of view of the ruling class. Elizabeth’s perspective now included a deep understanding of everyday life for those not born with a title. There was no easy way for her to expound upon her new understanding of the world and how it was beginning to shape her identity. It was almost visceral and everyday brought profound and new insights as she unconsciously absorbed everything around her. The routine of her life with Thomas, Agnes, the children and the captain became her foundation amid such daily revelations. It was the backdrop for beginning anew after the terrible shipwreck. Her love for Henry was the sole element of her previous life which continued to shine through the days, months, and years unscathed, unchanged, and burning as brightly as it had at Coudenoure.
Her letters reflected her growing maturity and knowledge of the world, but were always laced with trivia and incidentals from her life in Malaga.
“And Henry, you must help Agnes and me with a mystery which has presented itself in our small household. ‘Tis as follows. Most days, my father awakens early and stirs the fire for Agnes who awakens later. After that, he walks with several old men from the village around the town square. He receives breakfast from Agnes upon his return, and usually spends the day sitting outside dozing and enjoying the sun. You must understand, Henry, that in this clime, the sun shines most days – ‘tis strange, indeed, but not unlikeable. As I was saying, this is his daily routine until he and Captain Ransdell walk to the town square for the late afternoon mead fest with other captains and sailors. They would not call it thus but Agnes and I have decided that such is the proper name for their gathering. But I digress.
The mystery began many months ago, when an unusual rain came in from the sea and we spent the day indoors. Well, ‘twas unusual that it rained, my dearest, but the rain itself was not unusual! My father appeared from the room he shares with Captain Ransdell and sat, as is his wont, in his chair beside the hearth. But rather than engage in conversation, he produced from within his robes a book! Yes, Henry, a manuscript! I must tell you, before going on with my story, that while the villagers of Malaga are as intelligent as any I have ever known, books and book learning among them does not exist. These are men of the sea and their knowledge of sailing would fill several tomes I am certain. Likewise, their women who stay home and tend the fires have a very fine and extensive knowledge of herbal medicine, of plants and crops, and of weaving. They are an intelligent lot as well. But their learning does not come from books, nor does it find its way into books. It is a learning that is gleaned from their ancestors.
As my father opened this book, we all commented upon it, as you may imagine. Where did he get it? How did he pay for it? Roberto and Consuelo scrambled into his lap to touch this fabulous treasure and to ask my father all about it. But rather than answer our questions, my dearest, he simply smiled and told us its name and some of its content. He refused to provide any detail about the transaction which must have occurred in order for him to secure it!
Now, if ‘twas only one such manuscript, perhaps, in time, we would have accepted the enigma and moved on. But Henry, he has produced two more such books! And yet each time we ask him, we get the same, tired answers. We all know them by heart now so often does he speak them!
My love, I will continue to relate to you the chapters in this mystery, for Agnes and I have determined that we must know, for no other reason than knowing.”
Each such letter was carefully sealed and entrusted to Ransdell before he departed on his travels. His voyages no longer included England, for he feared risking his remaining two ships in the stormy waters of the North Sea. Instead, he plied the Atlantic coasts of Spain, Portugal and France. Even though he avoided venturing as far north as England, he had maintained his Atlantic stops in those three countries and as a result, he had many trading partners with whom he transacted business and to whom he sold cargo bound for the island nation. And it was to one of these men that he always paid an additional fee to have Elizabeth’s small packet of letters delivered into the hands of an emissary whom he was assured would get them to Prince Henry. Each time he delivered such a packet to his partner, he insisted that the great Lady Margaret Beaufort not be used as the conduit for delivery. And each time he was assured that this would never happen. From there he left the matter, for once having received a fellow captain’s word he could not pursue an enquiry further without insult.
But as time passed, Ransdell began to wonder about the entire arrangement. He knew from Elizabeth’s own lips that she had directed her prince to send his letters to her through the same channels. But each time he met with his friend and inquired about return letters to the Lady Elizabeth, the answer was a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders. For her part, Elizabeth was equally perplexed but continued faithfully sending her epistles with the captain. Whenever the subject came up as they all sat together at supper, she blindly ignored the doubting faces of her loved ones.
“My love is a Prince, and Princes are busy indeed. You must have faith.”
“Elizabeth, ‘tis not faith that we are lacking, ‘tis proof that he is writing!” Agnes usually exclaimed. But Elizabeth would not stand to hear Henry’s love questioned.
“You will see that I am right. Perhaps he chooses not to use Captain Ransdell’s man in Woolwich! Perhaps he is sending his letters directly to Rome, where they await me at the Vatican!”
Each and every time Elizabeth mentioned Rome, conversation ceased, as she knew it would. She used this reluctance to her great advantage and kept the disbelievers at bay with the threat of pursuing such a conversation further.
Chapter Nineteen
One evening, when she and the children had joined the others from the village in a search for nocturnal crabs along the beach under a full moon, Agnes, Thomas and Ransdell set to discussing the matter of Rome.
“We have tarried here for quite some time,” began Thomas.
Agnes stiffened.
“Aye, and with good reason. Elizabeth has only recently recovered, and to expose her to sea winds again so soon and the unhealthy conditions which prevail upon all ships might trigger another fever. And we shall not risk losing her again, Thomas.”
H
e nodded silently while Ransdell spoke.
“You cannot leave,” he said simply, “For the three of you are now family for Roberto, for Consuelo, and for me.” He gave a meaningful look to Agnes. For once, she did not look away or busy herself at the hearth or with mending. She returned his gaze and in the flickering shadows of the fire he thought he saw her give a slight nod. He continued.
“And besides, what is all this talk of Rome? Young Prince Arthur, God rest his soul, died quite some time ago. Likely he is far beyond prayers and indulgences, even if it is Popi who is giving them out.”
“How long have we been here?” asked Thomas. “Let us see – Elizabeth and Henry were precontracted in the year of Arthur’s death.”
“Aye,” said Agnes slowly, “And ‘twas two Christmases later before Elizabeth ceased having regular fevers and shivers. ‘Tis God’s grace the sweating sickness did not come upon the child. But she is safely beyond that now.”
She crossed herself and poked the fire.
“But now ‘tis the next summer,” Thomas went on, “And still we tarry.”
“Well, regardless of what you choose to do, ‘twill be next spring before we can arrange it. The late summer storms have begun, and winter is no time to put Elizabeth on a ship.”
They all agreed.
“And ‘tis a dangerous time of year to sail anyway,” Ransdell continued. “T’would be foolish. No, the best time would the next season. But as I said, I cannot see you leaving. It would break a great many hearts, I am sure.”
He rose and put on his cap before opening the door.
“Besides,” he added, “What shall you do in Rome that you cannot do here? I am greatly saddened by this conversation. Pray think of me and my little ones. Now, I shall go see how the crab hunting is coming along.”
With that, he began to pull the door behind him, then hesitated and turned his head back towards the other two.
“Agnes, I would like you to help me see how the children are faring in their hunt. Would you care to join me?”
His voice had a strange, agitated quality and Thomas turned in his chair to take a closer look. He stood almost abjectly with his cap in his hand, shuffling his feet and looking around the room as though he had never seen it before. But before he could take in Ransdell’s strange behavior, a sharp movement from Agnes’ chair caught his attention. She was clasping and unclasping her hands in a strange manner. She suddenly stood.
“Aye, captain, I would love to check on the children with you. Shall we?”
She picked up her shawl from a nearby chair and without another word the two of them disappeared through the door.
Thomas sat with a quizzical look on his face, his brow furrowed with the strangeness of what had just occurred. Suddenly, he laughed and clapped his hands.
“What an old fool I am!” he exclaimed as he stoked the fire and sat back down. “Of course! And yet I saw nothing of it before! Well, well, well.”
He was still smiling as he made ready for bed.
“Let the others tend to the evening chores,” he chuckled to himself as he crawled under the covers. “Indeed.”
Chapter Twenty
Each day, she gave thanks and immediately afterwards asked for forgiveness.
Lady Margaret Beaufort had achieved her ends, but her means made her queasy when she thought about them and it was then that she would go to confessional. She had not anticipated the shipwreck and she prayed fervently for the souls who had suffered such an end, but she could not in good faith say that she was sorry about it. This paradox in her thinking was not something to which she was accustomed. In Margaret’s world she always managed to avoid areas of gray. In this way she had put aside the vicious years of warfare that had been necessary for her son Henry to secure the throne. In her mind, they had been brought about by the House of York’s refusal to recognize the legitimacy of the Tudor claim. Likewise, when the plague had swept through London, or the sweating sickness carried away the innocent by the thousands, she believed with her whole heart that those unfortunates must have had a dark stain upon them from the beginning. Otherwise, how to account for such horror? This system of belief was buoyed by the good fortune which had come the way of her family. Henry was king. Her grandson, young Henry, would surely follow in his footsteps. It was true that Arthur had died young, but his sibling was far better equipped for the throne in many respects. She knew her tribe to be noble, chivalrous, kind, generous and true, so the good fortune which fell to their lot was obviously further reward and proof of their worthiness from God himself.
From triumph to triumph, the Tudor line had risen ever higher in the waning years of the last century, and she took this long train of successes as God’s stamp of approval upon her and her kin. Time would heal her of these feelings of uncertainty about her part in this whole affair. If she had been a different person, she would have recognized them as guilt. But she was Lady Margaret Beaufort, and guilt was for lesser beings, not for her. And so her personal priest, Friar Chauncer, spent many hours hearing her confessionals. But her whispered litany of sins was always the same, and in fact was the same one he had always heard from her – she had eaten too many sweets and worried about gluttony (even though the woman was so thin as to be almost transparent); her alms to the poor had not been adequate she feared; she had listened to the idle gossip of her ladies-in-waiting. Clearly, something was driving Lady Margaret to confessional at a pace usually reserved for thieves and murderers. Equally clearly, no one would ever know what it was. And then the thunderbolt had struck.
It arrived one bright and sunny morning in the grimy hand of a guardsman from the palace gate. She was once again staying at Greenwich, having progressed only recently from Collyweston. Her mid-morning doze was interrupted by angry and insistent voices in the grand hallway.
“What is it?” she asked Joan, her favorite among her ladies. “Do they not know that I am resting?”
Joan bowed and left the room only to return moments later.
“My lady,” she began, “There is someone here to see you. He says he has been directed to deliver a gift directly to you.”
“Who is it, then? Eh?”
“I believe ‘tis one of the guardsmen, from the outer palace gate.”
“And he has something for me?”
Joan began to regret not having wrested the small package from the guard.
“Yes, my lady, and he says he will give it to you and to no other than you.”
“I see.”
Margaret began straightening her shawl and the blanket which lay across her lap. Two ladies fluffed the pillow behind her back and stood as though at attention as Margaret nodded to Joan to bring the guard forward into the room.
He was a scruffy sort, short and rough looking, but his livery was clean and his eyes showed intelligence. He went down on one knee and remained silent.
Margaret left him there for a full minute – if he had overstepped his bounds by insisting on seeing her, that would be only the beginning of his travails. She would see to it personally. And it had nothing to do with disturbing her nap.
“Rise, young man, and tell me why you insist upon seeing me?”
“Your Highness, this morning, a small child from the village of Woolwich approached the guard house.”
“I imagine they approach all the time, since they are always there seeking alms as I come and go.”
“Aye, your grace is correct, but this little one pushed and shoved his way right to the front, and demanded to see the Chief Guardsman.”
“Nervy. And why did he do that?” Margaret was beginning to tire of the whole business.
The guard began to fumble within the jacket of his uniform. After a moment, a small packet, tied with a bit of woman’s lace, appeared in his hand. Margaret studied it intently, trying to ferret out its meaning. She stretched her hand out tentatively and the guard passed it to her. It was square, no more than three inches on each side, and wrapped in heavy, brown paper. The ribbon wrapped
securely around it was pale rose, and of a quality which Lady Beaufort knew did not come from a lady of nobility. A neat bow held it secure, and as she pulled one of its ends she questioned the guard.
“You say a child from Woolwich gave you this?”
The guard nodded.
“Where is this child?”
“As soon as I promised him that I would deliver it directly to you, my lady, he melted away.”
“What was his name?”
“I do not know, Madame.”
“What did he look like?”
“A filthy little urchin. He smelled a bit of the sea, though, which is to reason if he is as he said he was, that being from Woolwich.”
“Did he ask anything in return for delivering this?” Margaret held up the package.
Again, the guard shook his head.
“Did you find out anything at all? No? Then what am I paying you for, pray tell?”
He looked down at his folded hands and remained silent.
Margaret slowly unfolded the paper, only to find that inside were many similarly folded sheets, each tied with the same type and color of ribbon. Her ladies and the guard had unconsciously inched forward, leaning towards her trying to catch a glimpse of whatever the wrapping hid. Intuitively, she placed her hand over the entire stack.
“That will be all. Joan, see everyone out.”
As the door closed behind them, Margaret picked up the first piece of folded paper from the top of the stack and tugged it free of its ribbon. She gently opened it and discovered that it was a letter written in an unknown hand. Still she could not fathom why the package had been expressly delivered to her and with care unfolded the bottom half of the paper so as to read the signature. It was then she knew her thanks had been premature and her confessions pointless. Her fingers shook as she hurriedly pulled the bow on each letter and read each signature. All the same, all the same. Looking up, she stared into the fire as her breast filled with fury. She went back to the first one and began to read.
