by Betty Younis
Each time a conversation ended, silence fell like a blade across the serenity they had once enjoyed. Each time, some one would attempt to break the tense atmosphere with a pointless remark. Each time, the result was predictable.
“Tell me, my dearest wife, how was the market today? This supper is wondrous!”
Such an utterance would be met with momentary silence, and then Agnes would respond to her husband’s efforts to lighten the mood. Rather than look at him as if he was a shining example of idiocy, which formally she would have done, now she would smile brightly and reply.
“Husband of mine, the market was quite fascinating, and this beef stew has the freshest sage, brought down to market today from the Castillo estate near Madrid.”
“‘Tis quite delicious,” Ransdell would being to flounder at this point but would continue on.
“And the market? Did you learn any new words today?”
By this time Agnes had grown weary of the exchange, and her inability to conquer Spanish was a sore spot for her in any case. While the others chattered away in the language of their temporarily adopted county, she still struggled mightily with even the simplest constructs. She would remain silent rather than add hot spice to the melancholy atmosphere.
Thomas would occasionally try to engage Elizabeth as they sat round the fire but such attempts produced nothing but nods and gentle smiles. Elizabeth was as bruised in her heart as she had been in her body after the shipwreck, and they all knew it. Even talk of Thomas’ mysterious source of manuscripts did little to lift her spirits.
“So, Thomas, tell me,” Ransdell began one night as they sat before the fire. Consuelo was sitting in Elizabeth’s lap trying to engage her in a reading lesson but to no avail. Elizabeth sat quietly staring into the fire. Roberto had carefully placed his horsemen in two opposing rows on the stone floor and was busy plotting strategy for the winning side. Agnes silently mended the children’s clothes.
“Aye?”
“We leave here in one day.”
Thomas nodded.
“And yet you have never mentioned where you find the books you continuously bring into our home.”
Normally, Thomas would wave his hand at this point and ignore all the questions and comments which followed. Tonight, however, he looked across at Elizabeth, his concern written on his face. She had lost considerable weight since the news of Henry, and dark circles had appeared under her eyes. She looked more waifish than womanly, and gone were the vibrancy and optimism which had always buoyed her in the past. Perhaps talk of manuscripts would cheer her.
“Well, sir, since we are leaving, I will tell you.”
Even Elizabeth turned to hear what he had to say.
“Before you say, old man,” Agnes interjected, “Why have you wrapped it all in such secrecy?”
“Because I get them from a gentleman, an abbot, who prefers to say not where he himself acquires them.”
“A monk? A friend of Friar Marcos?”
“Umm, I think not,” Thomas said evasively. “He is from a kingdom far from here, Trier, on a great river called the Moselle. He is highly educated, and travels extensively, seeking out manuscripts for his own library. His name is Johannes Trithemius.”
Elizabeth had begun to listen.
“We met in the market, and fell into conversation about libraries and the difficulty in getting copies of precious books.”
Ransdell rose and put more wood on the fire before Thomas continued.
“He travels not as an abbot but as a commoner hawking his wares from the wagon he uses on such occasions.”
“Why?” It was the first interest Elizabeth had shown in anything in days.
“Because his country and this country do not view each other kindly,” was Thomas’ simple reply. “‘Tis easier, when trading in such rarities, to do so under the guise of commerce.”
“And how do you pay this man?”
Thomas smiled.
“I would think Agnes would know.”
“What? I am not part of this,” Agnes complained indignantly. “I have no notion of that which you speak.”
“‘Tis true,” Thomas reflected before picking up his cane and moving to the wall beside the great hearth. “You know nothing of my business here, but you could write volumes about stone and mortar and how such arrangements do eventually loosen and fall apart.”
Agnes watched him warily as he carefully pulled a sizable piece of mortar from between two stones and placed it on the mantel. Elizabeth thought of Coudenoure and Agnes’ listening post outside the library and smiled as her father pulled a small pouch from within the wall before sitting back down. It was the same purse given to him by Lady Margaret Beaufort so long ago.
“The night of the ship wreck we lost almost everything. But before the Phobos went down, there was a moment when we gathered ourselves and made our way to the upper deck.”
They all nodded in remembrance.
“I had just enough time to tie this pouch inside my shirt,” he continued, “And since then, I have hidden it in yonder wall. It was given to us to purchase indulgences and manuscripts by the King’s own mother, and do so we shall.”
“And these manuscripts you purchase, tell me, are they stolen?”
“No, no,” Thomas assured him, “They are from Abbot Trithemius’ own library. Each time he visits, we discuss what it means to have a great library, what manuscripts must be had to claim such an honor. We have bonded in friendship and agreed that each time he goes home, he has copies made of those which I am lacking and brings them along on his next trip, at which time I purchase them from him. When we return to England, I shall return the favor by allowing him to peruse my library and make copies there.”
“But you pay him for these manuscripts, Thomas. And you will let him make his copies gratis?”
“No, Ransdell. He will pay me in kind, in other books and fragments thereof. ‘Tis an arrangement which suits us well.”
“And if the Spanish authorities find you are trading with this strange abbot?” Agnes asked.
“They will not, for he is not strange, only foreign, and we are leaving. I have informed the good man of our impending voyage to Rome and we will meet there in future. He assures me there are many like-minded men who seek to preserve knowledge of the past in that great city.”
“You mean like-minded men who lust after the written word, do you not?” Agnes laughed as she called him out on his great passion. “You are all caught in the devil’s trap of a mania for books. You need to confess and do penance.”
Agnes’ words were serious but her tone was so sanctimonious even Elizabeth laughed.
It was the beginning of her healing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The voyage aboard the Deimos was not long, and the sea was kind to them this time. The vessel rocked rhythmically upon the open ocean and the sails billowed gently as they skimmed along the deep blue surface of Mare Nostrum. Land was never out of sight, and a great expectation filled them all with hope. Elizabeth spent long hours at the ship’s prow, looking out and wondering what Rome would bring.
The wound was deep, and would never heal. This much she understood. But she also knew that she had responsibilities to her father and now to Agnes and her family. There was no one else to be concerned for their future. Ransdell would certainly see to their material well-being, and Coudenoure would always be there. The King’s annuity to Thomas was for perpetuity and so coinage would not be an issue. But there was the matter of keeping everyone together so that the sense of family they had all longed for and now finally had would not evaporate with the coming changes. That would be her task, her calling, for there would be no marriage for her.
Elizabeth had considered herself married from the day of her pre-contract. Her extreme youth had guaranteed that the event was seared like a brand upon her psyche, and every waking moment since then had been calibrated towards her life with Henry – the children they would have, the home they would make together at C
oudenoure. So sudden had the news of his marriage fallen that an executioner’s axe could not have done a more effective job of cleaving her life into before and after. She struggled to encapsulate all that had happened before so it could be neatly packed away in some dark and unlit room. Perhaps later, when she was well, she could take it out and examine it, as one might look at a toy from one’s childhood. But it had too much power now, and she could not look at it directly for fear of its potency and the effect it might have upon her. Her weight had continued to drop and her complexion now had a sallow tinge. The sea air helped, but time was what she needed most of all now.
As they approached the port of Ostia in the pre-dawn hours, Agnes began to cluck and scurry about Roberto and Consuelo, while Ransdell and Thomas looked after their belongings. Elizabeth watched from a distance, as had become her habit. By mid-morning the wains had been rented and their household secured. Ransdell would accompany them all and stay the night before setting sail the next day. He was to return on a routine basis until plans for the voyage to England were laid down.
A narrow, rutted road led off from the dock but a mile on became a wide and cobbled way. Whether it was complete, or had started from the dock side or the city side no one knew. It had been thus forever and rough planks had been laid to ease the way of the wagons as they made the transition from sand and dirt to cobblestone. Elizabeth looked at the barren landscape, noting its similarities and differences to that of Malaga. It was hillier, and the scrub was mixed with trees. At random intervals small patches of wildflowers, here purple and pink, there white and yellow, dotted the rolling fields with snaps of bright color. The wain master called out to the bellowing oxen and all along the way pedestrians in colorful garb walked beside the roadway, sometimes bent almost double with loads upon their backs. Children ran up and down the way calling out for alms and chasing one another in the bright sunshine. Elizabeth could not help but feel cheered by the busy, bustling, colorful scene. If she squinted, she could see in the far, far distance a massive gate through which the road fed and she wondered idly what they would find on the other side.
A short while later, all traffic stopped. The sun was heating up the day, and as they began to peel off layers of robes and shawls, Thomas shouted to the man who sat patiently upon the plank which served as the wain master’s seat. He was lazily switching a long withy which served as his whip for the oxen and shouted over his shoulder in return.
“It seems some artist is having a difficulty with his stone.”
While the adults pondered the possible meanings of the statement, Roberto whispered to his sister. She giggled and nodded and they jumped from the wagon and began scampering up the road. No amount of screeching on Agnes’ part could persuade them to come back. Elizabeth smiled, jumped down and went after them.
On and on the children ran past carts and carriages and wagons until the reason for the stoppage became evident. Elizabeth caught up and the three of them stood in wonder at what lay before them. A huge block of marble, some ten feet wide and eight feet high was being transported by multiple wagons and crews of laborers. One of the wagon wheels had left the cobblestone way, and the weight of the marble was preventing it from being brought back into line with the others. Each time the oxen snorted and tugged at their harness the angle of the wheel became less and less viable for movement. So deeply was it wedged that the laborers could make no headway. A young, tall, muscular man stood patiently watching the show from the side of the road.
Roberto and Consuelo went closer and closer to the massive marble block, each reaching out to touch its smooth, cold surface. A sudden jolt in the wagon bed caused the stone to shift slightly, and Elizabeth screamed a warning to them as she ran to snatch them from danger. But the young man beside the road was faster. Before she could reach them he had tucked one under each arm and taken them to a quiet place under an ancient pine. Elizabeth followed, breathlessly. Before she could speak, the handsome stranger had sat the children on the ground and was speaking to them in Spanish.
“What are you doing, little ones? Do you not understand danger?”
Roberto looked at the man with wide eyes.
“Is that your rock?”
The man smiled and Elizabeth noticed his eyes were kind and dark.
“‘Tis my marble, young man. I shall use it to make a very fine likeness of Signore Capileto, a very fine rich patron.”
Roberto nodded.
“I can do that.”
The man looked at him in amused wonder.
“Can you now?”
Roberto nodded enthusiastically.
Elizabeth came closer before the child could continue. The man turned to her and spoke in a serious but light tone.
“Are these your charges? They could have been killed.”
She was momentarily lost. His eyes were so deep and intelligent and the moment so beyond the realm of her experience that she stuttered the first thing she thought of.
“I am their mother.” It fell out and she was not sure why.
“Their mother?” laughed the stranger. “And did you conceive at the age of six, madam?”
Elizabeth blushed but said nothing. Consuelo decided to explain their situation matter-of-factly.
“She is the Lady Elizabeth, and her heart is broken. ‘Tis why she looks like that.”
Elizabeth wanted desperately to grab the children and run, but it was too late. Consuelo and the man were engaged in a serious discussion.
“Her heart is broken, you say.”
“Yes,” Consuelo told him, mimicking the sorrowful tones she had heard in Agnes’ voice, “And she needs a distraction but nothing seems to work.”
“Si,” chimed in Roberto, “Some idiot…”
“Roberto!” Elizabeth found her voice.
“Agnes says he is an idiot, and so does my father,” Roberto answered and continued. “He married another and now she drags herself through life like a wounded animal.”
Elizabeth glared at him palpably, but Roberto only shrugged. If the ground could have swallowed her up, she would have been grateful.
“Ah, yes, I see that,” the stranger said. “I agree – what she needs is a distraction.”
It was too much.
“Sir, I am right here, so you need not discuss my health with the children as though I were absent. And how am I supposed to be distracted, I ask?”
He looked at her in amusement and before she knew what was happening, her words began to trickle forth. His kindness touched her, and soon her words were tumbling over one another in a veritable symphony.
“I am surrounded by family who love me and I love them but each day is the same. I thought our trip to Rome would provide me something new to dwell upon but I was mistaken. You see, kind sir, I have been left. I am no good to anyone for my husband has left me.”
“He was your pre-contracted person, not your husband and you must stop saying that.” Constance was still playing the role Agnes. The child was an extraordinary mimic, even down to waving her finger just in the way Agnes always did.
Elizabeth vacillated between feeling sorry for herself, extreme embarrassment and relief at finally allowing her feelings out.
The young man looked at her thoughtfully.
“So what do you propose?”
She shot him a startled look.
“What do I propose? I am a woman!”
“Si,” he spoke slowly, “But you are also an adult with choices. How will you navigate this sad ending to a bad affair?”
“I do not know, sir. If I were a man, I could sail the seas or find my fortune in a faraway land. But I am a woman.”
“You have sailed the seas,” responded the stranger dryly, “And you are in a strange and faraway land. Has that changed anything?”
Elizabeth felt a strange awakening.
“You are correct, sir. But the problem, my problem, is that I love the man to whom I was pre-contracted. I cannot change that.”
“Yes,” he agreed. �
�That will be difficult. But locking yourself and your feelings away is an act of self-immolation, and you are too passionate for that, I can tell.”
Who was this man who spoke such wise words? Silence reigned for a long moment before he spoke again.
“Come, let us find your wain.”
The traffic was once again moving along the road. The marble had not budged, but a detour had been devised on both sides of it. As they began walking down the long line of oxen, men and cargo, Consuelo once again ran ahead, this time in the direction of their wagon. Roberto held the stranger’s hand and smiled up at him as they walked along.
“I am hungry!” Consuelo exclaimed as her father pulled her over the side. As the other three caught up with her, a look of caution crossed the faces of those in the wain.
Elizabeth smiled as she climbed back into the wagon. The stranger walked alongside of it with Roberto.
“Sir, I thank you for returning my wayward children,” began Ransdell.
“He saved our lives.”
Constance blurted out the story as she happily ate the bread and cheese handed to her by Agnes.
“‘Tis true?” asked Thomas.
The stranger made a rocking motion with his hand, and all laughed.
“And I am going to carve marble.” Roberto too was now using his free hand for food, but still clung tight to the stranger.
“Indeed,” observed Thomas. “And how shall you do that?”
The discussion turned to the massive block they were just then passing, and Thomas became alert. The stranger spoke quietly to one of the laborers who nodded and disappeared towards Ostia.
“So, my good man, you are a sculptor?”
He nodded.
“And this is your marble?”
Again, a silent nod. Thomas looked at him waiting for more.
“Si, I just finished the David and have taken a small commission here in Rome. I needed a distraction.” He looked meaningfully at Elizabeth. “As we all do from time to time.”