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

by Betty Younis

  The Cardinal nodded.

  “But I have noticed that of all those who pass through these holy walls, only I am continually denied.”

  The cardinal shifted on his feet nervously.

  “Old man, we have had this conversation. ‘It is not for me to determine who shall pass through to the chambers of the Holy Father.”

  “Oh, aye, I know that good sir, and ‘tis not in my nature to blame anyone for my misfortune. And you are right – I am an old man.” Here he paused and tapped his cane softly on the marble floor. “I shall likely die here, in Rome, far from my home. I shall never see my own hearth and hear my own language again. ‘Tis sad, but ‘tis not of your doing.”

  The Cardinal, a young man, looked back at Thomas and saw him for the first time for what he was, an aged, white-haired, kindly soul destined to die far from his native land. For that reason, and because he was kind, he took pity upon Thomas on that particular day. He shuffled his feet again and spoke softly in his ear.

  “English sir, if you must know, I have heard such words concerning you before, from one placed blessedly close to his Holiness. There is a hold placed upon your name, such that you will never be passed along and will never come into the bright presence of Pope Julius.”

  Thomas realized the man was cautiously telling him something he desperately needed to understand.

  “Father, why is that? Can you tell me?”

  The Cardinal glanced carefully about the near empty hall, and continued in a low tone.

  “They say an old woman, a crafty crone, placed a seal upon your name. She is a powerful woman.”

  “A witch?” Thomas crossed himself.

  “No, not a witch. ‘Tis the mother of a grand king who has denied you what you seek. They say she is controlling, and that you will indeed die in a foreign land, for she has decreed that you will not step into Popi’s grand presence, and she knows you must or you will never go home.”

  Thomas looked into the deep, soulful eyes of the young cardinal and knew he spoke the truth. He had only been wasting his time all along. After a long moment, he thanked the young man and walked slowly out into the cold.

  So Margaret’s reach extended even unto Rome, he reflected as he limped towards home. A cold wind blew from the sea and he pulled his worn cloak tighter around himself. Michelangelo had given him a scarf the prior Christmas and he paused in the street to wrap it tightly round his throat and face. The cardinal’s confession was fraught with implications for him and his family, and he parsed its detail as he stomped along the cobbled way. Agnes and Ransdell were waiting for him when he reached home.

  *****

  “We were worried about you out in this cold,” Agnes fussed and fretted around him as she settled him into a chair by the fire. Ransdell sat opposite, warming himself with a mug of ale. Agnes brought one for Thomas and then settled herself as well.

  “Are the children out?” Thomas asked, taking a deep pull on the warm brew.

  Ransdell laughed.

  “Aye, but Thomas, you and I must face up to the fact that they are no longer children.”

  Agnes joined them and picked up the lace upon which she was working.

  “And why are you asking such a question?”

  Thomas sighed.

  “I have been to the Holy Father today,” he began.

  Something in Thomas’ voice, a slight catch perhaps, caused Ransdell to look at his friend sharply. Yes, he decided, the old man had suffered a severe setback of some sort.

  “And discovered why I shall never see England again.”

  “And why is that?” he asked. “‘Tis ordained by God?”

  Thomas sighed.

  “No, Captain, ‘tis ordained by a woman.”

  Agnes paused in her work as she and Ransdell exchanged a knowing glance. For some months, they had wondered about Thomas’ persistent bad luck in obtaining an appointment with the Holy Father.

  “‘Tis not usual,” Agnes had whispered to Ransdell one evening as they lay together. “What think you?”

  Ransdell had kissed his wife and told her not to worry, “…for if something is amiss, it will make itself known by and by.”

  It seemed that moment was upon them now. They listened in silence as Thomas told them of his conversation with the Cardinal earlier that day. When he had finished, they sat in silence, digesting the news while Agnes refilled their mugs. Ransdell was the first to speak.

  “‘Tis bad news, Thomas, for who can go against the mother of a king, and King Henry at that? ‘Tis unwise at best and highly dangerous to even think of it. For a woman who goes to such great lengths to protect her grandson will stop at nothing, do you not agree?”

  Thomas nodded, rested his head on the back of his chair, closed his eyes and sighed.

  “My friends, I fear that I must make a dreadful choice.” The despair in his voice was evident and increasing. “We all want to return home, I know this.”

  “No, no, Thomas,” Ransdell interjected, “The “children” as you call them seem are happy indeed here in Rome.”

  “Aye, they are young yet, but it will come to them, my friend, for they are English. Did you not, just last month, tell me that even after all your journeys, all your time in Malaga, that you now long to feel English soil beneath your feet?”

  Ransdell could not deny his words and Agnes nodded in agreement.

  “Thomas, ‘tis true for me as well. We have been at this long enough.”

  “Lady Margaret has malice for me, Lady Agnes, not for you nor for your family. You must return. And I must decide whether to join you and risk everything or stay on here as I know I must.”

  Agnes laughed aloud.

  “Old man, what think you, that I would leave the other half of my family, you and the Lady Elizabeth, here whilst I traipse home to Coudenoure? You are older and more senile that I suspected if ‘tis the case.”

  “And Elizabeth?” asked Ransdell. “What is to become of Elizabeth?”

  Silence fell across them like a shadow on a sunny day. Elizabeth.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  She pulled on her cotton leggings and her breeches, being careful to tuck her underdress into its waist. Over the thin garment she layered first a man’s shirt, gathered at the wrists and neck, and then an oversized vest. Finally, a heavy scarf around her throat and a cap given her by Roberto completed the outfit. Pulling on her boots, she quietly opened her bedroom door and joined Roberto on the landing. He playfully pulled her hat low on her forehead as they went in search of Michelangelo.

  Elizabeth was unrecognizable from the days when they had first arrived in Rome. Then, she had been a thin, timid woman-child, unable to cope with the sorrow of her broken engagement and frightened at what the future might hold for a creature such as herself. For in her eyes, that was just what she was at that moment. Not a woman, not a man, but a being caught between the two. Over and over again in her mind, she ran down the list of her differences. First, there was her education. She was now fluent in six languages. Her fluency, however, did not stop at the written page – she could converse in the vernacular of each tongue like a native speaker. Her aptitude for language seemed to know no bounds, and she had recently begun to consider the study of the Moor’s tongue, Araby. Its rough gutturals, combined with its strange cadence, had become familiar to her as she wandered the district of city where it was spoken at will, soaking in all it had to offer.

  Wandering at will. She sighed at the second point. In the early days, once the numbness of Henry’s rejection had begun to fade, she had searched for something, anything, to occupy her time and her mind. Initially, she had accompanied Thomas to his afternoon meetings with his bibliophile friends. But her presence was felt, and conversations became awkward when she appeared. After all, there were registers of language – those differences in speech reflected in everyday conversation but dependent upon audience. She knew enough about language to realize that the speech used when with friends or perhaps among women, the speech
of men when with women or only amongst themselves, with strangers or children – these conversations inevitably held patterns specific to the parlance of that group. And when she was amongst the men who were her father’s confidants, an air of restraint became immediately apparent. Months later, she gave up and began looking elsewhere. And it was then that she discovered how Roberto was occupying his time and passion. As he had hurriedly grabbed a small loaf of bread one morning before running out, she had followed him.

  “Where are you going, brother?” she had asked.

  Roberto laughed.

  “To the studio, of course.”

  “The studio? Michelangelo’s workshop?”

  “Yes, I have been going there since we arrived and you know this. And you? What will you do with the day? Will you wash and mend and cook with Agnes and Consuelo?”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to laugh.

  “They seem to do a fine job without me. I have no calling, it seems, for household husbandry.”

  Roberto stopped and looked at her for a moment.

  “I see,” was all he said.

  “You see what?” Elizabeth ran to keep up with him as he bounded up the steps to the studio. “What?”

  “I see that you are lost.”

  With that, he opened the heavy door and disappeared inside.

  “Lost?” Elizabeth spoke the word aloud. “I am not lost, you nit!”

  She opened the door, continuing her diatribe against Roberto as she did so, hoping he could hear her disdain.

  “Who do you think is lost, brother? Eh? Surely not me!”

  She stopped, horrified. Michelangelo was already in the studio and had paused to listen to the exchange. But as she attempted to back out the way she came in, two young men threw open the door and inadvertently pushed against her, causing her to lose her balance. Quick as lightening, the artist was at her side.

  “Child, each time I see you, it seems you are in trouble! Now, what is this business about you being lost?”

  As always, Elizabeth found herself tongue-tied around the great man. But this time she was happy, for at least a mindless giggle had not escaped her lips. Seeing that she had lost the power of speech, Roberto spoke for her.

  “Her heart is mending but she is lost. She has no calling.”

  “No calling?” Michelangelo stroked his beard thoughtfully. “‘Tis a terrible state, is it not, Roberto?”

  His student nodded vigorously.

  “Tell me, daughter,” Michelangelo began. It was at that moment Elizabeth found her voice.

  “‘Tis easy for you,” she waved her hand in the air to indicate the studio and everyone in it, “‘Tis easy, for you are men. For my kind ‘tis not, let me assure you.”

  “You think men find life easier than women? Do you find they deal with broken hearts more easily? Are you sure?” Michelangelo’s eyes twinkled. Elizabeth gave him an assured nod.

  “Well, ‘tis a question certainly worth exploring. Why not work with us for a while here, in the studio, and then tell me if you still feel the same?”

  “Here?”

  He nodded and threw her a smock.

  “Umberto, fetch the woman an easel, some paints and a brush.”

  “M, m, me?” Elizabeth stuttered. “I should paint?”

  Michelangelo nodded.

  “But Agnes, my father. What will they think?”

  “Madame, I could not care less what your kin might think. Now, there sits these students’ work for the day, that bowl of fruit.”

  “What should I do?”

  Michelangelo laughed.

  “I suggest you paint.”

  It was there, in the early afternoon, that Agnes had found her, happily chatting with the young men around her and working assiduously at her canvas. A stormy look appeared on the older woman’s face.

  “Lady Elizabeth! Stop that at once!”

  Elizabeth looked at Michelangelo, but the man refused to speak a word. You must decide for yourself, his shrug seemed to say, if you will live in the shadow of your family or be choose to be yourself.

  Elizabeth stepped tactfully to Agnes’ side.

  “I am happy, and I have Roberto here, and Michelangelo, should anything unseemly be said or done.”

  Agnes was torn. She could see for herself that Elizabeth’s countenance seemed more relaxed. For the first time in months, a tiny bit of rose could be seen in her cheeks. She wavered.

  “You, sir,” she spoke sharply to Michelangelo, “You must know that our Elizabeth is no common girl, and she is not accustomed to the rough language and ways of these artists.” She looked around at the young men who were scattered about the studio.

  “I agree, Madame, she is no common woman, and she will be well-respected here in my studio, as all women are. You live a mere fifty feet from this very place should your services be required. I assure you, it will do her good to explore her own creativity.”

  “Nonsense,” Agnes replied, “But she is enjoying the day, and so I will leave her.”

  As the door closed behind her, Elizabeth grinned at Michelangelo before returning to her canvas.

  With each passing month Elizabeth had grown more confident, more at ease with herself and who she was. Her paintings slowly began to improve, and the men and boys around her grew more accustomed to having a woman in their midst. But beyond the walls of the studio, her sex was still an impediment to her learning artistry and craft. One day, she said as much to Michelangelo.

  “Yes,” he was busy sketching and did not stop as they spoke, “I see your point, Leezie, but what do you suggest?”

  “I do not know,” she said bluntly.

  “So you come to me with a problem and no solution? No, you must always think things through and come up with an answer.”

  Elizabeth had gone back to her work, left alone that afternoon for her male colleagues had gone to another studio to compare works with the artists there. As she sulked, a sudden idea came to her.

  “I will be back, signore!”

  She had skipped happily out of the studio and raced home. Once there, she had locked herself in Roberto’s room while she transformed herself. Looking in the mirror, she was what she had hoped to see: a young man with an artistic flair in his manner of dress. The only stumbling point was her hair. Without thinking, she rummaged through the wardrobe which sat against one wall and then returned to the mirror. Pulling her long braid up and under a cap of Roberto’s, she spoke softly to herself.

  “Well now, we shall truly see how the other half do live.”

  Tucking her dress under her arm, she snuck quietly out the back door of the house onto the alley. Adjusting the hat so that it half covered her face, she began walking down the alley. After a moment, she adjusted her stride to a longer length and accompanied it with a small swagger. Two women carrying market baskets approached and ignored her as they passed by chatting about the cost of figs that day. Emboldened, she turned onto the main street and hands in pockets strolled to the studio. Michelangelo glanced up from his work as she entered.

  “Go away,” he called out, “We have no vacancies.”

  “But signore, I am not looking for a vacancy.”

  Michelangelo looked up, startled, and began chuckling.

  “Well, Leezie, when I said you must seek a solution to each problem I had no idea this would be your answer!”

  She laughed and took off her cap, bowing to him as she did so.

  “So our experiment continues, does it not?”

  “Which one is that?” he asked.

  “Do men have an easier time moving through life than women do. I shall dress like this until we have an answer!”

  “Tell me,” Michelangelo asked, “Have you shared your solution with Agnes?”

  “No, but since it is a temporary arrangement, she will not mind.”

  Michelangelo roared with laughter.

  “You think so? I will pay you quite handsomely if I may observe that conversation.”

  “Pe
rhaps I should change into my other clothes before returning,” she said thoughtfully.

  Michelangelo said nothing, but smiled and went back to his work.

  Elizabeth ignored him and returned to her canvas, happy and confident with her decision. It was the first time she had ever stepped beyond her role of daughter and companion. It would be an adventure. But before she went home that afternoon, she changed back into her own dress. Only she, Michelangelo and Roberto knew.

  Since that day, she had alternated between women’s clothing and donning those of a man when she wanted to move freely about the city. Roberto frequently accompanied her on these expeditions. She found them exhilarating and at the same time disorienting. Her sense of being rootless, of belonging neither here nor there, increased, but it was accompanied by a soaring self-confidence. In understanding men from such a perspective, she also began to understand herself more. It was a welcome change after the heartbreak of the past few years. A serenity settled upon her which bespoke a maturity beyond her years, an understanding that sorrow did indeed cause spiritual growth.

  She was finally happy, and the sense of rejection she had felt dissipated. In its place grew a calm certainty that her life would go on, and go on quite happily. She shrunk from all talk of marriage and alliances, choosing instead to paint and read and lose herself in conversations with the other artists of Rome.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  She had forgotten her dress that morning as she and Roberto had gone on one of their city wanderings, and as she crept quietly up the stairs, she heard the concerned talk of the old people. Quickly, she changed and came back downstairs.

  “Child, I did not hear you come in,” Agnes exclaimed, flustered.

  “Has something happened?”

  Thomas looked at her with sad eyes and told her his news, that their way had been blocked, and that he should never return to England. Elizabeth remained thoughtful and quiet the entire evening, and went early to bed. The next morning, she was in the studio before the others and had lit the fire and cleaned the room by the time Michelangelo arrived.