by Betty Younis
“My darling Henry,
How I miss you! It is almost impossible to tell you all that has occurred these past months. The Phobos, upon which we sailed, was ripped asunder by a storm such as I have never seen nor ever want to see again. I survived, as did my father and Agnes.
It has taken months to recover, and we are living in a tiny village by the sea, called Malaga. The good captain of the Phobos, Ransdell, also survived as did his two children, and they have taken us in and given us succor whilst we recovered. Initially, I believe he did so in return for my Lady Agnes keeping his house and because I am teaching his children English. Now, however, he and his have become family for us, Henry. You will love them as we do should you ever meet them.”
Margaret screeched.
The door flew open and Joan appeared.
“My lady! What is the matter?”
“Get out!” Margaret screamed. “Get out!”
Joan did as she was told and Margaret reached for her cane, waving it mindlessly in the air, screaming at no one and everything.
So the Baron of Coudenoure and his daughter, the Lady Elizabeth, were living with a peasant in a village and performing menial tasks for their daily bread. An English baron living thus! And the girl had the audacity, the hubris, the unmitigated gall to write to the Prince of England, young Henry, as though they were lovers! Her mind reeled as she struggled to take it all in. Her eyes returned to the letter still in her hand.
“The many letters I wrote you while at sea (‘tis a strange thing, indeed, for a woman to say) are now lost forever, my dearest, but I will begin anew for my love for you survived the wreck of the Phobos, as it will always survive. I have considered how best to get them to you, and the good Captain has helped me with a plan.”
“Has he indeed!” Lady Margaret could not help herself from spitting the words aloud as she continued to read and wave her cane about.
“He no longer sails the Woolwich route out of fear for his remaining vessels. But he has a fellow English captain with whom he trades at the French port of St. Nazaire. To this noble man he pays a fee to ensure that my letters are safely got through to Woolwich. From there, dearest, they are to be given into the care of an agent of Charles Brandon and delivered by him directly into your hands.”
Margaret sucked in her breath and read the last sentence again. So there would be other letters. Of course there would! She should have seen that instantly. If the young tart was foolish enough to send these forth, well, she would certainly carry on doing so for there was no one to tell her what a blithering idiot she was and that she must cease immediately. She realized that she must rally her thoughts and prepare for action, for should even one such letter find its way into young Henry’s hands, a mighty catastrophe would fall upon the house of Tudor. She breathed deeply and set the remaining letters aside – there would be time for those later. Instead, she called out to Joan.
“Bring the guardsman back, do you hear? Quickly now!”
She listened as her command was shouted from one servant to another. It echoed through the great hall, out the front door and down the drive from house maid to stable boy to yardsman. After what felt like a long age, a hurried scuffling sounded outside her door and the same guardsman who had delivered the package appeared. Without a word, he fell on one knee as he had done previously.
“Rise, young man, and speak to me of the urchin who demanded that this hateful package be delivered to me.” She waved her cane at the small package on a nearby table. A sudden inspiration lit her mind.
“And tell me further, did he ask specifically for me?”
“My lady, he asked first for Lord Charles Brandon. I told the young lad that Lord Brandon would not be at Greenwich until two days hence.”
Margaret nodded with satisfaction for him to continue.
“He went away that time.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday, Lady Margaret.”
So that was how the clever maid had laid the trap. She knew that Charles was a frequent visitor at Greenwich and further that he would never give her or Henry away. The guardsman’s look turned to one of concern.
“‘Twas nothing, my lady, I swear. And then today, he returned only this time refusing to leave it with anyone but you. He said it was a grave matter and that he must be listened to. Given his words, I brought the letters directly to you this morning, as you know.”
“I see,” she said, “And I must see the captain of the guards at once.” She looked at the young man and forced a smile.
“No, you nit, ‘tis nothing you did. You are fine. Now get me the captain. And young man, should the urchin appear in the meantime, do not change your demeanor or treatment of him. I expect you to act towards him as you did this morning, for I want nothing to alarm the young termite.”
He bowed again and Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. She would talk to the captain, and each time the lad returned, or any lad did for that matter, asking that some package or message be given to Charles Brandon or anyone else, it would always come to her first. If she should be away on progress, the captain must hold it until her return.
There was only one small detail remaining, and she called out sharply to Joan.
Sometime later, she ate a hearty lunch and was escorted to her chambers for a long nap; thwarting other people’s plans was such tiring work.
Chapter Twenty-One
April 1, 1505
“My Darling Henry,
I write to tell you good news, my love! We are one step closer to being reunited. After much trouble, Captain Ransdell will finally let us voyage aboard his ship the Deimos to Rome. This ship supplies the bulk of his living, being the sister of the Phobos upon which we sailed from England. He frets constantly about its well being as much as though it were a child. He believes, however, that the voyage to Rome will be quick, and safe, and he may perhaps pick up interesting cargo there. There was a cholera epidemic last year which delayed us an entire season, but finally, we sail seven days thence. We are to be left there as the original plan dictated, with the English ambassador to the Vatican court. We shall seek indulgences from Pope Julius for our dear Prince Arthur. Afterwards, I shall myself assist father with his seeking out of manuscripts for the library. Do not fret my love, but be sure that there will be no time lost in doing so.”
Elizabeth paused and looked out over the vast sea. She had sought a quiet place to write one last epistle to Henry and it was not to be found in the house of Ransdell that particular day. Agnes was busy turning the small abode upside down in her efforts to begin packing for the upcoming voyage. In amused frustration, Elizabeth had escaped to the sea, to a dune scattered with the tall grasses so common here. She had tucked a small phial of ink, a quill, and a folded piece of paper in one of the voluminous pockets of her apron. In the other was a small rectangular piece of wood, worn smooth on both sides. With a shawl wrapped tightly against the cool breezes which blew in from the west, she had walked the shore, enjoying the morning and seeking a good niche into which she might settle and write.
A small cargo vessel had arrived late the previous evening, and Malaga Cove was a hive of activity as dories rowed men, supplies and cargo to and fro. The ship was due to weigh anchor the next morning and had only stopped for provisions and to sell what they could of their cargo with as little passage of time as possible. The villagers were accustomed to these types of opportunities and accordingly the vendors who normally lined the town square would pack their wagons and reposition themselves as closely to the shore as was practicable. The result of this longstanding practice could be easily seen in two, wide, makeshift avenues along the boundary where the dunes turned to sandy scrubland made barren by the constant passage over generations of wagons and men. Today, these were lined with cargo from the ship arrived the previous evening, having been hastily set out upon bales of hay.
The men who crewed this particular ship were Greek, or so Elizabeth was told as she passed the area on her way to a quieter
perch. She suspected this to be a convenient fabrication of the sort frequently heard in Malaga from captains who sought haven in the cove, or put in seeking supplies and crew. Their language was not Greek, and their clothing was more akin to that of a woman than a man. Long linen and cotton robes, once colorful but now bleached beige and white by the sun, were worn loosely. Occasionally, however, men with long knives tucked securely in sashes about their waists were seen. One sported a hooded hawk clinging tenaciously to his gloved hand. The scene was festive and busy, and even Friar Marcos had turned out and wandered among the wagons and the cargo.
The wind blew her dark hair loose from the ribbon which tied it. Her complexion, always dark, now matched that of the native Spaniards, and her dark eyes allowed her to pass as one of them. Unconsciously at first, she had begun to identify with the women of Malaga, and as the years had passed, the visions of England’s dark forests and towering trees, of spring rains and the musty smell of autumn, of the snap of the winter’s air after a frost, had all but left her. In their place were palm trees and the smell of the ocean. Her memories were now more of Malaga than of England, and when she realized her shifting orientation she had initially become concerned. After all, these things – olive groves and sitting in the sun with her father by the door, brilliantly colored bougainvillea and birds of paradise, ships and cargo bales – these would all be gone one day soon. She cautioned herself not to become attached to a way of life she knew was fleeting. But the warning came late, and she loved the place as one loves home. The paradox of being of one place but belonging to another gave her a sense of detachment, a trait which allowed her to take a long view of events, much more so than others her age.
“There is another bit of wonderful news, Henry, and it will make you as happy as it makes me, I am certain. My dear Agnes is married! She and the good Captain Ransdell were joined in the church of St. Nicholas some months ago. ‘Twas a simple ceremony, for Friar Marcos speaks no English, and Agnes is not clever with Spanish. The ceremony was in Latin, for of the two devils as she calls them, Spanish and Latin, Latin is at least familiar to her from our church at home. And truth be told, her Spanish is quite funny, not at all suited for a ceremony such as marriage.
She longed to be married on English soil but Ransdell and she cut a fine bargain. If she would marry him now, he promised to move his home and children to England to live with her there when we return. ‘Tis a fine trade, I believe, and they are happier than even young lovers would be.
I must close this brief note, my Prince, for Agnes has need of my help as we ready ourselves for Rome. I shall write to you as soon as we are settled there, and you may be sure I will provide you with a glimpse of the machinations of that mighty city! My thoughts of you are eternal, my love.
Your Elizabeth”
It was short but it would have to suffice. Elizabeth pocketed her materials and brushed the sand from her skirt as she hurried back down the beach towards the village. A blush of pink upon the sand caught her attention and she bent to dig the conch shell out of the tidal wash. As she walked, she held it to her ear, listening to the sea it had caught in its tightly wound spirals, smiling as she went.
The sun was low in the sky by the time she reached Malaga. The last of the wagons was being loaded, and there was no more traffic between ship and shore. Elizabeth increased her pace, knowing that Agnes and her father would be worried about her after dark. But as she quietly opened the front door, there was no one at the ready to scold her. Instead, her father, Ransdell and Agnes were huddled together quietly in front of the fire. Their manner was odd, and Elizabeth said so.
“‘Tis a conspiracy you are hatching?”
Agnes jumped up from her chair and Ransdell turned with a look of alarm on his face.
“My lady!” she declared, “You give us a fright with your stealthy ways!”
Elizabeth looked at her sharply.
“Indeed,” she replied, “And if not a conspiracy, why are you all hunched over by the fire together like some band of miscreants?”
Silence met her question. Ransdell took Agnes by the hand and mumbled something about laundry on the back line as they disappeared. The children were nowhere to be seen.
“So father, what is this? Why are you so silent?”
Thomas turned to look at her. His sad, wise eyes had not fallen victim to time and were as softly blue and penetrating as ever. He laid his hand on hers and spoke slowly.
“My child, the ship that put into the cove this morning…”
“Yes?”
Thomas silently stared at her, patting her hand gently.
“It brought news from England, Elizabeth.”
A deep sense of uneasiness roiled up within Elizabeth’s chest. She looked at him tensely, expectantly. After a long moment, he spoke in a low voice.
“The news concerns our Prince Henry.”
Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth.
“No! Nothing has happened to him! I would know if it had!”
“Our prince is fine.”
“Then father, what sort of game is this? What is it that you are struggling to say?”
He looked at her with the patience and love of a thousand ages, knowing full well that he was about to shatter her life. Finally, he mustered the courage to speak the words – it could no longer be put off.
“Elizabeth, he is married.”
The fire crackled steadily in the hearth.
“I’m sorry, father, what did you say?”
“Prince Henry is married. The captain of the ship in the cove told us of the wedding plans.”
Silence.
“He says that the young prince was to marry his brother’s widow, Princess Catherine of Aragon. It will have taken place by now for the captain has been at sea some months.”
Elizabeth looked at him in horror.
“What say you?” she whispered. “He cannot marry his brother’s wife! ‘Tis not sanctified nor allowed by the church! The captain is mistaken.”
Thomas shook his head.
“King Henry went to great lengths to have Arthur’s marriage annulled, for it seems Catherine is still a maid.”
“Still a maid? She was married to Prince Arthur for…” Elizabeth thought rapidly, “She married him November and he died in April, and all that time we are to believe they did not see fit to consummate the marriage? Is that what you tell me?”
Her voice was rising in pitch and beginning to tremble. Thomas’ heart broke for his only child.
“Aye, Pope Julius granted the dispensation and they are married.”
“And my contract? Henry is betrothed to me, father! To me! ‘Tis nonsense you are speaking!” She stood and began pacing.
“The news comes from Greenwich Palace itself,” Thomas told her sorrowfully.
Silence.
“Elizabeth, sit, we have much to discuss.”
“What, pray tell, would we have to discuss save my Henry being married to another? And his brother’s wife at that?”
“You were very young when you and Henry pre-contracted, my child. And he was not then to be king of all the realm one day. His circumstances changed.”
“You have lost your mind. Nothing has changed. Henry is my betrothed.”
Thomas shook his head.
“No, he is not. Listen to the words I speak. He is someone else’s husband now, and our future king. We must accept this and move on, for there is no good to be had by broadcasting such a thing as a precontract made so many years ago. We must accept, Elizabeth, and move on. He will be our king, and Catherine our queen.”
She threw open the door and ran out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As dawn crept over the sparkling sea, Elizabeth quietly opened the door. Thomas and Agnes sat silently in front of the dying fire, keeping watch for her return. As she entered, Agnes ran to her and swept her up in a sobbing embrace.
“My child, my Elizabeth,” she choked the words out and stroked Elizabeth’s damp
hair. After a moment, she led her to the fire and Thomas stood and hugged her tightly.
“‘Tis a sorry thing, ‘tis a sad business.”
Agnes gently tried to seat Elizabeth in a chair but was brushed away.
“I am tired, father, Agnes. And father, you are mistaken. ‘Tis not a sad business at all. ‘Tis a great day for England, for her Prince Henry has made a brilliant match. Now, we will not speak of this matter again. We have much to do to ready ourselves for Rome.”
As she lay under the bed covers, she could not shut out the sound of the sea pounding the beach with its steady tempo of crashing waves. She had walked a long journey that night upon the wet sand. But as she closed her eyes, the waves became more violent, more chaotic. She could hear nothing now but the shrieking of the timbers of the Phobos as they were torn asunder by the giant waves of frigid water. She was back on that terrible night the ship had gone down, and there was no one to help her, no one to pull her to safety. She rolled to her side, trying to block the noise and confusion in her mind, but it was pointless. There was no rhythm now to the drumbeat of engulfing waves and shrieking howling wind. It was fury in its most pure form, and the waves crashed all about her. But there was nothing to hold tight to.
A small thump on the bed tore her from her misery and she rolled over to find Consuelo cuddled beside her under the covers.
“Do not worry, my friend,” the little girl whispered quietly as she wrapped herself around Elizabeth. “Papa says there is always a dawn.”
A small hand patted Elizabeth’s cheek as she clutched the child and broke into heaving sobs.
*****
No one in the household had any special talent for binding wounds with the tongue. Before the news of Henry, the silences which would befall the household had always been comfortable, eventually being broken by the sounds of Roberto and Consuelo with their toys, of Ransdell and Agnes with their domestic chatter, or Elizabeth and her father arguing this point or that idea found in some manuscript. There was an easy rhythm to their evenings together, one that they all cherished. Things were different now.