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

by Betty Younis

  “My lady, ‘tis the sweating sickness that took Adam yesterday. I fear I must have it for I am not well and can no longer stand.” She collapsed in the door, effectively blocking passage in or out of the room.

  “My God,” Agnes was the first to react. She crossed herself before continuing and backing further away from Prudence. “‘Tis true, my lady, for look at the sweat pouring from her. We are all in danger!”

  The men backed themselves into a corner, a great fear written across their faces. Elizabeth turned to them.

  “I must get cool water for the woman. Stay here, lest you be exposed by drawing nigh unto the poor creature!”

  She picked up her skirts as she stepped over the fainting Prudence. As she ran into the kitchen, Constance caught her arm.

  “Quickly, mother, we have no time!”

  They ran together out the back of the kitchen to the stable. Its huge doors were thrown open and a giant steed stood saddled, ready to ride. The rain poured. Elizabeth hurried to a massive chest which sat nearby. She knelt and began clawing at its bottom. Beneath the hay and straw which covered the rough planks of the floor, she uncovered a small drawer. Reaching in her pocket, she found the key she had placed there earlier. Trembling, she opened the shallow drawer and pulled it out of the chest. Reaching behind it, she felt frantically for a hidden latch. Suddenly, the bottom side of the chest gave way, revealing a secret chamber. She ripped a heavy canvas bag from within it and rushed back to Constance, handing it to her daughter.

  “Child, in here you will find all you need to make safe your escape.”

  “Mother, I long not to leave. ‘Tis cowardly.”

  Elizabeth suddenly realized that Constance might not participate, thus endangering them all.

  “Listen to me. Good Queen Anne is no good queen. I have been warned repeatedly by many that if she should find out you exist, she will stop at nothing to ensure your death, for your presence upon this earth is a shadow upon her own child’s chances.”

  “Mother, the King has a legitimate daughter already, the Princess Mary! Even such a spiteful witch as Anne cannot deny that fact!”

  “She intends not to deny it, but to bastardize the princess because of the annulment of Queen Catherine’s marriage to Henry. And Mary is Catholic – and a Catholic will never again sit upon the throne of England. Constance, you are all that stands between that woman and her own dynasty and she will see to it that you do not long block her path. You must flee.”

  “And leave you? Mother?”

  Elizabeth stroked her daughter’s cheek and hugged her tightly as she whispered in her ear.

  “Better I have a daughter who lives in a faraway land than a daughter who lives not at all.”

  Constance wiped tears from her own face and then from her mother’s.

  “What is in the bag?” she asked hurriedly, realizing that her mother’s way was the only way.

  “A bag of coin, for you will have to pay heavily for what you are about to do. Instructions there are within as well, which will see you through the worst of it – and a remembrance of me.”

  She wept as she pulled at the bodice of her dress. From around her neck she took a simple gold chain on which hung a ruby-encrusted cross. She pulled Constance closer and placed it around her slender, youthful neck.

  “Do not forget me, my child, I pray of thee.”

  Constance hugged her firmly one last time before mounting the restless bay. She reached down and for a moment, their hands held tight. Then she was gone, racing out of the stable and through the muddied yard. Her mount easily took the low stone fence which defined the boundary between the farmlands of Coudenoure and the cottages of the servants. Elizabeth watched through the driving rain knowing that Constance would make for the hidden gate which lay within the great perimeter wall of the estate. Wiping her tears, she ran back to the house. She was met by shouting and screaming coming from the library. Running into the room, she was seized by a bowman.

  “What manner of game is this?” he shouted in her face. “For I have seen you just now and you have sent the lady we seek away!”

  Elizabeth screamed in pain as the bowman held her fast by her hair and hit her face.

  “And this “creature”?” He pointed to Prudence’s still figure lying on the floor by Agnes’ feet. Agnes held her head in her lap, weeping.

  “Was that the Lady Constance you put upon that steed?”

  Before Elizabeth could answer, a thundering of hooves sounded from the drive. Both bowmen ran to the window.

  “‘No men of ours! She has called for help! We must prepare to hold them off until our queen’s return!”

  But even as they loaded their crossbows, two men jumped from their horses and ran through the open doors of Coudenoure. Their hair was soaked and their clothes bedraggled by mud and rain. Elizabeth saw them and cried aloud while Agnes called out.

  “Charles! You have come!”

  But it was not Charles who entered the library first, but Henry. And as Elizabeth turned, she saw the bowman take aim.

  “NO!”

  Elizabeth screamed out the word and threw herself in front of Henry clutching his broad chest even as the deadly arrow flashed across the room. She felt its steel tip tear through her body and, gasping, looked up at her love as the blood began to flow.

  Charles tackled the second bowman before he could launch his arrow. The King looked down at Elizabeth and gently sank to the floor, holding her tightly.

  “Hold on, dearest, hold on! You must for I cannot live without you!”

  Her eyes began to close but a whispered word caught his ear, and he leaned closer to her lips.

  “I will leave a fire in the hearth for you, my Henry.”

  She was gone. Henry clutched Elizabeth’s still body tightly. His tears began to flow, unchecked.

  “No no no no no!” he screamed in anguish again and again. With a single arrow, his whole world had been destroyed, and he had been forced to watch her give her life for his. Gone now was his childhood, his love, his humanity. Charles knelt beside him, wrapping his sovereign in his arms.

  *****

  As the candles were lit against the dark evening, Henry finally stood, and Agnes and Prudence watched sobbing as Elizabeth’s body was taken to her bedroom. Cromwell had arrived with troops, but not in time. He and Charles stood before the fire, waiting for Henry to return to them.

  “Majesty.” Cromwell bowed deeply.

  Henry wiped away his final tears.

  “This is her doing.”

  Neither Cromwell nor Charles Brandon responded. After a moment, the king spoke again, this time to Cromwell.

  “She has written her own death warrant. Do you hear me?”

  Cromwell nodded and bowed.

  Henry walked from the room, knowing that his life had been torn to pieces and that not even he, the Great Henry, could ever put it back together again.

  *****

  Constance stood at the prow of the ship, feeling the salty sea air beat against her face. She held tightly to a heavy object with both hands, feeling her tears mix with the rain and the spray until she was one with the misty night. She held the object up and placed its bottom on the prow’s railing in order to stabilize it and stare at it.

  Carved from the most flawless white marble she 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. The beautiful face, carved in such exquisite detail as to be almost ephemeral, caused her tears to flow anew, for it was Elizabeth.

 

 

 
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