by Tony Riches
When his mother finally met him in the royal apartments at the Tower he sensed that, like her messenger, she withheld more than she revealed. Her face tensed and her eyes avoided his. She held her prayer-book with both hands, as if it offered some security.
‘How is Elizabeth?’ He watched her impassive face for any clue.
‘She is disappointed the baby is a girl. She believed it would be a boy, another son...’ Her voice sounded tired.
‘It is no matter.’ Henry interrupted. ‘I trust to God they are both well?’
‘The midwife has concerns, Henry. You should know it was... a difficult birth and the child is small.’
‘I must see her.’
Lady Margaret held up a steadying hand. ‘She sleeps now, Henry. I will send for you when she wakes.’
‘I will see my new daughter.’
‘You must keep silent, not wake her.’
He didn’t promise but followed his mother into the darkened room. As his eyes became accustomed to the light he noticed the glance of concern on the face of the young nurse. His new baby slept in her arms, looking too small to be real. The nursemaid loosened the white linen swaddling for him to see as Henry bent to take a closer look.
‘She seems pale?’ It might have been the poor light but his daughter had an unnatural yellow pallor.
The nursemaid glanced down at the baby. ‘We trust the colour will come to her soon enough, Your Grace.’
He heard the doubt in her young voice and began to prepare himself. He’d seen enough newborn babies to know there was something wrong. His daughter reminded him of the eerily lifelike dolls he’d seen her sisters playing with in the nursery at Eltham.
Henry decided to move to his own apartments in the Tower to be near Elizabeth. Two days passed before Henry’s mother judged her well enough for him to visit. Elizabeth’s white-bearded London physician, Doctor Lathis, waited to greet him in her antechamber. He studied the man’s grave face. Like all of them, his expression gave nothing away.
‘The queen is awake now, Your Grace.’ The physician’s cultured voice echoed in the cold, sparsely furnished room.
‘What is her condition, Doctor?’
‘She has eaten a little broth, an encouraging sign.’
Henry caught the misgiving in the elderly doctor’s eye. His mother said they’d had concerns, although the last time they spoke she seemed to think Elizabeth was improving.
‘It was a difficult birth?’
The physician nodded. ‘The queen remains in a weakened condition.’
‘Yet she is recovering now?’
‘As the queen grows older the risk of complications increases, Your Grace, as does the toll each child takes on her body.’
‘It will take her longer to regain her strength?’
‘With God’s grace she should be well again soon enough, but for now it is important she rests.’
‘I should like the queen to be moved from this damp place to the Palace of Richmond.’
‘My counsel is not to move the queen until her strength is recovered, Your Grace. The change of air might benefit her...’ He glanced back at the closed door of Elizabeth’s bedchamber as if afraid she might overhear. ‘The queen is too weak to make the journey.’
‘I wish her moved as soon as you deem it possible.’ Henry frowned as he peered from the small window. His own apartments had views over the river but Elizabeth’s opened onto a snow covered courtyard. A black raven pecked at the cold, hard earth, looking to Henry like a bad omen, a harbinger of dark times to come.
He consoled himself with the encouraging prediction of his own physician, William Parron. After a detailed study of the constellations, the Italian was confident Elizabeth would enjoy a prosperous year and live well to the age of eighty years and more. He turned to Elizabeth’s Doctor, still waiting for instructions.
‘I shall see the queen now.’
As he entered Elizabeth’s darkened bedchamber the delicate scent of rose-water mixed with the heady aroma of incense. The fire smouldering in the hearth seemed about to burn out. The room was colder than her antechamber. Elizabeth lay in her opulent bed, swathed in dark red velvet and resting on silk cushions, set out according to his mother’s ordinances.
Her servants bowed as they recognised Henry and he gestured for them to leave. He waited until the door shut behind them, then took one of the heavy gilded chairs and dragged it closer to sit at her bedside.
She gave a weak smile as she looked up at him. ‘We have another daughter, Henry.’
‘I’ve seen her.’ He struggled to return her smile.
‘I thought we might name her Katherine?’
‘A good name. Katherine Tudor.’ He’d not even given any thought to a name for his daughter, as if to do so would tempt providence.
He took her pale hand in his. It was hot to the touch. Feverish, despite the snow still falling outside. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her gold-ringed fingers.
‘I’ve missed you.’
She gave him a look of concern. ‘Will our daughter live?’
‘God willing.’ He smiled as fleeting hope shone in her eyes. ‘She’s as small as a mouse, but she’s also a Tudor.’
He waited for her reply but she closed her eyes in pain, as if she’d already glimpsed the future.
Henry recognised the sharp knock on the door of his study. Bishop Foxe came as the bearer of news. He studied Henry’s face for a moment without speaking, as if searching for the right words. Henry always found the dour faced bishop hard to read, yet now he knew the sad purpose of his loyal friend’s visit.
‘My daughter?’
‘I am sorry, Your Grace.’
Henry crossed to the window and gazed out over the narrow, mired streets of London. So many people, going about their busy lives, oblivious to his personal tragedy. Any one of them would have envied his daughter. She would have been married into a royal family, bringing a new alliance and more peace to England. She had lived for little more than one week.
His heart hardened, like soft clay fired in a kiln, and stopped the tears he might have cried for his loss. He’d prepared himself as well as he could, yet now must let go of the slender thread of hope.
He turned to Bishop Foxe, one of the few men he could confide in. ‘I struggle to understand God’s purpose, in taking her life so soon.’
‘Have faith, Your Grace.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Your daughter is with God now.’
‘Yes... may God rest her innocent soul.’
Bishop Foxe took a deep breath. ‘I must also tell you the queen is much weakened by a childbed fever, Your Grace.’
Henry cursed her incompetent physician. ‘Will you summon Doctor Aylesworth? He must make haste, as it seems the queen’s physician is failing in his duty.’
Bishop Foxe frowned with concern. ‘I believe Doctor Aylesworth is in Kent, Your Grace, it will take some time for him to reach London.’
‘My mother is with her now?’
‘Lady Margaret sits with her night and day.’
‘Then I shall sit with her also. Pray for us, Bishop Foxe. Pray for us.’
There was no mistaking the look on his mother’s face. She wore a black mourning dress for the granddaughter she had not had a chance to know. Her starched white hood reflected the flickering light of tall candles arranged around Elizabeth’s bed.
Elizabeth lay with her eyes closed, her hands clasped outside the velvet coverlet. Her long golden hair was combed over her shoulders and her head rested on a cushion of cloth of gold. She reminded Henry of icons he’d seen of angels.
Two of her ladies-in-waiting and her priest confessor stood in reverent silence as he crossed the room and sat at Elizabeth’s bedside. His mother gestured to the others to leave and turned to Henry.
‘We hoped to keep the loss of your daughter from her until she was stronger. She insisted on seeing her. I had to tell Elizabeth the truth and now... it is as if she has lost the will to live.’
> ‘Her priest has provided absolution?’ Henry fought the despair which clouded his mind.
‘She has been blessed. I’ve sent word to the Archbishops of Canterbury and London, as well as York.’ She glanced at Elizabeth. ‘I shall see if there is news of their arrival.’
Alone with Elizabeth he took her hand in his. No longer feverish, it felt cool to his touch. He leant over and kissed her. At first there was no response, then her eyes opened and she focused on his face.
Henry remembered how her eyes used to glow with some inner spirit. They would twinkle with humour as she made a joke at his expense or beat him again at a game of cards. The fever had taken her strength. The loss of their child had dimmed her spirit and her eyes filled with sadness as she recognised him.
‘Henry...’ She struggled to form the words. ‘She was taken from us.’
‘Our daughter is with God.’
‘We are still young.’
Henry remembered it was what she said after the news of Arthur’s death. She had wanted to give him another child. She must have known she was risking her life. She had not done it this time to please him or through some sense of duty. It had been her way to try to help them both overcome the pain of their grief.
‘Today is your thirty-seventh birthday.’
‘Too old?’ Her eyes pleaded for him to disagree.
Henry shook his head. ‘The first time I saw you, Elizabeth, was in St Paul’s Cathedral. You wore a rich burgundy robe trimmed with black fur.’
She managed a smile at the memory. ‘You looked more... handsome than I expected.’ Her voice was a faint whisper of breath.
‘I’d imagined your eyes would be bright blue, yet they shone... like gold.’ He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I love you, Elizabeth.’
She didn’t respond to their secret signal and he saw her eyes were open. Lifeless. Something deep inside him hardened. He’d always believed he followed God’s plan. Now he stared at the body of his beautiful dead queen and wished he could join her in Heaven.
The bells of St Paul’s Cathedral rang out to tell the people of London the sad news and were soon joined by the clanging of bells in every church in the city. Elizabeth’s body, dressed in her finest royal robes, lay on her bed as if she slept. Prince Harry led his sisters, Margaret and Mary, dressed in black mourning cloaks, and they wept as they came to say their farewells.
Elizabeth’s coffin, wrapped in black velvet with a cross of white damask, was carried by four knights to the Chapel of St Peter. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting followed in a sombre procession with every member of the queen’s household following behind.
On the day of the funeral, a wooden effigy of the queen wearing her crown and golden robes, was placed on top of the coffin. Her lifelike long hair flowed in a golden cascade over her shoulders, as it had on the day of her wedding, and gold diamond rings adorned each of her fingers.
The procession wound its way on icy roads from the tower to Westminster Abbey, led by two hundred black-garbed paupers carrying burning torches. The queen’s four sisters rode black palfreys behind the hearse, drawn by six fine horses led by grooms dressed in black hoods. Knights wearing armour, carrying standards on long lances, rode each side through streets thronged with mourners.
Thirty-seven virgins, dressed in white, represented each year of the queen’s life. They held lit tapers that glowed orange in the cold air as they lined the route of the procession through Cheapside. The choirs of every parish church sang mournful anthems and priests called out their blessings as the procession passed.
The Ambassadors of France and Spain, Venice and Portugal rode horses trapped in black. Behind them marched their stewards, carrying torches and the colourful standards of their countries.
Eight bishops greeted the coffin at Westminster Abbey where it remained for the night surrounded by torchbearers. Elizabeth’s ladies, knights, squires and heralds kept a vigil and the people of London filed past in slow procession to pay their respects.
Elizabeth was buried in a vault at the crossing of the Abbey, between the choir and the altar. Of the thousands who came to witness her funeral, one notable person was absent. Again, by royal tradition, Henry locked himself away from the world.
Alone in the royal chapel, he clasped his hands in prayer. He remembered his wife as a sweet golden girl, the York princess he married so long ago. Elizabeth had been his prize, the victor’s reward, and legitimized his crown. He’d not expected to fall so deeply in love with her, to depend on her. Now she was gone, he wished he’d been kinder to her.
She’d never argued yet he’d banished her sisters, confined her mother in a convent and appropriated her fortune. For most of their last year she’d travelled on a progress without him and he’d been too busy being king to miss her.
Too late, he called out his apology and asked for her forgiveness. Her name echoed from the high-vaulted roof, and he heard the anguish in his voice. Henry prostrated himself on the cold stone floor of the chapel and wept until he could weep no more.
Chapter Twenty
June 1504
Henry dined with his mother at Coldharbour, her austere London mansion by the Thames. She’d saved him from the depths of despair and helped restore his faith. She also nursed him through a dangerous bout of quinsy brought on by his long vigils in cold chapels while he tried to deal with his grief.
The illness made his throat swell until he struggled to breathe or eat anything other than a thin soup. Then came the coughing—a dry, hacking cough, each day more painful than the last. His doctors seemed at a loss when his condition worsened, despite their remedy of celandine, fenugreek and hedgehog fat.
He’d fallen into a stupor by the time his mother intervened with her prayers for his recovery. She sent his physicians away. Confining Henry to his bed, she told him he would not recover his health until he recovered his faith. She sent her chaplain and confessor, John Fisher, to help him understand that his loss must all be part of God’s plan, his destiny.
Henry had been tortured by the knowledge Elizabeth would be alive if not for his ambition. He’d gambled with her life as easily as he’d rolled the dice or bet on the turn of a card. John Fisher proved a patient man and, in time, Henry’s faith was restored, although his life would never be the same.
Now his mother was determined to help him build his strength and ordered her servants to set out her best plate and silver for his visit. Although Henry knew she had taken a vow of chastity, with her husband’s consent, she’d not taken a vow of poverty. Her household still included over four hundred servants and her interest in his finances was as keen as ever.
His mother studied him with a look of concern. He was used to it now and knew he looked thin, his face pale, with grey stubble and forever lined with the burden of his grief. She sat with the sun behind her, casting her face into shadow and reflecting from her white cowl in a halo of light.
Henry washed his hands in the silver bowl of rose-water, trying not to spill any on his mother’s polished table. A young serving-girl avoided his eyes as she stepped forward and dried them on a white linen towel. A simple ritual, yet he’d never become used to the intimate touch of servants. After she finished he looked across the table at his mother.
‘I had a letter from my daughter Margaret in Scotland.’
‘How is she?’
‘In truth, her letter reveals little. She wishes she was back here with us. I must show it to you, as I am concerned for her.’
‘You know my view on the marriage. Your daughter is too young.’ There was an edge of disapproval to her voice.
He remembered the last time he’d seen his daughter was the day she left for Scotland. Small for her thirteen years, she’d worn a heavy brocade gown that hid her girlish curves. Around her neck glittered a ruby pendant on a gold chain, a farewell present he’d given her. He’d also recognised Elizabeth’s diamond ring on Margaret’s finger. He pushed away the memory of his dead wife’s cold hand in his.
&nbs
p; His mother had been forceful in her concern that Margaret was too young. He knew she was mindful of her own brush with death, as she’d been only a year older than Margaret when he’d been born. He’d agreed a compromise and delayed his daughter’s departure by eighteen months, but the time soon passed.
He escorted Margaret on her way to Scotland as far as his mother’s mansion at Collyweston in the North. Henry was unsurprised when she made one last attempt to persuade him to wait until Margaret was sixteen but by then it was too late. Even though he understood her concern he had to let Margaret go.
Now his daughter was married to King James, a man more than twice her age, with a reputation for taking mistresses. Margaret accepted her destiny in good faith and understood her duty. Their union had put the seal on the truce with Scotland, uniting their nations in blood. As her carriage disappeared into the distance he’d worried he might never see her again.
Henry tasted his Rhenish wine and found it a little sharp, although he would not say so to his mother. His remaining teeth ached and his throat still felt painful after the quinsy. His physician cautioned him the damage might be permanent and suggested he should thank the Lord to have recovered at all.
Another of his mother’s servants, a middle-aged woman dressed in her Beaufort livery, brought a pie decorated with pastry stag antlers. Henry still found he had little appetite. He left the thick crust to the side of his plate but tasted the meat. The fine venison was cooked in herbs and lightly spiced with cloves.
‘You know this is one of my favourite dishes?’
She nodded. ‘I wish to see you eat again, Henry. I have never seen you look so thin.’
‘Will you come with me on a progress to Scotland?’ Henry changed the subject. ‘I should like to see my daughter, now she is a queen in her own right.’
