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

by Betty Younis

  Her thoughts turned now to Henry, and she wondered where he was. Had her message gotten through? Had the child understood what she, Elizabeth, had needed that morning in their rushed and whispered conversation? She did not know, but there were so many things now she realized she did not know. The library at Coudenoure had given her an education, but in twelve short hours, that education had been expanded upon exponentially by experience. She drifted to sleep entwining the thoughts passed on to her in books with those she’d had herself that day. It was a process that would only end when she breathed her last.

  *****

  As the weeks passed aboard the Phobos, Thomas, Agnes, and Elizabeth all gained their sea-legs and fell into a comfortable routine. Thomas was fascinated by the navigation of the ship – charts, lore, stars and coastlines all came into play as they made their way slowly down the coast of France. The majority of the crew had worked for Ransdell for years, and considered him and each other almost as family. They were all Spaniards, and unless Ransdell spoke English, it was impossible to isolate his Spanish as that of a non-native speaker. If this strange little band of English people were his friends, as they quickly became, then they were also the friends of the crew, and a kindly conspiracy ensued to make certain that they were well-treated. This meant that the older man’s constant prying and questions piled on top of more questions were always answered respectfully. Elizabeth had come by her linguistic abilities naturally, and within a few days, Thomas had already picked up enough of the sailors’ patois to begin conversing with them in short staccato statements. In turn, they loved his eagerness to learn and were constantly supplying him with new words and phrases.

  At Coudenoure, Thomas had settled into a happy albeit restricted rhythm of daily life: his library, his great comfortable chair, and Agnes and Elizabeth to bring him news of what he liked to think of as the far flung corners of his empire. It had been a sedentary existence, and his physical limitations had justified such inactivity. But the Phobos did not permit such a life, and Thomas felt as if he had been awakened from a long and restful slumber.

  His shortness of breath improved. His mind became quicker. Initially, the tapping of his cane as he made his way here and there aboard the ship had been tentative and slow. As the weeks had passed, however, it became a quick and purposeful rapping upon the decks. A sailor had initially been assigned to him each day to make certain that the old man neither fell nor washed overboard. It had been considered tedious duty, but was now a prized assignment. Thomas eagerly picked the brains of whoever was assigned to him, giving them the chance to show off their knowledge of the sea and what it meant to be a sailor.

  Agnes spent her days happily arguing with Captain Ransdell about everything she considered inappropriate on his ship and in his life. There was a cyclical nature to their daily interactions.

  “Tell me, Captain…” Her opening gambit never varied nor did Ransdell’s.

  “Yes, Lady Agnes, and what may I educate you about today?”

  From there, the conversation would launch into one of a thousand possible avenues.

  “And what have you done about Roberto’s and Consuelo’s upbringing?”

  “Be specific, Madame.”

  “You have already stated that they know nothing of England.”

  “No madame, I did not state that. What I said was that they had learned about their home country in Spanish for they speak little English.”

  From there, it went to how to raise children generally, how to run a ship appropriately, what must his house look like, what was he an Englishman doing in Spain anyway, what was a proper diet for children, and on and on. In turn, Ransdell took his turns at what he termed Agnes’ limited life experience.

  “And tell me again, Madame…you never married?” was a frequent beginning.

  “I have no need of a man,” was her tried and true response.

  “And you know this how, pray tell?”

  Here, Agnes would always blush, turn to him, say something about his manners, and walk away.

  They had come to enjoy these conversations, and in time, they managed to stop throwing barbs and actually talk. Agnes was enthralled, terrified and horrified at where she found herself, but slowly came to appreciate the freedom of the open sea, the feel of the fresh salt air upon her skin, and her newfound and self-imposed responsibilities for Roberto and Consuelo. When she was not arguing with Ransdell or fussing around the children she could be found in the galley, supervising the cook. The cook ignored her, thus ensuring the necessity of continued visits.

  It was Elizabeth, however, who underwent the most profound change amongst the three of them. Somewhere in the days and weeks as they sailed south, she left her childhood behind. She began to blossom physically, and Agnes screeched at any sailor who happened to give the young woman a second glance. The sea air gave her skin a healthy glow and her dark eyes turned to ebony against the warm honey color of her complexion. At first, Agnes had been frantic about Elizabeth and how she would manage such a monumental change. But Elizabeth surprised them all. She instituted morning classes for the children and in the afternoons, worked on her Spanish by talking to the riggers and sailors who worked above deck. These conversations drove Agnes almost insane and furnished the afternoon portion of her and Ransdell’s cycle of conversation.

  “My dear Captain, you must tell your men not to speak to Lady Elizabeth,” she demanded daily. “‘Tis not proper.”

  “Aye, well, there is proper, Madame, and then there is practical. She will speak to them and they will speak to her and there is naught we can do about that unless we lock her in the captain’s cabin all day.”

  “I have been thinking about that,” Agnes always replied. Ransdell always laughed.

  “I have instructed my men appropriately,” he would assure her. “Sailing with me is sure employment for them and a living for their families. They will not jeopardize that by trifling with a maid.”

  And always, just for fun, “…and an English maid at that – ‘tis no problem for them to restrain themselves, I assure you.”

  At which point Agnes would once again begin berating him and the cycle would begin anew.

  It was one such afternoon, as Elizabeth spoke earnestly with a sailor who was busy patching a large canvas sail, that she and Agnes chanced to speak.

  “You there, sew! Coser! Coser!”

  Elizabeth smiled.

  “Cosen, Agnes, it’s cosen.”

  “Yes, well, cosen you nit and stay away from Lady Elizabeth!” The sailor shook his head and continued at his task.

  Agnes grabbed Elizabeth by the arm and tugged her to the railing.

  “My lady, you simply cannot speak to the men aboard this dreadful ship. What will people think?”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “Who, dear Agnes? What will who think? Do not worry so much. You forget that I am pre-contracted to marry my Henry.”

  Agnes and she both leaned on the rail and looked out at the wake the Phobos left in the gray blue waters.

  “Look, it is the same color as his eyes, do you not think so?”

  “Lady Elizabeth, he is far from us now,” Agnes began gently, “And we know not what will happen tomorrow, let alone next year.”

  “I do,” Elizabeth murmured, “I shall marry my betrothed and we will all live happily at Coudenoure.”

  Agnes sighed and left her there. Elizabeth continued to watch the sea foam as it churned up and then faded away into the distance, but her words rang curiously strange even in her ears. Coudenoure seemed as far away as the moon in the night sky. She thought of Henry constantly. Even as she became more comfortable with the journey they were now on she yearned for home. What was her love doing, thinking, praying? Each morning, when all had cleared the captain’s quarters, she began the children’s English lessons. From there, she would transition to Latin, and perhaps history or geography and the New World. They had become entranced with their young teacher and vied to outshine each other in their wor
k. But at each midday, when the lessons ended and she sent the children off to see Agnes and have dinner, she wrote to her beloved, telling him of life on the ship, of how much her heart ached for him. Sometimes she would tell him of the sailors and their talk of their children and wives; sometimes she told him of how the ship was navigated past rocky shoals or outcroppings, always steering into the south; sometimes she worked assiduously on patterns which entwined her initials with his. It became ritual, and after signing each letter, she would place it carefully on top of the ones she had written previously. A small pink ribbon, pulled from one of her frocks, tied the small bundle neatly and she placed it always beneath her pillow. Each night, she dreamt the same dream – Henry, on the day of their betrothal, his lips upon hers, her hands in his. But each morning, she was awakened by the gentle rocking of the ship upon the waves, and she knew that her wait was far from over.

  She heard a familiar rapping on the deck and without turning spoke aloud to her father.

  “Father! Do they not have need of you in the navigation room?” she teased.

  “Aye, child, they do, but I needed a breath of fresh air,” he smiled as he spoke. “But I tell you they say we will reach the Pillars of Hercules in the early hours of the morn.”

  “Ah, that will be a sight I never thought to see,” she said. “And what comes afterwards? The children tell me we enter Mare Nostrum as we pass below the Pillars and will soon be in Malaga, their home.”

  “Aye, Ransdell says the same. He says we will stop there for a shore visit – the sailors will see their families and collect the first part of their pay.”

  “How long do you think we will tarry?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, child, I know not. Perhaps a week? Two weeks? I believe the captain intends to leave his children in the hands of his neighbors since he was unsuccessful in his bid to leave them in England.”

  “But where is Isabel’s family? Surely they will take them?”

  “He is strangely quiet about that,” Thomas rejoined. “I believe they may have disowned her for marrying an Englishman.”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “And an English family would no doubt disown her if she were English and married a Spaniard.”

  Thomas smiled and nodded.

  “We are none of us good enough for the rest,” he laughed.

  They stood together looking out over the ocean and enjoying the sunset. It was vivid orange more often than not, and Elizabeth never tired of the fiery sight.

  “Tell me, father, have you noticed a difference in the scent of the air in the past day?”

  He looked at her sharply.

  “I have not, but the sailors have,” he acknowledged. “They say ‘tis a harbinger of the khamsin.”

  “The khamsin?” It was Captain Ransdell. He had overheard the word and joined them.

  “The khamsin – an Arabic word for a southerly wind which sometimes blows from across Mare Nostrum.”

  Thomas knew he was hiding something.

  “Aye, the sailors say ‘tis treacherous, and that the scent on the wind is an omen of bad luck.”

  “‘Tis nonsense!” laughed Ransdell. “Now come, I have been sent to collect you by the master of us all, Lady Agnes. She says supper is on the table and she will not have us set a bad example for Roberto and Consuelo by arriving late.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As promised, Agnes had lit the evening candles and supper was already laid out. Consuelo and Roberto were waiting impatiently to begin.

  "Papa, por que…” Ransdell cut them off.

  “No! English only, remember?”

  Roberto recalibrated and began again.

  “Captain Ransdell…” the table exploded with laughter – Roberto had pitched his voice to mimic that of Agnes. His efforts earned him a playful cuff across the top of his head as they settled in and Ransdell poured the wine. One week earlier, as the Phobos had begun cruising past the Spanish coastline, Ransdell had given his crew a choice. The ship could put in for food supplies one last time, or they could settle for the salt pork and potatoes that were still in the ship’s larder and make landfall at Malaga that much earlier. The choice for a quicker return had been unanimous. The decision did not matter to Thomas’ family, for Ransdell did not allow him or his children to leave the vessel during these brief port visits: he claimed, rightly so, that all three had the habit of wandering wherever their eyes might take them. As for Elizabeth, Agnes always locked the two of them in the captain’s quarters mumbling about foreigners and maids until they were once again under sail.

  Tonight’s meal was the same one they had eaten for the past four days. No one minded, however, for suppers had become deeply familial and routine, a time they all looked forward to. Elizabeth was unaccustomed to the wild give and take that dining with small children entailed but threw herself into the happy chaos regardless. Weeks earlier, Agnes had given up on all but “English at the table, please”, and despite her shows of consternation enjoyed their common dining immensely. Consuelo and Roberto talked incessantly now of what they would do upon arriving in Malaga, and Thomas had to shout to be overheard as he questioned Ransdell about crossing beneath the famous Pillars of Hercules. Elizabeth was the only one who seemed to sense the change in pattern in the rolling of the Phobos upon the deep oceanic waters.

  “Captain Ransdell, do you not feel the difference in the rhythm of our rocking?” she asked innocently during a rare interlude in the conversation. “Does it not feel more rapid?”

  Agnes gripped the table with both hands.

  “Mother of God, child, you are right! Captain, what is this?”

  Ransdell laughed as he smiled at her.

  “I will go and check with the navigation crew,” he said, “But…”

  He was interrupted by Thomas rising and claiming that he would most certainly assist.

  “But you have nothing to worry about. The waters always become a bit choppier as we draw closer to the great Pillars.”

  With that, he and Thomas left them. Agnes continued to grip the table as she barked a command at Roberto and his sister.

  “We are done here, children. Take yourselves off to the bed and I will join you shortly.”

  They knew the tone and did not question. As they left, Agnes spoke in low tones to Elizabeth.

  “What does it mean? Do you think we are in trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth reassured her. “But if it will make you feel better, I will go myself to the upper deck and see what the wind is doing. That way, I can tell you with certainty what I already know. Put the children to bed and I will be there in a thrice.”

  She left the room, pulling the door behind her, knowing that she had miscalled the change she felt in the ship’s rocking. It was not the increased rapidity of the oscillations that had caught her attention, but their depth. The rolling was growing more noticeable now as she made her way along the narrow passage from the door to the stairs that led to the upper deck, she was unable to walk a straight path. Instead, she went from one wall to the other as the Phobos rolled in the deep. Once on the upper deck, she breathed in the salty night air and made her way to her favorite position at the bow where she could look out upon the waters. It was difficult tonight, however, for there was no moon. The night sky was devoid of all but faint starlight, and the vacuum it left behind was filled only with the sound of the great waters and the steady cadence of the Phobos’ movement. She was happy to finally feel the ship’s rail beneath her hands.

  The scent in the air was that of a dry dust, and she wondered how that could be. Surprisingly, Ransdell joined her at the bow.

  “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth,” he said gravely. She nodded.

  “Captain, what is that scent? ‘Tis like the smell of coming rain in a dry season, of an arid and sere air running before an approaching storm.”

  “My lady, you are correct as was my crew earlier. This is the first sure sign of the khamsin.”

  As if to confirm his words
, a sudden gust of spray blew across the deck.

  “So we shall have a storm then?”

  “Aye, maid, but not just a storm. These winds come from Africa. They blow the hot air from that desolate place across the great sea to Spain. These are mighty winds and they are to be most feared.”

  Elizabeth thought for a moment.

  “And the Pillars of Hercules? Does the roiling of the sea there contribute to this storm?”

  Ransdell looked at her and as many times before was taken aback at her intelligence.

  “Yes, my lady, it does. I have just left my crew. We are too close to the Pillars to turn our sails and too far from land to make port. We must try to thread the Pillars and make for Malaga on the other side. ‘Tis our best chance.”

  “Our best chance?” Her question was sharp.

  “Aye, our best chance.”

  He waited for the words to sink in.

  “Sir, how shall I protect my father, the children and Agnes? What must I do? Tell me.”

  He appreciated the practical nature of the question and turned his thoughts thus.

  “You must keep them below deck for the seas will shortly begin to wash over even where we now stand.”