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

by Betty Younis

  He continued looking around before finishing.

  “Yes, it will make all three of us quite happy – you, me and our sovereign. I shall begin at once. I was en route to Hampton Court but I shall stop here for a moment and begin the design work. Later, I will send my workmen.”

  “En route to Hampton Court?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Indeed,” came the reply, “Old Wolsey intends to hold a masked ball there to show off his wealth. I tell you, the man is insufferable. Why, he had the audacity to tell me that my apparel was not suitable for a man my age – he actually used the word “dandy”, whatever that means. Really, quite impossible. Did you know…”

  The afternoon was passed happily with chatter, drawings, and Prudence’s cakes.

  *****

  Lord Chancellor Wolsey needed an excuse. Hampton Court, his beloved country estate, was finally complete. While he had made York Place, his London home, grand beyond measure, Hampton Court was truly his jewel. Courtiers, servants, nobles – all who sought his favors would pass through eight separate chambers before being admitted into his presence, a sure testament to his wealth and power. He had spared no expense, wanting his palace to rival those of the continental princes of the church with whom he so frequently dealt. Rich, huge tapestries, each more intricately woven than the last, graced the walls of the state rooms. The Story of Abraham, his favorite, had just been delivered from the low countries, and even Henry had remarked upon the fine weaving evident in the piece. Holbeins jostled miniatures by Hilliard, and dazzling displays of church jewels were on display along with ancient statuary and medieval scrolls.

  But now that the architectural renovations were complete, now that the interior rooms were decorated with an eye towards ostentatious display of his wealth, now, to whom could he show this magnificent accomplishment? For Wolsey, it was not an idle question. Son of an Ipswich butcher, he knew and understood viscerally what it meant to live on the other side. Through sheer hard work and brilliance he had risen through the ranks of those serving Henry to his current position as Lord Chancellor and Papal Legate, and yet, what did it all mean if there was no one he could lord it over? He had no desire to be quietly and discretely rich beyond measure – he wanted an audience. He needed an opportunity to light the candles, hang the walls with even more tapestries and further draperies of fine silks and satins, and hire musicians. He needed a party. And so he had decided upon a masked ball.

  Yes, it would be grand.

  It was the evening before the event, and even Wolsey had to admit the splendor of the great, storied room was a wonder to behold. At one end of the hall, magnificent tables were set and ready to be laden with fine meats and sweets. At the other, a small stage set had been put up in order to provide his guests with the evening’s main entertainment: a short play in which young maids, in the guise of the virtues, would be assailed and ultimately won over by male ardor. Between the tables and the stage the floor had been cleared and a yet smaller stage erected in the corner for musicians. As he walked through the vast space, he began to feel uncomfortable. In fact, small nagging devils began to plague him and he approached Janyns, the King’s architect who was overseeing the stage set production for him.

  “My Lord Janyns, what think you? ‘Tis very grand.” Wolsey paused. “Indeed, is it too grand? After all, I am only the king’s servant. This place, these hangings, are they not too grand for one in my position?”

  Janyns shrugged and tossed a cobalt blue scarf over his shoulder.

  “What you mean to say is will the king believe you to have overstepped?”

  Wolsey smiled sourly, impressed as ever with the architect’s utter lack of subtlety.

  “I know not if you have gone too far, but I know that if you have, King Henry will not hide the matter from you.”

  His mind was still on the work he had finished only a few days earlier at Coudenoure. Henry had chanced by at the end of his stay there and was enchanted with the plans for the library. Janyns was thus happy. Whether Wolsey would have the same luck was not a matter of any concern to him whatsoever.

  The master architect walked out, leaving Wolsey to worry and fret on his own. He was still perturbed as his guests began to arrive the following morning – most would stay at Hampton court with their entourages, ostensibly so that their attire would be perfect for the coming evening’s events; in reality, Wolsey had offered just such extended invitations that his guests might have time to wander about his fabulous new halls and admire his spectacular new belongings. Silks and velvets of all colors were to be seen, carefully placed within the folds of protective linen, as the servants of various houses descended upon Hampton Court. The musicians with their cases and flamboyant attire were politely shifted to the side and back entrances used by the servants. The grand entry way was for the king and his noblemen only. Wolsey’s own staff, dressed grandly in Henry’s colors, stood stiffly at attention as though they, too, were part of the palace’s decorations.

  As the evening got under way, Wolsey continued to fuss with himself – after all, the grand hall was grander than the king’s own, and the tapestries were finer than any other’s in the entire kingdom. What would Henry think?

  “So you fear I may feel you have gone too far?” It was Henry, and so intent had Wolsey been on his own woes he had not heard the iing approach.

  Wolsey thought back to his earlier conversation with Janyns – the man was nothing if not indiscreet.

  “Your Majesty, all I have I owe to you. I am your most humble servant.”

  “Aye, you are my servant, but not such a humble one.” Henry looked admiringly around the room before patting Wolsey on the back. “But do not worry. I am too happy this evening to worry about you and your wealth.”

  Wolsey followed Henry’s eyes to a slim figure, dressed in deep burgundy and dancing merrily. She held a gold mask across her eyes, but sensing their gaze, she dropped it dramatically and deliberately as she turned her dark eyes upon them. They offered a glimpse into the sophisticated soul of one recently come from France. Henry could not stop staring and smiling at the young woman.

  “Who is she, Majesty?”

  “Anne.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  November 5, 1529

  Someone was knocking on her bedroom door. Without waiting for her response, Agnes shuffled into her room.

  “Elizabeth, wake up, for young Brandon is here.”

  “Young Brandon? Agnes, we none of us have been young lately.”

  Agnes ignored her and snapped her fingers at the servant who was hurriedly stoking the fire in the hearth.

  “Hurry up, girl! You are the slowest of the slowest, and I wonder how ‘tis not nightfall before you finish dressing in the mornings!” The years had not dulled Agnes’ tongue. As the young woman finally pulled the door behind her, Agnes shouted after her.

  “And have someone bring us cider and bread and cheese, do you hear?”

  Agnes rapped Elizabeth’s covers sharply with her cane.

  “Now up, for as I said, Charles is here and I believe he has news.”

  “Why do you think that?” Elizabeth stood in front of the fire with her back to it holding up her night dress so that the warmth from the flames could reach her. The thin shift filled with heat and billowed out behind her near the flames.

  Agnes stamped her cane on the floor, reminding Elizabeth of Thomas.

  “You will burn the place down with your nightdress if you do not quit that habit.”

  Agnes ignored her smile.

  “I believe he has news because as ever, he cannot keep it from his face and his manner. He speaks more quickly and paces when he is anxious.”

  As Elizabeth dressed and ate, Agnes continued her chatter.

  “Now, I believe Mary finally has a suitor – widowhood does not suit that young woman. Not at all. She becomes more wretchedly morose with each passing year.”

  “Who is this that would take our Mary from us?”

  “He is from Woolw
ich, and seems to be a fine young man. I suspect she could remain here while he sails.”

  “And how did Mary meet a fine young man from Woolwich?”

  Agnes’ face darkened to the point that Elizabeth had to laugh as she spoke.

  “Oh aye, ‘twas ever thus – young men do find ways, do they not? Likely he was visiting the stables to see his friend Jonathon, or his friend the yardman Vincent or some other such person and then such person happened to introduce him to Mary.”

  “‘Tis not right for a maid, or a widow, to meet her husband in that manner. The woman should wait until her mother and father have determined who the best suitor is, and only then should she be allowed to meet the man. At that point, they should have supervised meetings, and only in due time should they be allowed to court and eventually marry. I do not know what is happening in this world that the young people behave as they do in this day and age.”

  Elizabeth had heard the lecture many times before and gently guided Agnes back to Charles Brandon.

  “If you would finish eating, then we might both find out why he is here,” Agnes said testily.

  Eventually, they made their way to the library. Charles stood by the window and as Agnes entered, he spoke merrily to her.

  “What have you done with Agnes? Oh! Wait! You are Agnes! For a moment I mistook you for a young maid, as fair as when – ”

  Agnes cut him off with a snort before silently leaving the room. After a moment, Elizabeth heard a tiny grating sound in the wall.

  “Charles, sit. What brings you to Coudenoure?”

  “You do not want to have a small, idle gossip before we launch into meaningful conversation? At court, such abilities are considered essential for polite society.”

  Elizabeth countered.

  “I will indeed force you to hear my small talk which shall be about this library and its many volumes, but first, we shall hear your news.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair, sighed, and closed his eyes, giving Elizabeth a chance to look upon him uninterrupted. Like them all, he had aged considerably. His hair was quite thin now with gray streaks throughout. His face stood as a testament to his service to Henry – in the battle of the Spurs, at the battle of Flodden Field, and at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. It was lined and weathered, but it suited him, like marble etched over time by wind and rain into a finer more nuanced stone. But his body stood in stark contrast to the maturity written across his countenance. Whether through serendipity or discipline, Charles had maintained the figure of a much younger man. His muscular calves showed through his silk hose, and despite the fullness of his sleeves the musculature of his arms was evident. Sinewy, long fingers bespoke a gentle man, despite his military service. After a moment, he opened his eyes.

  “‘Tis our majesty.” He spoke simply and waited.

  “Henry is fine?” Worry was evident in Elizabeth’s voice. Charles waved it away with a weary hand.

  “Our Majesty is fine, praise be to God.” They both crossed themselves as he continued.

  “No, ‘tis not his Highness’ health which brings me here today. ‘Tis his desire.”

  “Anne?”

  Charles nodded.

  “It seems he cannot have a single conversation without saying her name.” Charles pitched his voice slightly as he continued. “What does the Lady Anne think? How is the Lady Anne today? Where is the Lady Anne? I think I shall visit the Lady Anne. I believe…”

  Elizabeth giggled despite herself.

  “You see my point.”

  She nodded.

  “But Charles, you have known this for some time. It has been years since the King shared Queen Catherine’s bed – if I know this in my home so far removed from court, then you must know it as well.”

  “We all know it, and Queen Catherine makes a great display of inviting him to her bed often and letting everyone know he declines. What is the woman thinking with that? That he will lust for her in the face of such rudeness? I know not.”

  Blushing, Elizabeth asked, “How would a woman invite a man thus without being forward?”

  Now it was Charles’ turn to giggle. “You truly are removed from the ways of the court, my good Elizabeth. Indeed.”

  Elizabeth stoked the fire to hide her embarrassment. She had never learned the rituals of courtship and when in the company of those who were fluent in them, she never ceased to feel somehow less, somehow ignorant in ways that made her slightly ashamed, as though she had missed a vital part of life even though she knew such feelings to be false. After a moment, she returned to her seat.

  “The King longs for a son, and I believe he will not rest easy until he has one. ‘Tis natural that he turn his eye, therefore, to the maids of the court.”

  “Elizabeth, that is not what this is. He is obsessed with the woman. If it were only the need for a son, then we all would understand that. But she seems to have seduced him, to have bewitched him.”

  “Well, perhaps he is truly in love with the maid. And what of it?”

  “We come to my news.”

  It was his turn to stoke the fire restlessly.

  “You know he asked the Pope to annul his marriage to Queen Catherine.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Everyone knows this – is that your news?”

  Charles shook his head vigorously while she continued.

  “And everyone also knows the Pope will never give him a Papal decree of such a nature, and not only because ‘tis wrong. The Emperor Charles is Catherine’s nephew, and Clement will never do such a thing because of it. Henry wants it because he feels he has misinterpreted God’s plan for his life and he stands always ready to do God’s bidding. If he believes his marriage was not within the Almighty’s plan, then I understand why he would attempt to annul it so his life will be in accord with the wishes of Providence.”

  “Elizabeth, do not be naïve. He wants the annulment not to satisfy God and the saints, but in order to marry Anne.”

  Elizabeth looked at him in horror.

  “What? ‘Tis not true. You cannot put your wife away because you have no male issue, even if you are the king!”

  Charles said nothing.

  “You must not say such things, Charles. ‘Tis sacrilegious heresy to speak of such sins.”

  “Elizabeth, I tell you the truth. I heard it from the King myself. And there is further news. That viperous woman has turned Henry against his most faithful minister, Wolsey. There is talk that she will have him arrested and tried for treason.”

  “Treason? Pray tell, what treason would that be? Managing the king’s accounts and business for him? ‘Tis treasonous now to honor and obey one’s sovereign?”

  “The Lady Anne has filled the King’s head with noisy, silly ideas. She tells him that the Pope drags his feet about granting the annulment because Wolsey is in league with him and further, that Wolsey himself does not want to see the divorce happen because he hates her.”

  “What manner of woman is this?” Elizabeth asked incredulously. “What matters whom Wolsey likes or dislikes? He does the king’s bidding and we all know him to be the king’s man! ‘Tis true he loves wealth and has been known to display his own riches in very coarse, vulgar and inappropriate shows of privilege, but, but, my God, so do most of the king’s courtiers – am I not right?”

  Charles nodded glumly.

  “There seems to be no one who can stop the woman, so beguiled is Henry. And it may all be traced back to Catherine’s inability to bear a son. And King Henry shall have one at all costs. He has an obsessive burning deep in his soul for a son and that is the beginning, and end, of the Boleyn woman’s power over him.”

  The sun waxed long above Coudenoure and they walked the grounds in the afternoon, continuing their conversation.

  “There is an element of the tale which I do not understand.” Elizabeth’s words died in the windless air of the sunny day. “If she has taken the king to her bed, and still there is no son, then…”

  “Ah, that is w
here her witchery and cunning are elevated to that of the devil himself,” Charles explained. “…for she refuses to sleep with him until he is free of his wife.”

  Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks while she considered his words.

  “‘Tis clever, that,” she conceded. “And I see the King agreeing, for should he have a son, then he will want it born in royal wedlock in his royal bed. And Anne Boleyn, how does she keep him in line?”

  “Spells, evil craft, I do not know. Likely she assures him that she will bear him a son and he, in desperation, has come to believe that God intends it thus. And so he pursues the annulment. You see? ‘Tis a perfect web the woman weaves.”

  They walked along the perimeter path in silence for some ways. The winter was come early that year, and the grass of the grand yard was a patchwork of green and brown as the cold slowly robbed it of life. The espaliers along the perimeter fence had lost their leaves, revealing their underlying structure and symmetry. Years earlier, when Elizabeth had felt entrapped by the immensity and monolithic quality of the wall, Henry had ordered a path built fifteen feet from it. The path followed the lines of the security wall around the entire manor proper. He had then employed more groundsmen whose sole purpose was to turn the fifteen feet between the wall and the path into a show of flowers and seasonal botanical delights. Over time, his plan had worked, and rather than a bulwark against enemies, the flowers turned the wall into a keeper of treasures within. They bespoke a somber beauty now, all turned to seed.

  “Poor Wolsey,” Elizabeth said at last. “What will become of him?”

  Charles picked up a stick and threw it as he walked.

  “I do not know, but ‘twill not be good, for she hates him and his power over the king. Aye, I believe his days may be numbered.”