The Other Elizabeth: Royal Sagas: Tudors II

by Betty Younis

  Elizabeth was intrigued. She had no clue what event the woman was remembering, but clearly it was still vivid and had etched itself in stark detail in her aged memory. There was no account of such a confrontation in the court records that she knew of, yet there had been many skirmishes with rebels from the north. Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle rustle of an autumn breeze. It caused the dry grass which covered the graves to whisper their own version of the past. Elizabeth felt it pull a wisp of hair free from its netting and she settled it back in place as she spoke.

  “Madam, a wind is coming. Shall I accompany you back to the manor? I would love to hear more of Coudenoure.”

  The old woman shook her head.

  “No, no, I wish to speak to Elizabeth.” Now she stretched and tapped her cane upon the next gravestone. “Elizabeth too died defending Henry. Such a good king he was. And a good man.”

  She looked directly at the queen.

  “Go to the manor. Constance is in the library and can tell you about Coudenoure. It is hers now.”

  “Tell me, what is your name?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Agnes, my lady. I was born before Bosworth, if you are familiar with that battle. And I have been at Coudenoure since that time.”

  Elizabeth’s face broke into a smile.

  “Aye, as you say,” she replied. “I am deeply familiar with that battle.” She turned to go.

  “And you? What is your name, child?” Agnes called out.

  The queen turned.

  “I am Elizabeth.”

  As she walked away, Elizabeth heard the old girl mutter to herself, “Poor child, she thinks she is Elizabeth when we sit in front of Elizabeth’s grave. Tut, tut, poor child.”

  Elizabeth stifled a laugh and walked on.

  She led her horse across the great lawn, piecing together the tales of first William and now of this aged creature Agnes. Saints in heaven, she reflected, the old woman did not even recognize her own queen. And who was this Constance that she was about to meet? Her father’s love, perhaps?

  The dry autumn breeze felt good against her skin, and she looped the reins of her mount through the iron circle of a hitching post near the front door. Before she could knock, one massive side of the double door creaked open. An older woman stood before her in a simple dress with a cook’s apron and cap. This one, too, looked at Elizabeth without recognition.

  “Madam, I am Prudence.” An inquiring look met Elizabeth’s steady gaze but there was no curtsey or bow, only simple civility such as one might extend a neighbor.

  “I am here to see Constance,” Elizabeth said. “Agnes stated she is in the library.”

  “Oh, aye, then if you have seen Agnes.” The name “Agnes” seemed to serve as a password for entry, and Prudence pushed the heavy door open further. “Come this way, madam. Shall I tell her your name?”

  “No, that will not be necessary.” Elizabeth was entranced by the situation and the place and wanted no hint of her position to break the spell. She looked around in wonder at the great limestone walls and floors of the manor house. Stained glass from some earlier century sparkled on either side of the front doors, and a high vaulted ceiling gave an ethereal quality to the great hall through which they proceeded. With its monastic plainness, the place was the antithesis of modern, yet the tapestries and rugs gave it a warmth seldom found even in the oak and elm paneled rooms of her own palaces. Surely, her father had felt the same, for why else would he have protected the place and built upon it for so long? But even as she admired the long hall, Prudence knocked and opened a side door. Elizabeth entered and could barely stifle a gasp.

  Before her was a room of such simplistic elegance that it took her breath away. A medieval fireplace tall enough for her to easily stand in its chamber graced the middle of the outer wall. Its mantel was of polished but uncarved marble. Above it hung a great sword. But the mantel paled in comparison to the wall upon which it stood.

  Great solid shelves, each four inches thick, stretched from floor to ceiling along the entire wall. They were polished to a high gleam and supported by even greater beams which ran vertically between them every five feet. It was a masterpiece of symmetry, beauty and organization. But even that was not what took Elizabeth’s breath away – it was what lay upon those shelves.

  In neat rows and carefully placed stacks, in scrolled papyri set out one at a time upon various shelves, in vellum pages and bound books was the greatest library Elizabeth had ever seen. Silently, she walked slowly to one end of the wall and gently traced her fingers along the spines of the volumes set there. She paused before the shelves which housed ancient scrolls, so ancient that even she had never beheld documents of such antiquity. Illuminated pages lay singly upon some of the shelves, so fragile that their owner had not wished to place even a single page on top of them lest damage be done. On and on she walked, lost in the vast and ancient collection. Twenty minutes or more had passed before a polite cough behind her caught her attention. She returned to the great hearth and for the first time noticed the arrangement of chairs in front of it. In one of them sat a middle-aged woman who might once have laid claim to great beauty. Her face was square and her eyes gray. Her hair was streaked through with white but even so the flaming red of its original color still caught one’s eye. As Elizabeth came near, she rose and bowed with difficulty.

  “Majesty.”

  Elizabeth looked at her and knew that William’s tale was true, for she was looking at her father in female form. A heavy cough caused the woman to sway slightly and Elizabeth realized that not only must the woman be ill, but she was also lame, for she stood upon one leg.

  “Sit.” She ordered her. The woman fell back into her chair and looked up at Elizabeth.

  “My Queen, we are honored.”

  Elizabeth sat in the chair next to her. Her head was spinning.

  “Madam, you look very much like our like great king, Henry.”

  A crooked smile creased the woman’s wrinkled countenance as she studied the face before her: Red hair and gray blue eyes set against an alabaster complexion. The face had the fullness of youth but promised to give way to high cheekbones and an aquiline nose in old age. And there, yes, there was the narrow chin much like her own. She continued to gaze at Elizabeth and looked beyond the physical attributes of the woman. Here was an intelligent being, but one who was terribly guarded. Her eyes were watchful but gave nothing away, as though a lifetime at the whim of conspiracy, fear and chance had taught her well. She trusted no one. That much was certain.

  “Majesty, you have nothing to fear from me or from Coudenoure, for that matter. We support you and your court unequivocally.”

  Elizabeth interrupted. “I am sure you do since the crown pays for the very roof over your head, madam.” She heard her own voice, harsh and strident and wondered why she had said such a thing. But the woman next to her seemed to understand Elizabeth’s need for supremacy and control. She looked down as she countered.

  “Majesty, you are right of course. But whether our small household lived here at Coudenoure or in some hovel in a faraway village, you would still have our undying support. The de Grays have always been thus.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Yes, I have heard. But you have yet to answer my question concerning the resemblance between you and my father.”

  A long pause ensued.

  “Majesty, with all my scars and missing limbs…” she nodded towards the footstool, “…and with my breath which is slowly leaving me, yes, I am your sister.”

  Elizabeth sat quietly, stunned by the simplicity of Constance’s answer. So she had a sister. Her only experiences of near relatives were not happy ones, and her immediate instinct was to flee and formulate destruction before it could be visited upon her. Yet the face before her defied such an interpretation of the situation. It echoed the simplicity and innocence of the answer provided to her question. This woman was helpless, and surely if she intended harm to Elizabeth she would not be living in compl
ete anonymity and isolation at Coudenoure. She would be raising an army or consulting with rebels and Catholics. Elizabeth remained silent, considering the situation. She was in no immediate danger and her guards waited at the end of the drive should trouble erupt. What to do? Every fiber in her being shouted that here was yet another threat to her own person, yet another pretender to her throne. How many, she wondered, must she endure? Was her life always to be full of such turmoil? Why had God given her everything only to allow it to be threatened at every turn? And yet, Constance did not convey such evil purpose or the cunning required to achieve it.

  Her thoughts of schemes and intrigues and counter-moves were pulled back by the patient, intelligent face before her. It watched her with nothing but kindness written across it.

  “You wonder whether to trust me, do you not?” Constance asked. “Indeed, I suspect your entire life has been one long struggle: to please, to stay alive, to succeed, to protect yourself, your crown and your kingdom.”

  Elizabeth waved her hand for silence.

  “Who are you? What is your name?”

  “Constance de Gray.” The woman waited.

  “If you are as you say then your mother was my father’s mistress.”

  “Initially, Majesty, that was so. But my mother respected the sanctity of marriage and once Henry was married to Catherine, they no longer shared carnal pleasures. Their love for one another was bound up with their shared past.”

  Again, what to do? She knew instinctively the woman before her told the truth, but she knew from sad experience that nothing but grief and trouble came from those who might also have a claim to her throne whether they pursued it or not. If she exposed this Constance, and if she did it would end badly for the woman she was certain, then she was denying herself the one thing she had never been able to find, even at her own court when the crown of England was finally hers: someone who knew her father.

  All his friends had passed on long before Elizabeth came to the throne. And it was only then that she was in a position to ask and to seek answers. But by then it was too late. And now, like a gift from God himself she had stumbled across a place her father obviously loved deeply and had devoted himself to in no small measure. She had accidentally found the one person who could tell her of Henry, of what he was like when he was not king and on his guard. Who was the man? This woman knew, and held perhaps the last key to understanding him. If she destroyed her and Coudenoure, she would lose forever the opportunity to know her own father. She took a deep breath.

  “Constance, who knows of your heritage?”

  “No one”, she replied. “I lived abroad for many years, and when I returned, I wanted nothing more than what I had left with – Coudenoure and all its memories.”

  “Did you know our father?”

  “Aye, I did. What a fine and funny and kind man he was.”

  “Kind and funny?” Elizabeth laughed. “Madam, I do not believe I have ever heard him described thus.”

  It was Constance’s turn to laugh.

  “My good Queen, can you not tarry a moment? Prudence, my friend and cook, can make us a light repast. You see, I have no one with whom to share my memories.”

  “What of Agnes, the old woman whom I just met?”

  Constance laughed again.

  “Lady Agnes lives with the dead. She has no need of my memories for she has her own of this place, of my mother and father. No, she cares not for mine.”

  She hesitated.

  “Agnes knew your grandfather, Majesty, did you know? She has tales she would wish to share, if she knew who you were.”

  Elizabeth rose and warmed her hands in front of the fire. After a moment, she turned.

  “Tell me, do you ever leave this place? Do you have visitors who come?”

  The questions seemed pointed, as though Elizabeth were making a calculation of some sort.

  “No Majesty, I do not. Tradesmen come to the backdoor and are managed by Prudence. The servants who manage the fields and stables deal only with her. I am here, with my books and my things only. No one here would speak of you, nor will anyone beyond Coudenoure know of your visit.”

  A long pause ensued. Elizabeth saw a flicker in Constance’s eyes, but it passed before she could identify it.

  “Very well,” Elizabeth finally spoke, “’Tis nothing to me, but I will nevertheless hear your tales of our good King Henry.”

  She picked up her riding gloves from a nearby table.

  “But not today. I shall return when I am able.”

  Constance attempted to rise and Elizabeth was once again struck by the frailty of the woman. Her sleeve caught on the chair and revealed an arm so thin as to be bone and skin only.

  “Sit. We will meet again and in the meantime, this meeting does not leave Coudenoure.”

  Constance lay back in the chair and wheezed, but raised her hand to acknowledge Elizabeth’s command. With that, the queen strode from the room. She mounted her horse and galloped quickly down the drive to her waiting courtiers.

  “Majesty?” William asked once she appeared.

  “Sir William, you have led me astray, for this place is nothing of the Tudors. There is none of what your legends and tales speak of. Let us not worry with this place again, but leave it in its isolated splendor – there is no one there but an old servant who has never been turned out. We shall leave the place as we found it.”

  They turned for Greenwich, and Elizabeth rode amongst the others without joining in their chatter. She was turning events over in her mind. She knew she could trust Constance, but she also knew that the flicker she had seen in Constance’s eyes indicated that the woman was hiding something. Perhaps it was immaterial, perhaps not. Time would surely tell.

  At Coudenoure, a young woman and man crouched in the yew hedge which extended from the east corner of the manor house.

  “What do you think?”, the young woman whispered as they watched Elizabeth ride away. “Do you think perhaps…”

  “…it is in connection with the mystery of Coudenoure?” the young man ventured.

  “Quinn!” came the exasperated reply, “There is no mystery of Coudenoure. ’Tis my mother’s estate and a very pleasant one. That is all.”

  “Aye, but the rumors, Bess. My father tells me king Henry loved this manor above all others.”

  “Did he say why?” Bess whispered.

  Quinn chuckled under his breath.

  “He said it was because of “the great Robert Janyns” vision and talent in renovating the place. Others, however, do not give my father credit, but rather lay it at the feet of one Elizabeth of Coudenoure.”

  As the queen disappeared from sight, Bess rose and looked at Quinn in anger and amusement.

  “Elizabeth of Coudenoure was my grandmother, and you will quash such rumors as come your way. I will not have my family maligned by my own pre-contracted husband.”

  Quinn attempted to speak. Bess cut him off, but the wounded look on his face caused her to reassure him.

  “Do not worry so much, Quinn dearest.”

  He perked up once again like a puppy given a treat.

  “Leave now, and I will go see my mother. Anon.”

  Quinn watched as she ran lightly through the heavy front doors of Coudenoure. His eyes, dreamy pools of ebony, looked upon her in silent admiration and love. How had he been so lucky, he wondered? He stood to wipe the grass from his stockings, tripped on the end of his own scarf and fell headlong into the hedge. He ignored the setback and rose again, this time traipsing across the great lawn towards his own neighboring estate. The fall was not necessarily a surprise. Quinn knew his inherited talent in architecture was unmatched, but he also knew that once outside that comfortable realm of models and geometry and planes and space, he was frequently a victim of his own clumsiness and inability to organize himself and his surroundings. He spun through life leaving a trail of debris through which he had to continuously backtrack to find the necessary bits and pieces he needed to move forward again.


  But Bess. She suffered from no such calamities of nature and nurture. He was certain that if she so desired, she could order the very stars in the sky to do her bidding and they would float across the vaults of heaven in complex patterns of beauty and light, steered by her will and desire. After all, he mused happily, she ordered him about thus and he found it comforting, maternal. Or what he imagined to be maternal: his own mother had died in childbirth leaving his aged father to raise him alone in a world with a marked absence of the fairer sex. The result was a boy, then a young man, who had no knowledge of women and their ways. They seemed to him mysterious creatures with almost prescient knowledge of the world around them and how to make it right and good; born of a tribe with secret, cultish ways that men could never understand, only appreciate and need – desperately. His childhood with his father had been joyous and carefree, but in addition to leaving him with only a loose definition of chaos (and a looser one yet of its origins), it had resulted in a distinct awkwardness in the presence of women. He had always come away feeling bruised and generally off-kilter – until Bess.

  As Quinn larked across the lawn, Bess joined her mother in the library.

  “Who was that?” she asked as she stood before the fire. “Quinn and I saw a woman leave just now.”

  “Oh, just some lost soul who turned up from Greenwich Palace,” replied Constance, “– no one you need worry about, dear.”

  She paused.

  “Shall we have some tea?”

  Chapter Four

  Elizabeth rode out with only a minimal escort the following morning. Even for a woman who required little sleep her evening’s rest had been brief. She had always imagined that should the crown ever grace her brow she would be able to breathe freely. The frets and terrors which had defined her until that moment would melt away and she would be at her leisure to think, to act, to live. Thus far, however, that had not been the case.

  The business with Dudley and his wife had served to push her to the breaking point. Dudley had retreated to Yorkshire, to the estate of his beloved sister Katherine. The investigation was ongoing, but nothing seemed to slow the gossip at court. The death had rhyme and reason for everyone knew of Dudley’s ambition and almost no one liked him. Her evening had been spent with her court, but as she ate and danced, she felt the eyes upon her in a way she seldom did. She was being watched now, not as queen and sovereign but as the possible mistress of a murderer. Gone was all talk of the good work she and Cecil were doing with the coinage of the land – giving it a solid weight and thus ensuring its acceptance for trade at home and on the continent. So too her subjects had ceased to discuss religion and her move towards practice as dictated by conscious. All had been swept aside by Robert Dudley and his scandal. There was nothing she could do until the coroner’s report was put abroad and like so many other times in her life, she struggled to compartmentalize the angst and uncertainty of the situation by maintaining some semblance of normalcy.