by Betty Younis
“So, my lady, you have decided to stay with the womanly arts after all?” he asked, looking around at the clean studio.
“No.”
A raised eyebrow.
“Sir, I have a problem.”
“Indeed, as we all do from time to time. But tell me, have you considered an answer?”
“I have, and I believe it to be the only way through the bog.”
“Here, we say, “the fog”, but no matter. Talk to me.”
She set out the conversation her father had related to her the previous evening, and told him of her solution. Silently, he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.
“My child should be as you are,” he said. “Tell the apprentices to continue with yesterday’s work. I must step out.”
Michelangelo did not return that day. But the next, a strange letter arrived by post at the house next door.
“What does it say?” asked Ransdell as he sipped his ale contentedly before the fire.
“Holy Father!” exclaimed Thomas as he read.
“You must confess and repent for using his Holiness’ name in such a manner.”
“No, Lady Agnes, I mean the letter is from the Holy Father. I am to see him this afternoon!”
The house fell into a panic as each of them attempted to help Thomas ready himself for his appointment. By the time he and Ransdell had left, no energy remained and the afternoon was spent fretting at the windows and pointlessly cleaning or tatting. It was nightfall before they returned.
“My wife, bring us ale and quickly,” called Ransdell as they walked through the door. “We have news!”
All gathered before the hearth. Thomas refreshed himself with the bitter drink before speaking his news.
“My family,” he said jubilantly as he raised his mug, “We are going home.”
Amid the wild joy and questions, Elizabeth smiled and slipped out.
She knocked loudly on the studio door. After a moment, Michelangelo answered, bowing silently to invite her in. Going to the small area in which water and ale were kept, she returned with two fine glasses filled to the brim.
“So, we have been successful,” he said as he raised his glass. Elizabeth nodded and they drank in a comfortable silence for a moment.
“When shall you leave?”
“Soon, I suspect,” she responded. “Father is old now, and I must see him home safely. I owe him everything.”
Michelangelo refilled their drinks.
“Roberto must stay.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement.
“Yes, he should finish his apprenticeship – he is talented, is he not?”
“Very.” A pause.
“And you? What will you do once you are back in that god-forsaken cold and lonely bog you call home?”
“I know not,” Elizabeth answered candidly. “But I will be forever in your debt, signore.”
“For today? ‘Twas nothing – the Holy Father wants a ceiling in his chapel painted, and I wanted a favor. He saw the reasonableness of our proposal immediately.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“I do indeed owe you for today, Michelangelo, but that was not the debt to which I referred.”
He looked at her intently and lovingly, as a father upon a child.
“You saved me. I might have recovered my physical strength in time, but my spirit was broken and confused. You took me in, and gave me the tools to heal myself. Truly, you are a great, great man.”
Michelangelo smiled and raised his glass once again.
“I cannot deny it.”
They drank comfortably for a moment before he put his hand to the side of his head.
“I should give you it now, before the packing and such begins.”
From beneath his own work table he pulled a small bundle of carefully tied canvas and held it out to her.
“Oh? A present? ‘Tis good! There is nothing I like better!”
Carefully she untied the cord and let the canvas fall away. Her breath caught in her throat. After a moment, silent tears began to fall unchecked.
Before her on the table was a bust, ten inches in height. Carved from the most flawless white marble Elizabeth had ever seen was the face of a woman turned slightly away from the viewer. Her hair flowed out behind her in a great wave, and her right hand, so delicately carved that a single breath might cause it harm, reached gently out towards the viewer. Beneath the face was the signature of Michelangelo. But none of that caused the sobs which now engulfed Elizabeth. The beautiful face, carved in such exquisite detail as to be almost ephemeral, was her own.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
April 5, 1509
The wain creaked and groaned as the oxen struggled against the icy ruts which filled the roads. The weather had turned against them an hour outside Woolwich, and there was no nothing for it but to hunker down amid the trunks and crates which occupied the rickety vehicle alongside of them. Thomas was carefully swaddled in layers of woolen blankets and tucked securely between two crates. A brightly colored scarf provided a hood against the constant wind and he drew it carefully across the lower part of his face each time he put his head up to ascertain their progress. It was never fast enough or far enough for him, and the man who drove the oxen had been told at least a dozen times to pick up the pace so that he, Thomas, might see Coudenoure before he froze to death.
Agnes was uncharacteristically quiet on the journey home. So much had changed since they had last been in England. Was Coudenoure still standing? What about the servants and laborers – how would they manage if the estate had been abandoned? After all, it was one thing to run a house in town with little or no assistance, but quite another to manage a manor house and its grounds all on one’s own. It was impossible and Agnes had shared her concerns with Ransdell. But the captain was typically unconcerned.
“You survived a shipwreck, woman, and yet you continue to fret about such matters? What would it take, I do wonder, to make you happy and carefree?”
“An answer not like that one would be a fine place for you to begin to find out.”
Consuelo smiled at their bickering, and looked into the adoring eyes of her husband. The voyage aboard the Deimos had been singularly uneventful save for one drama: Consuelo and the young man who captained the ship for Ransdell had fallen passionately in love. Unbeknownst to anyone in the family, the romance had begun months earlier. Ransdell’s voyages at sea had become less frequent as he had gotten older and he had promoted an Englishman from Woolwich, Edward Golding, to take his place in these circumstances. Each time the Deimos made port in Ostia, Consuelo had accompanied her father to inspect its cargo and to see what fresh foods, spices and gossip had been procured on its voyage. At some juncture during one of these visits, Edward and Consuelo had met and each time thence the Deimos made port, Consuelo had a second reason for accompanying her father to the docks. By the time the voyage home to England had occurred, it was all but settled in their minds that they would one day marry. Agnes had been the first to notice the change in the young woman. A frank conversation had ensued and at Woolwich, in front of Edward’s family and Consuelo’s, they had been married by the local priest. The estate was close enough to Woolwich that Edward could continue working for Ransdell while Consuelo set up their home at Coudenoure, a situation which suited everyone. Consuelo knew the rhythms of life imposed by a living earned upon the sea – Edward’s routine mirrored that of her father and felt intimately familiar and right to her.
Elizabeth rode next to Consuelo in the wagon, and constantly strained her eyes for a glimpse of familiarity with her surroundings. It had come as a shock to her how foreign England felt upon their return. The trip north, through the great Pillars of Hercules once again and along the rocky coast of Portugal then France, had filled her with surprise. She had been certain that she wanted to return to England, and equally certain of her memories of the place. But the disappearance of palm trees and sandy beaches as they tacked north left a melancholy stain upon
her soul. How strange, she thought, that the very things which had struck her as so foreign seven years earlier now felt like home. How odd that she should feel a wrenching of her heart as the leagues between her and Rome grew from one to thousands.
As they had docked at Woolwich, she searched her memory for something reminiscent of the scene before her but found nothing. What had been a small port town upon the estuary of the Thames had become a bustling center of maritime commerce. A dreary, cold mist enveloped the entire city, and as they finally cleared the town proper and bounced slowly upon the rutted road towards Coudenoure, a heavy snow began to fall. Compared to Rome and Malaga, the atmosphere was heavy and dank. She closed her eyes and remembered the bright sun and gentle warm breezes of Malaga as they rustled through the branches of the palms. What would they find at Coudenoure, she wondered, and would it ever feel like home again?
Some time later, the driver turned to Thomas and spoke softly as he turned the oxen sharply off the main road and onto a narrow cobbled way. Was this home? Elizabeth scrambled upright and spoke.
“Father, are we there? ‘Tis Coudenoure?”
Thomas nodded.
“Aye, daughter, this is the way before we turn onto the drive proper. It will not be long now.”
Even as he spoke, the wagon cleared a bend in the road and before them lay the long straight drive of Coudenoure.
Agnes felt her heart beat faster and as Elizabeth jumped from the wagon, too impatient to wait for the oxen, Agnes did the same. They walked swiftly through the deepening snow, towards the great manor.
Yes! Elizabeth’s heart sang out to her. Yes, this was home! She saw the familiar heavy doors with the familiar motto etched in Latin above them. Beside her, Agnes laughed and took her hand and they picked up their pace. Once upon the marble step of the house, Agnes banged the knocker heavily. There was no answer, but then, she was not sure there should be any.
“What shall we do, my lady?” She turned to Elizabeth.
“Bang again, my mother, and if no one should answer we shall go to the back.”
Before she finished speaking, however, the door gave a familiar creak and opened inwards. Before them stood a small, very pregnant woman with an impish face. Elizabeth stared at her for a long moment.
“I know you!” she finally declared. “Agnes, ‘Tis Prudence!”
“My word, so it is! And grown into a woman now indeed! Prudence, ‘tis the Lady Elizabeth and me, Lady Agnes!”
Great tears filled Prudence’s eyes and the three hugged as though their very lives depended upon it. The wagon pulled to a stop and a great clamor started up. Prudence rang a loud bell and within minutes men and women scurried through the door and from around the corner of the manor. Boxes, crates and trunks were off-loaded and settled into the hallway. Thomas beamed with joy as he and Ransdell stood to one side, watching the work.
“So this is your home, Thomas, eh?” Ransdell’s voice was laden with his approval.
“‘Tis my home, brother,” Thomas responded, “And ‘tis yours now as well. You will stay here until the main cottage is set as Agnes will certainly require.”
Ransdell nodded.
“Where is the cottage?”
Thomas pointed to west side of the property. In the distance stood a fine, two story home with a thatched roof. Ransdell smiled in pleasure.
Consuelo shyly went forward and Elizabeth took her hand as the four women moved indoors.
“Joseph, light the fire in the library! You there, get kindling and Mary, start the kitchen fires for our master is home and will be in need of good food.”
Elizabeth laughed for no other reason than pure happiness. She and her father each made their way from room to room, inspecting every piece of furniture, remembering every vase, looking at each painting with memories from the past and new impressions from the present. Servants began to gather and with hats in hands curtsied as the old master and his daughter smiled and reclaimed their home. At length, Thomas was settled into his favorite chair before the library hearth. A roaring fire lit the room, and Ransdell sat in the chair opposite as the women fussed round them. Edward and Joseph, Prudence’s husband, stood nearby until Thomas waved to them to join in. Food arrived and laughter filled the great room. At length, the women congregated in the kitchen while the men stayed in the library. It was then that Elizabeth learned the story of Coudenoure in their absence.
“Tell me, good Prudence, what has been the fate of Coudenoure, and you, all these years?” Agnes settled back in her chair with her feet upon a stool and a heavy shawl around her shoulders. Prudence glanced at Elizabeth before beginning.
“My Lady Elizabeth, and Lady Agnes, would you not prefer to sit in the house proper? I will happily relate the tale whilst you do so.”
Elizabeth realized instantly that the class boundaries which had played no part in their lives abroad were causing Prudence discomfort. Consuelo realized it too, and took her new friend’s hand.
“Prudence, there is no need for such reticence, for our time abroad has taught us that family and friendship are far more important than any such rules as may pertain beyond this house and beyond our small group.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Besides,” she added, “As I recall, when you were but a young girl, you took a great risk on my behalf. I can never repay such bravery and friendship.”
Agnes grew tired of the sweet sentiments.
“The story, girl. Tell the tale.”
Prudence laughed and began.
“The young prince came as you said he would, my lady, and was turned away with lies by the old couple hired by Lady Beaufort.”
“Lady Margaret,” Agnes corrected her, “But do continue.”
“I stopped him and his friend as they rode by the river, and gave them your note. They thanked me and left forthwith. But only a small time later, they returned. The old couple were sent away and in their place our young Prince Henry put his own people, the honorable Francis and Bess, who came to Coudenoure from the estate of the Earl of Surrey’s mother.”
Elizabeth nodded, knowing that Henry had always depended upon the earl for support and discretion.
“‘Tis years they were here, my lady, and times were good. The young prince came often with his friend Charles, and made a great many changes at the manor.”
“I have noticed some of that already,” Elizabeth concurred, “But tomorrow perhaps you would show me them all.”
Prudence nodded and continued.
“But the sweating sickness passed through Greenwich, and we fell to it. Aye, a great many were taken away, including Francis and Bess.”
She paused a moment.
“Prince Henry was away a long time then, but one day he came back, and stayed several weeks. He seemed very sad, my lady, for he had heard, as had we, that you were taken from us.”
Elizabeth looked shocked and Agnes sat forward.
“What are you saying?” they both asked. Prudence looked fearful and it was not until Consuelo patted her hand that she continued.
“My lady, the news that you and the old master were killed in a shipwreck, of course. We hardly knew what to think, for your father and you were always so kind to us, so good. A great fear gripped us all, for our fates were bound up with those of Coudenoure, and without its proper owners, we had no certain future.”
Elizabeth sat, dumbfounded by Prudence’s story.
“But Prince Henry is a good man he is, my lady, and he saw our grief as we saw his. One day his friend, Charles Brandon, recognized me and later spoke to me. He told me of the prince’s sorrow but also said not to fear, for I had done you, and therefore the prince, a great kindness the day I stopped them along the river. In return, Prince Henry would allow us all to stay here and take care of Coudenoure. Lord Charles said it held a special place in the prince’s heart, and if we would continue to look after it, our good lord would continue to fund its needs. And indeed, my lady, to even now he returns betimes and speaks kindly to us a
ll.”
Elizabeth rose abruptly and left the room. Agnes spoke reassuringly to Prudence.
“Do not worry, child, you have told the truth and ‘tis a necessary element of life. Now, tell me about yourself.”
Prudence shrugged.
“Lady Agnes, I worked as an undercook for many years and learned my craft well. Prince Henry is fond of good food and for a time, a cook,” she corrected herself, “…I mean a chef, stayed with us here and taught us many fine recipes and ways of cooking. He was cross and mean, but I learned my lessons well, and when Cook died, I took her place.”
She stopped and crossed herself. Agnes nodded.
“Tell me, I heard the men talking just after we arrived that there are quarters behind the manor house now?”
“Oh indeed, my lady, indeed. Prince Henry hired an ark, arki,” she hesitated, “…a man to change the grounds considerably. He built cottages, small but lovely, on a cobbled way just beyond the back area. It is where my Joseph and I live.”
“Are any of them empty?”
“Aye, two of them are vacant, for Phyllis left to marry Hugh, and then the other was never occupied.”
“Consuelo, this shall be your home, at least for now. Prudence, take my daughter and the two of you inspect these cottages. Choose one, and we shall begin tomorrow to make it a home for you and Edward.”
Consuelo clapped her hands.
“My own house? My own hearth? Oh, my, I never thought! And here with you, mother, and with Prudence, who may show me, I hope, the ways of the estate.”
Prudence nodded enthusiastically and Agnes rose.
“Now, go. I shall see the men. Prudence, help Consuelo with a room upstairs for the evening, please kindly.”
Agnes went into the main hall and reached for the library door, but paused. Smiling to herself, she ran her fingers along the wall of the library, stopping when the familiar feel of the displaced mortar touched her fingers. She pulled it out and put her ear to the wall. The men were deep in conversation, and she heard an unknown voice, likely that of Prudence’s husband she mused, telling the men the tale Prudence had just finished in the kitchen. Satisfied and tired, she replaced the mortar and made her way upstairs. As she reached her own door, she opened it and looked down the hall at that of Elizabeth and said a small prayer. Crossing herself she pulled it behind her.
