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

by Betty Younis

  “Then we are all at risk, for if she is of that nature, she will brook no one being close to Henry other than herself.”

  They completed their walk in silence. As Charles’ horse was brought from the stable, he turned to her one last time.

  “I came to tell you these things, but also to warn you.”

  She waited.

  “The king plans to see you tomorrow. He is riding from Richmond to Greenwich to see Anne, and told me he plans to stop and visit you and Coudenoure. Likely, it is because he trusts your counsel and will tell you just what I have just told you now.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “I will think upon how to approach the matter,” she assured him, “But tell me, does the Lady Anne Boleyn know of Coudenoure and the King’s attachment to it?”

  Charles looked at her with a seriousness and a sadness she had never seen in him before.

  “Let us hope not.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

  The front door of the manor was slightly ajar, and as Charles turned his steed, Agnes stepped out. She stood with Elizabeth watching the horse disappear into the falling night.

  “I do not like this.” She put her arm protectively around Elizabeth. In turn, Elizabeth wrapped her arm around Agnes’ waist.

  “I agree. But how to counter? Perhaps the king will show the way tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps.” Agnes replied without feeling. “But whether he does or does not, we must plan – we must consider Constance.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and they turned and went inside.

  *****

  As promised, King Henry appeared mid-morning at the door of Coudenoure. Elizabeth welcomed him and indicated that she wished to walk.

  “Ah, my Elizabeth I cannot,” Henry exclaimed, “…for my leg is bothering me greatly and I do not have much time. Let us sit by the fire, can we not?”

  As they settled into their routine chairs in the library, Prudence appeared with a tray of sweet cakes and glasses of cider. As the king eyed the delicacies, he spoke to her.

  “Prudence, you will make us all fat if you keep this up!”

  Prudence declined to state the obvious.

  “I am glad your Highness likes my treats,” she bowed deeply.

  “Tell me,” Henry asked, “How are you situated here at Coudenoure?”

  “Majesty, if I were able to choose a life for myself and my children, I would choose Coudenoure over any other place.”

  She bowed again and left.

  “You run a strange establishment, Elizabeth. Your servants are your friends, and they love you as family.”

  “They are my family, Henry. And yours as well.”

  She could almost see the tension leaving his body as he propped his foot on the ottoman.

  “You know, she still remembers my favorites, even after all this time!”

  He was like a child in a sweet shop, and he and Elizabeth spent some moments choosing which cakes to eat first. Once that decision had been made, they both leaned back in satisfied silence, until, licking his fingers, Henry finally spoke.

  “Elizabeth, you know that I seek an annulment of my marriage with Catherine,” he began.

  “You wish to live your life according to the principles of our God and his Son.”

  Henry sighed with relief, as though Elizabeth’s support and understanding were what he desperately needed.

  “Exactly. I believe that by marrying Catherine I displeased God and I must set that aright for my life to be as He intends it. Does not Leviticus say if a man shall take his brother’s wife they shall be childless?”

  Elizabeth reached for a second cake.

  “It does, Henry, and I believe you are right in your actions.”

  He also found a second sweet before continuing.

  “I must talk to you, Elizabeth, about a very sensitive matter. It concerns God’s plan for my life.”

  Elizabeth listened.

  “‘Tis not enough that I make amends for disobeying God by divorcing Catherine. I must also produce an heir, a son, to carry on the Tudor line.”

  Elizabeth remembered her conversation with Agnes the evening before.

  “Henry, you must put your mind at ease. Coudenoure, and I stand with you absolutely. I believe you must remarry in order to secure the throne for your line.”

  Once again, Henry sighed with relief.

  “Why do others not see this?” he asked petulantly. “It is as though the world is against me in this matter, and yet I stand for what God wants, not what I want.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “I think, Sire, that you must stay your course if that is what your conscience dictates. Your heart will always follow if you lead with purity of thought and Christian actions.”

  “Elizabeth, I knew you would understand! You are of my heart, dearest, and give me the truest counsel possible.”

  “There are others, Henry, who love you too. I am thinking of Charles.”

  “Yes, dearest, he does love me, but of all those upon this earth, only the two of you seem to know me.”

  Elizabeth moved the conversation forward.

  “I know that you have spoken fondly of one Anne Boleyn. Is it possible you could come to love her and perhaps sire a child with her? That perhaps might be much the easiest way.”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “She is my sweetest love, Elizabeth, and will give me a son when my divorce is final. ‘Tis God’s will, I am certain.”

  “Then, Majesty, you must proceed along those lines, for to do otherwise would put you in grave danger of mortal sin.”

  Elizabeth listened intently as Henry rhapsodized about the beauty and intelligence of his lady love, Anne. Charles was right: he could barely utter a sentence or an opinion without her name attached to it.

  “And would you believe, my dearest, that Wolsey has procrastinating shamelessly about securing the divorce? It is treasonous, and Anne agrees! I believe he would rather lose all than support me in this fundamental and Christian issue.”

  Elizabeth tsked, and Henry stayed silent.

  “What will happen to him?” she asked.

  “If he cannot secure my divorce, then it will be because he does not wish to, and to go against me in this matter is nothing but high treason.”

  “He manages many administrative details for your Highness,” Elizabeth said. “Do you have anyone who can replace him?”

  “He has a man, Cromwell, whom I believe can get me what God intends me to have.”

  Later, as Henry left, Agnes joined Elizabeth in the library.

  “I could not hear everything – Constance was hovering in a most annoying manner. Did you tell him what we need him to believe?”

  “I did Agnes,” she responded, “And I believe Constance will remain safe, at least until Anne Boleyn sits upon the throne. But I also believe that it is impossible that she will not learn of Coudenoure.”

  “Perhaps she will not.”

  “Women like that do not leave fate to chance. You may be assured she will learn of us, and then our troubles begin.”

  Constance replaced the mortar in the wall.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  February 20, 1530

  Thomas Cromwell waited patiently in the great hall of Cawood Castle. The dark paneled wood which lined the room spoke of its ancient beginnings under King Athelstan five centuries before. The stone floor with its wide mortar seams and huge limestone blocks bled the cold through Cromwell’s shoes and stockings until his feet were almost frozen.

  “Boy, light a fire.” He spoke sharply to the small child who sat listlessly by the hearth. Only embers remained from the previous evening and they gave no heat to the room. Shuffling his burlap shoes along the floor, the urchin did as he was told and Cromwell continued to inspect his surroundings. He sat near a floor to ceiling window, the only light source in the hall. The chair he occupied was comfortable and worn, and clearly ecclesiastical in purpose. Its velvet cushions were papist red, and the chair itself
was placed in front of a heavy desk carved with liturgical scenes from the Passion.

  A creaking sound erupted into the great silence and Cromwell turned to find Thomas Wolsey standing in the doorway. He bowed as the old man came forward and took his seat behind the desk. The past few months had left their marks clearly upon the Archbishop’s face. He still wore the luxurious velvets and satin allowed by his office of Papal Legate, and his zucchetto still sat jauntily upon his wayward hair, but beneath the majestic clothing was a frail man with a hollow chest. He coughed deeply.

  “You are keeping warm?” Cromwell asked kindly.

  “Indeed, but towards what end I know not,” his companion’s voice was the definition of melancholy. No one brought drinks or food, and when the boy had finished his work at the hearth Cromwell dismissed him. They sat in the huge space alone listening to the crackling of the wood in the fire. At last Wolsey spoke.

  “You know, do you not, that I have been called back to London?”

  “Well, sir, if this cold and dreary castle is all that is offered to you as the Archbishop of the land, then I think ‘tis a good development.” Cromwell’s wry remark did not seem to register with Wolsey.

  “Treason. I am charged with treason.” He coughed and spit into a small pot on the desk.

  Cromwell leaned forward and spoke in urgent tones.

  “You must fight, man, or you are lost. That woman shall have your head, and she will be happy to have it.”

  Wolsey waved his hand to indicate he wished silence from his friend.

  “Do you know, the King has taken Hampton Court? I knew even as I built upon its ruins that I was reaching beyond my station, but how could I not build it? ‘Tis a beautiful palace, and it was mine.”

  He paused before adding, “Mine for a moment.”

  Cromwell said nothing.

  “And did you know, the tapestries there are the finest weaves available? Flemish, all of them. And the paintings…”

  It was Cromwell’s turn to silence his friend.

  “You are babbling on about riches, sir, when you need to turn your thoughts to your life and how to escape the clutches of that evil witch.”

  Wolsey smiled sadly.

  “My life is gone,” he coughed again, “…and all I have left are my things. I love them. Did you know that I am the son of a butcher? Indeed. And yet I own Hampton Court and all that is within its lovely walls.”

  Cromwell rose in disgust. He could not fathom what would make a man such as Wolsey give up and surrender. Perhaps he was more ill than the cough suggested, but even so.

  “When do the king’s men come?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I came to tell you to fight, but you seem not to be interested.”

  “Go, friend, for I will see God shortly. And Thomas, take a care for your own head, for that witch will come for it too one day.”

  The fire had reached a roaring pitch, and Cromwell left his friend sitting at the desk, looking out the window, already waiting for the king’s men.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  October 11, 1533

  Elizabeth pulled the heavy wrap tighter around her shoulders and pulled the hood over her head. She wore a blue woolen cap, the type worn by sailors when the sea turned cold and damp. A matching scarf was wrapped warmly around her throat. Agnes had begun knitting such small things when her eyes could no longer discern the delicate embroidery patterns she had always loved and worked upon. Autumn was early this year, but Elizabeth was oblivious to its beauty and its unusual cold. She had other thoughts on her mind.

  News had reached Coudenoure of Wolsey’s fall from grace, and of Cromwell’s subsequent rise. She had never known Wolsey but she had never feared him either. His reputation had captured the two elements of his brilliant nature: his administrative skills, and his love of luxury. Instinctively, she had known he posed no threat to her small world. The king’s inventory of palaces was well above thirty, and the monies given to Coudenoure each year were small relative to the king’s other households. The fact that Coudenoure was never used on progress nor even mentioned in official accounts of the king’s households gave her a sense of security from the prying eyes of those who would know the king’s business at such a small estate.

  But a new man was now responsible for Henry’s households, and Elizabeth knew almost nothing of him. Was he an ally of the new queen? Would he question the king about his support of Coudenoure? Or perhaps the king would alert Cromwell to the private nature of the arrangement. And the king’s pronouncements on the new church and his role in it as supreme leader – would they be questioned upon these issues?

  Life at Coudenoure had a dreamlike quality to it – the seasons rolled gently through the year, and events at the manor were of interest only to those who lived there. After the turmoil of her youth, Elizabeth had come to appreciate the never-changing atmosphere of her estate, and her management of it reflected her need for regularity in her daily affairs. She had raised Constance as her father had raised her, and Agnes was always there to insure a continuity of tradition and community. But suddenly the realm far and wide was being torn asunder by new ideas, new modes of thought. Would Coudenoure survive?

  Some years earlier, Elizabeth had decided that her legacy to Constance would be not only the estate but even more importantly the library at Coudenoure. Constance was of the same ilk as her mother, and scholarly learning had, over time, become a critical component of her nature. She took Coudenoure and its timeless grace for granted. She bought and traded manuscripts with a wide range of bibliophiles just as Thomas had done before her, and her thrill with each new acquisition was almost humorous in its intensity. When Henry came to visit, the two of them frequently sat together examining these purchases and discussing the ideas contained within. The extension of the library’s holdings was a consuming interest for both of them and until now Elizabeth had had no reason to worry about the cost of books and manuscripts bound for Coudenoure. But she knew that on occasion, their cost was more than a year’s worth of maintenance for the entire estate. Would the king’s new man, Cromwell, become curious about these purchases and trace them to her manor?

  She wondered if the years of joyous isolation had made her unduly fearful about her situation, but she did not truly believe so. Frequently, she and Prudence and Agnes would look at the cost of running the estate and compare it to the revenue received from their few tenants and the farm produce sold in the city. The numbers were always close enough, giving a sense of security to the women. But the library. The books.

  Beyond all the chatter about Coudenoure which went round and round in her mind, she knew that it was just a veil to cover for her true concern: Constance. The child was now the woman, and Elizabeth knew that despite the discipline of her subterfuge, she had long ago deduced her parentage for herself. Indeed, when she and Henry sat together the resemblance was breath-taking, even down to certain mannerisms they shared. How would her future unfold? With her startling likeness to Henry, placing her at court would have been difficult if not impossible under Catherine. But Anne? There was no question that Constance would be endangered should the new queen even lay eyes upon her.

  The matter of Constance’s future came up time and again in her conversations with Henry, but neither knew what the best course might be – and it never occurred to them to ask Constance herself.

  As Elizabeth slowly walked the perimeter path, she saw Henry riding up the long drive. As she waved he dismounted and came to meet her.

  “Henry, should you not be with Anne? She gives birth now any day!”

  Henry laughed.

  “By god, Elizabeth, you are right! She is retired to her chamber even now. I will have a son! An heir to whom I shall pass my kingdom! Truly, truly I am a happy man this day.”

  Elizabeth smiled at his jubilation. His marriage to Anne and his certainty of producing a son with her had rolled years away from him until he was once again had the bearing of a man whose life had purpos
e and meaning.

  “I had to leave Greenwich to see you, if only for a moment.”

  Elizabeth waited.

  “Agnes tells Charles that you are troubled by the future.”

  “Charles and Agnes are thick as thieves, your highness.”

  Henry laughed again.

  “Indeed. But I come to tell you that your worries are for naught. Put them away, dear friend, for I have spoken to Cromwell about my special love for Coudenoure and he will see to it that our secret abode remains ever thus.”

  Elizabeth breathed deeply.

  “Oh, Henry, thank you. I have been nervous, seeing the changes all about me and my little world. I am afraid I have come to depend upon you and Coudenoure for everything.”

  He looked at her lovingly.

  “You may always depend upon me for everything, Elizabeth, for you are my love. And do not leave it to Charles and Agnes to tell me of your fears – you must share them with me so that I may alleviate them.”

  Elizabeth wept with relief.

  “Henry, go to your new wife. You will soon have the son you deserve and I and all of Coudenoure with me will await the ringing of the church bells telling us the good news. Today is the seventh, an auspicious number indeed. I will pray for Queen Anne to be delivered safely of your son.”

  She gave him an impetuous hug and he laughed as he walked hurriedly back to his steed. In turn, she went quickly back into the house.

  “The queen is in labor,” she announced. “We must all pray that she delivers the king’s son safely.”

  Evening came on, and still the church bells did not ring out the glorious news. The next morning, Elizabeth found Charles and Agnes seated in the kitchen, talking quietly. Prudence pretended to be busy kneading a shapeless mound of sticky flour on the nearby long table, and the scullery maids had been dismissed. The east light of the rising sun poured in through the swirled glass of the huge windows and gave the room a festive air. A low fire crackled merrily in the great hearth as if confirming the mood, but a plate of fruit sat untouched between Charles and Agnes, and their conversation was fretful.