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

by Betty Younis

  “Lord Charles, where is Lord Henry? Why are you here?” Her senses were heightened by the unusual appearance of Henry’s devoted friend: he was still wearing his finery from the previous day. He had a lost look about him which did nothing to dispel her mounting alarm. She did not wait for his response.

  “I shall fetch the baron.” She disappeared up the stairs.

  Charles sat quietly in the manor’s foyer, and noticed for the first time its high arches supported by ancient timbers. On either side of the main doors stained glass, simple yet richly colored and heavily leaded, depicted scenes clearly medieval in nature: peasants bowing before the throne of God, or the King – Charles was too tired to figure out which. A servant appeared with hot cider, and after a bit, Thomas was helped down the stairs by Lady Agnes. She saw them comfortably situated in the library before taking her leave and pulling the door behind her. It seemed she suddenly had no curiosity as to the matter which had brought Charles out on such an early morning ride to Coudenoure. Her demeanor clearly said she had better things to do with her time. But once outside the room, she began to run her hand along the limestone and mortar wall purposefully. A rough piece of mortar told her where to stop. Pulling it gently out from between the two stones, she pressed her ear firmly to the opening. The voices of Thomas and Charles could be heard quite clearly.

  “So Henry will be King.” Thomas’ voice held surprise, and more.

  “Aye, for Arthur is gone,” responded Charles. “And what that will do to him we do not know.”

  Thomas nodded, his blue eyes suddenly sad.

  “He could have been a great scholar,” he said. “He has an almost reverent feel for books and learning. I fear that will be lost, for there is no time for it with a great kingdom to oversee. Good God, what a turn! And on yesterday of all days. Is it a sign? And Elizabeth?”

  Charles did not answer and so they sat quietly, both thinking of Elizabeth.

  “Henry wanted your advice,” Charles began cautiously. “It is true that he and Elizabeth are now pre-contracted, but who could see this dire event? And on the very day of their happiness.”

  Thomas said nothing.

  “My Lord Thomas, I am certain that Henry loves your daughter, and I am certain of her love for him. But I fear that whereas yesterday, our good king’s benevolence and well wishes could be had for the arrangement, today there is no such assurance. We need a plan, one that will ensure…” he trailed off.

  Still Thomas said nothing. Charles begin to babble.

  “We must think of what is best for Henry and England, and I know that he loves your daughter and she loves him and that as long as he lives he will love her and she will…”

  “For the sake of all that is holy, boy, be quiet and let me think.”

  Charles was only too happy to oblige.

  An eternity passed before Thomas spoke. Charles had begun to fear the old man had fallen asleep or worse, but the stamp of his cane upon the floor told him otherwise.

  “We must protect Henry at all costs, for the House of Tudor rests upon him,” he began.

  Charles leaned forward, listening intently.

  “We must also protect Elizabeth, for she is yet a child who will not understand. All she knows is her heart and what it tells her."

  His companion nodded.

  “We must let her youth and her purity of heart be her shield against this matter.”

  Charles was uncertain of the old man’s meaning, and said so.

  “Yesterday, the second son of the king was to marry the daughter of a baron. ‘Tis fine. ‘Tis good. But today, the heir to the Tudor kingdom, to all of England, France, Wales and Ireland, is to marry the daughter of a baron. ‘Tis not fine, and ‘tis not good. There are international considerations in Henry’s future now. And there are those who will try and use him, or use Elizabeth, to achieve their own ends. And some of those will not hesitate to use them cruelly, even unto their utter destruction.”

  Charles began to follow Thomas’ thoughts.

  “We will tell no one of the pre-contract. Agnes is true to Elizabeth, and would protect her with her life. You are equally true to Henry. And as for me, well, they are my world.”

  “What shall I tell Henry?” Charles asked.

  “Tell him that Baron Thomas de Grey, of the Manor of Coudenoure and his daughter, Elizabeth, stand beside him in all that he must face in the coming days and years. Tell him that God has chosen him for the throne of England, and that while we stand with him, and that while he may count upon us for his very life, yet we know that his future has changed. Tell him we wait, and we know that in time, with greater age and experience, he will know what to do. And until then, it is a secret we would rather die than reveal.”

  “And Elizabeth?”

  Thomas looked Charles squarely in the eye.

  “We must pray for a distraction, for my daughter truly loves him. Her youth and her purity will shield her as I said, but they will also play against her, for they will also shield her from a mature understanding. Yea, we must pray.”

  Agnes replaced the mortar, and went slowly, heavily, up the stairs to wake Elizabeth.

  *****

  It was late in the afternoon, and Elizabeth sat on the far side of her favorite meadow, under her favorite elm. The groundsmen had never pruned the tree’s lower branches, and as a result the stately limbs began almost at ground level. Its roots were rounded above the ground, and the effect, of the branch cover overhead and the roots upon which to sit, provided a comfortable and cozy niche from which to view the world around. Henry and Elizabeth had played beneath the tree countless times, thinking they were in their own private world, never realizing that Agnes, from a high window in Coudenoure, kept a watchful eye on them always. The field which separated the great elm from the house sloped upwards as it left the neatly manicured lawn of Coudenoure, and as if struck by an afterthought, leveled out upon a high hill only after its great rise. Between the elm and the manor lay a carpet of spring wildflowers. Snake’s head fritillaria bent their checkered petals towards the earth. The tall and stately spires of foxglove were beginning to open their throaty little gloves, some white with purple spots, others a deep lavender bespeckled with white. Wild daisies were budding and everywhere, a cover of bright orange crocuses lay across the landscape and created a breathtaking backdrop. The floral colors, the vernal light, the lime of the newly budded leaves on the gray and black gnarled branches of the heavy trees – all danced to a cool and gentle spring breeze, creating an ethereal space quite isolated from things as ordinary as time and circumstance.

  Elizabeth was adult enough to run to a place she felt secure when she was upset, yet still child enough that that place was the aged elm across the great meadow. Agnes was always kind to her, but that morning she had been particularly so. When she went to her father in the library he, too, had been overly gentle. She was beginning to put it down to the old pair realizing what her pre-contract the previous day would mean for them, namely, that one day she would leave them to follow her husband. But then Charles appeared in the library door with Agnes, and she knew something fateful had occurred. She listened attentively as they broke the news to her, and she took the letter Henry had penned in the early hours before dawn to her and placed it in her bosom. She sat without speaking.

  “Elizabeth,” Thomas continued the thread of the conversation, “His Royal Highness Prince Henry will have many things on his mind this day.”

  “Where is he now?” she asked.

  Charles supplied the answer.

  “He has been taken to the king at Richmond Palace. His father will need to see him for reassurance of the Tudor line, and he had to be got away from here due to reports of the sweating sickness nearby.”

  “And when will he return?”

  Agnes, Thomas and Charles all three shifted uneasily. Finally, Agnes spoke.

  “Elizabeth, we cannot dwell on his return for it may be some time. We must busy ourselves so that the days pass quickly. Lo
rd Thomas and I spoke earlier and we have agreed that you will have a new tutor, one who will engage you not just in languages, but also in science and philosophy and numbers as you have so often requested. You will have no time to grieve.”

  Elizabeth understood immediately but she asked the question anyway.

  “Why would I grieve, unless this new circumstance shall end my contract with Henry?”

  “Ahh,” she spoke slowly as she looked round at them, “That is not given to us to know, is it? For my Henry may not be as free as he was as a second son. ‘Tis like you, father. When your brother was alive, you were destined for the priesthood, and had been schooled in its rigors since an early age. Indeed, the beginnings of our great library was bequeathed to you by your priestly tutor. But when David fell, your destiny changed, did it not? You became a warrior, a man of the world and not of God.”

  “I am both,” Thomas declared, “But you are right. I took up my sword when David died. ‘Tis only because of my fate at Bosworth that I am once again a man of learning and letters. As it was with me, so now Henry’s fate has changed. But he is destined to a great future, Elizabeth, one in which the entire country will need him and look to him for safety, for sustenance, for law and justice. I fear we may no longer be able to call him our own – England has need of him.”

  She had left them then, needing to be alone. The afternoon had been spent looking out across the meadow at Coudenoure. Henry and she had trained a small chipmunk to come to them for food under the elm, had even named it, laughing that the small and happy yet demanding creature was good training for the day they would be blessed with children. For they had known forever of their need for one another, of their future together.

  “Bucephalus,” she called and passed an acorn she had picked up on her way up the meadow into its small, furry paws. She laughed aloud at the name – Henry said that such a small, inconsequential creature should surely have some greatness about it, even if it only resided in its grand and historic name. From then on, even when they suspected that the first Bucephalus would be quite ancient if he were still alive and that they likely were feeding his great, great grandson, the game had continued. She closed her eyes and lived in the past for that afternoon.

  But Elizabeth was a practical woman, and she knew that her current situation required a practical solution. Suddenly, she remembered the letter she had tucked in her dress earlier. She pulled it out, fussing at herself for such forgetfulness – the past two days had taken a definite toll on her. She unfolded it and began to read.

  “My dearest Elizabeth,

  How I ache to hold you! I must hear your voice once again telling me not to worry, not to fret as all things work for the good as God intends. I need your sweet countenance, your soft brown eyes, your lips, your gentle touch.

  Since you are reading this, you know that God has decreed my future shall not be that of a second son. I am saddened by the loss of my dearest brother, by what I know my father and mother are about to suffer, and by the intrusion of events, nay the world, into our private affairs (for now new considerations shall surely fall upon me). I remember the king often telling Arthur that when he was crowned, he would have no private business but that England would be his home, his wife, his love and his passion. There would be no room for selfish and individual needs – he and Catherine were simply God’s vessels fulfilling divine purpose.

  But yet I need you, Elizabeth.

  I humbly beseech you to be patient, my love. Let us see how fate unfolds itself over the next few weeks. Only then can we calculate a plan based on certainty and not on wishfulness.

  Hold tight to your love for me. Above all else, remember I love you, Elizabeth, and that you are my own as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow.

  Charles has been instructed to wait for your reply before he joins me in Richmond. Pray write to me, dearest. I shall wait impatiently to hear Charles’ voice for I know it will be the harbinger of a letter from my lady love.

  Henry”

  She read the letter many times before looking up. The sun was low in the sky as she pulled a small pouch from beside her and took from it a blank page, a small bottle of ink, and a quill. Her face was different now. It had a determined set to it which Henry would never have seen before. She began to write.

  “My darling Henry,

  Bucephalus sends his love, which I deeply suspect is tied up with his love of acorns, but perhaps I malign him. I do not know why I open with nonsense. Perhaps I am afraid of what is left should I sweep the silliness away.

  My father, Agnes, and Charles believe it would be deadly to announce or even tell anyone of our pre-contract. You are our future king, my love, and none of us will have the situation manipulated to gain governance or place over you. You shall be a mighty ruler, one that all of England will love, but you must not be weighed down by an event that happened only yesterday (only yesterday).”

  She paused in her writing, thinking of the past 24 hours. After a moment, she dipped her quill and began again.

  “My love for you is constant, and will burn as brightly a thousand years from now as it does this afternoon. It is independent of time, circumstance, place or even life itself. I sit under our elm as I write, thinking of what is best for you. I believe that our threesome are correct, and that our pre-contract must not be bruited about. We must wait, for we know not what God intends, only that you, my future king, shall rule a mighty kingdom one day.

  Until then, I am yours. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can feel yesterday, your lips upon mine, my hands in yours. Keep that memory safe, my love, for whatever else comes, we will always have it.

  Your loving,

  Elizabeth”

  She folded the epistle carefully and replaced her writing implements in the pouch before beginning the walk across the meadow back to Coudenoure.

  Chapter Six

  April 15, 1502

  “Elizabeth, come, have a bite to eat. You are looking pale, my child and ‘tis no look for a maid.”

  It had been Lady Agnes’ chant for almost two weeks. In true motherly fashion, the older woman had fussed and nearly coddled Elizabeth out of her mind since word of Arthur’s death and Henry’s future accession to the throne had come to them two weeks earlier. For Elizabeth, there was no respite. Agnes followed her from room to room, intent on lessening the younger woman’s burden. Endless chatter about weather, seasons, servants, and neighbors flowed forth from her like a mighty wave upon a smooth and beaten beach. Embroidery hoops and books had been surreptitiously placed in all of Elizabeth’s favorite nooks, and each time they came upon one Agnes feigned surprise before suggesting that Elizabeth take up the piece and continue on with it.

  But it was not just Agnes with whom Elizabeth had to contend. The very servants who had clapped and celebrated on the day of her pre-contract now whispered quietly together in corners, shooting her uneasy and sympathetic looks whenever she passed. They had heard the news of Arthur’s passing as had the whole country, but for them, the uncertainty which always arose when the throne came into play was compounded by their fears for their own futures. They were stiff and jumpy when waiting on the family and responses were slow to questions and requests. It was as if they were waiting for her to do something, waiting for some thing to happen, but it did not. She began to feel oppressed by the very environment in which she had always taken comfort.

  Her father was moody and withdrawn, keeping his thoughts to himself when she most needed to hear them. Just as Agnes attempted to lighten her burden, so she attempted to lighten that of her father. She pulled his favorite incunabula and vellum manuscripts from the shelves of their library. But he refused to move to his desk and study them as was his usual habit. Instead, he sat before the great hearth in that room, listening to her and Agnes’ endless prattle, never adding his own nor even really engaging in the days as they flew past. Her efforts to rouse him were the very definition of pointless – he remained in his own world. Elizabeth felt as if she were fl
oating on the wind as she went mindlessly about the manor. She glided here, she glided there, but she was no more part of it all than if she were a thousand miles thence. She counted each hour of the day, longing for the moment she could retire to her room and be alone with no one to remind her of what she knew all too well. A cloud hung over Coudenoure, but no one would call it by its proper name: Henry. She had received no response to her letter from Henry.

  She thought back to Charles’ promise that day he had broken the news to her. She remembered his promise and his words to her.

  “He loves you much, Elizabeth, but it may be some time before he can see you here at Coudenoure again. There is much to be done about Arthur’s death, and the King will have need of Henry. There may be unrest and we will have to address it quickly. Be patient…” Charles had paused and looked at the ancient stones of Coudenoure with its diamond-leaded panes and turrets. He looked out over the great lawn, and then back at Elizabeth before continuing.

  “…He loves this place, you know. You and your father have been the family he never knew. And this great heap of a bygone monastery is his favorite place.”

  That was all she had, and as the days had passed, she found herself listening for the familiar thundering of hooves which announced Henry’s visits. It never came. Finally, exasperated for no reason and with enough frustration to flame a fire, she escaped out of doors. It was here that she and Henry had found themselves and their love for one another as they had played and romped from one end of Coudenoure to the other. There was no place they had not investigated, no nook they had not discovered. It comforted her now to revisit those places.

  She wandered about the estate aimlessly for several days, retracing their steps and their thoughts. As they had grown older, Henry had begun to focus not so much on play but on the layout of the grounds, always wanting to bring order out of the chaos of the jumbled mix of buildings, trees, mud and weeds. As she walked endlessly through the mess of it all, a sudden idea took hold. She halted where she stood, following the notion through. After a moment, she all but skipped lightly to the rear of the grounds and looked around, assessing the randomness of the yard. There was the fine stable with its pitched roof and wide doors. Beyond that was a long, low building, divided by stone firewalls into individual stalls, each with a specific purpose. The washhouse was first in the row, followed by the bakery and brew house. A smithy banged noisily on his anvil in front of the next stall, while the last one was almost hidden by the great kiln which stood before it. Over a low rise was the dairy building and farther yet the slaughter house.