by Betty Younis
Elizabeth lay like a lifeless rag doll beneath the covers on her childhood bed. How many nights had she lain awake under these very covers and dreamt of the life she would have with Henry as her husband? She was drowning in memories that she had locked away an entire life time ago. And it was not Coudenoure which had brought them back but Prudence’s news. Many years earlier, in Rome, the rumors of a delay in Henry’s marriage to Catherine had circulated broadly. Elizabeth had heard them, but they had not changed her situation. The rumors were not of a break between him and his betrothed, but of a delay due to considerations concerning Catherine’s dowry. Elizabeth had packed all of it away – her feelings, her memories, her sorrow – and moved on. She had known full well that she would have to deal with some of those emotions when she touched English soil once again. After all, Henry was the heir apparent and would one day be her king. She had reckoned with that and made her peace with it.
But Prudence spoke of Henry’s continued interest in Coudenoure even unto the point that he still visited the estate from time to time. To reckon with the weave of her life and make peace with it was one thing; to welcome him into her sanctuary and see him again was quite another. She threw off the covers and stoked the fire in the hearth. Flames of light lit the room and shadows flickered and loomed across it. Sitting on the rug before it with her knees drawn up to her chest, she struggled with emotions she thought had died years earlier. What was she to do? She thought of Michelangelo and his insistence that she not present a problem without also presenting a solution. So, what would she do? What would her answer be? As the moon waned and the sun began to light the eastern sky, Elizabeth returned to her bed and pulled the covers round about her. She would treat Henry as he deserved to be treated – with all the dignity and respect due not just to his station, but to him as a man. In return, she was certain she would receive the same. There was no other way to translate their lost love into a viable relationship. Knowing she had made the right decision, she slept peacefully until noon.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Spring was late that year and its arrival was not piecemeal. The Lenten roses did not bloom in March followed in April by the monkshood and campanula giving way in May to primroses and daffodils. Instead, the grand meadow of Coudenoure lay deep under its mantle of winter brown day after day, month after month. Occasionally, a lacy frost would lay itself gently across the rising slope like sugar on porridge, but otherwise, all lay in the silent grip of Persephone. And then one day, it did not. From nowhere the meadow sprang fully formed and alive with color. The winter winds gave way to spring breezes and the air filled with the smells and scents of new life. The sun presided over its sublime creation and cheerfully lent its warmth as a shelter and talisman against the return of the deathly cold. From deep within its ancient walls, Coudenoure stirred to life once again.
Elizabeth spent the weeks unpacking and adjusting to the world she and Thomas and Agnes had once known. She had never given up painting, and when she was not busy hanging her work about the house – street scenes of Rome, the soft beaches of Malaga, the grand plazas of Italy – she watched the drive carefully, for before leaving Rome she had arranged for fresh supplies, brushes and canvases to be sent to her on a regular basis. She had another reason for keeping her eye upon it as well, but that one she kept to herself. In due time her art supplies arrived, and with the advent of spring she ventured further and further afield, capturing with her brush the gay colors and lazy flow of the Thames. One afternoon, she found herself high on a ridge overlooking Greenwich wood. She tramped happily along, searching for just the right spot to capture the ephemeral color which surrounded the forest as its trees began to awaken to life. A meadow ran before it and the tender, pastel colors of the wild flowers presented in sharp contrast to the looming darkness and shadowy dampness of the woods.
“Um, yes, this is it,” she said softly to herself as she steadied her easel upon the soft ground and unfolded the small, leather stool Michelangelo had had made for her years earlier. A fresh breeze blew and the sun beat down upon her. She had left the manor early that day, not bothering to put her hair up and as the day wore on she shed the cloak which had seemed needful that morning.
“Now who do you suppose that is?” asked Charles, pulling up sharply. His quiver was slung carelessly over his shoulder and he shielded his eyes as he looked across the meadow and up the hill which lay beyond it. A distant figure sat at an artist’s easel, back turned towards him.
“‘Tis a maid?” asked his companion following Charles’ pointing finger. They both rested their hands on the pommels of their saddles, squinting against the bright sun.
“‘Tis too far, I cannot tell,” came the reply.
“They are on the King’s land, by God!”
“No, they are in truth on the estate of Coudenoure,” Charles said, still looking at the figure. “But what are they doing? Painting?”
“Well, ‘tis a fair scene with the meadow and the woods beyond,” noted his friend. “But tell me, does anyone at Coudenoure paint? I think not, so ‘tis disturbing – trespassing is a serious offense.”
“Trespassing to piddle with paint?” Charles laughed. “I think you make too much of it.”
“Shall we have an adventure? What say you?”
“Whatever you say, my Prince.”
Henry dug his heels into the sides of his great black steed and they were off. They took the ridge near the river and galloped along its peaks and valleys until the figure once more came into sight. The furious sounds of the hooves alerted Elizabeth to their presence, and she turned, brush in hand, to confront whoever it was that was trespassing on her land.
The spring breeze blew her long dark hair about her face, and the bodice of her overdress was laced tightly beneath her breasts. The ties of a soft white cotton undergarment had been loosed against the heat, and the cleavage of her bosom was exposed clearly. She waited for the horsemen to approach. But they stopped some distance away.
“Henry, you look strange. Is there some problem, my liege?”
Henry was struggling for breath and could not take his eyes off the woman barely fifty feet in front of him.
“Henry, for God’s sake speak, man, or I shall have to ride for help.”
Henry raised his hand for silence and continued staring at the young woman before them.
Elizabeth grew impatient and took a step forward. Suddenly, her breath became labored and she fell to her knees before reaching her hand out towards them. Her black eyes widened intensely and she waited, her breath ragged, wondering if he knew who knelt before him.
“Stay here,” Henry’s voice was rough and low as he dismounted and threw the reins to Charles. Never looking away, he walked slowly to Elizabeth and held his hand out to her. She took it and rose, trembling. Gently, he put his hand beneath her chin and raised her face to his.
“You are not an apparition.”
She continued to stare at him. Tears welled up in her eyes and she did not bother to wipe them away.
“You are real.”
Henry looked upon her face, her lips soft and slightly open, and kissed them sweetly and gently. Elizabeth was transfixed and did not move.
“My Henry,” she whispered.
“Elizabeth, you are home,” he said, and the tears began to roll down his cheeks as well. He gathered her in his arms and they wept together on the lonely ridge.
Chapter Thirty
It was late that evening before the threesome rode together up the long drive of Coudenoure. Charles had intended to ride for Greenwich, alerting the palace to his Highness’ desire to spend a few days at Coudenoure. A game warden had crossed his path, however and he had sent the man forward with the message. Returning to the ridge, he found Elizabeth and Henry deep in conversation, oblivious to the sounds of his horse as he approached and the gathering gloom.
“‘Tis late.” He announced. They ignored him.
“I say, ‘tis late, and the Lady Elizabeth does not wish t
o have the household of her estate sent with torches and alarms, I think.”
Henry stood and assisted Elizabeth with gathering her canvas and supplies. He placed her on his steed and mounted behind Charles on his. He held the reins of his horse as the animals picked their way down the hill and to the drive of Coudenoure. Lights blazed from every window and torches could be seen near the front door. A great shout went up as they arrived.
“The Prince! ‘Tis Prince Henry! And the Lady Elizabeth rides with him!”
The words rang through the house even as Prudence tolled the bell, indicating guests. Thomas stood on the front step, and Henry made his way to the old man, bowing deeply before him.
“Thomas, we believed you to be dead all these years.”
Thomas bowed as low he could, and Henry helped him steady himself and continued.
“Come, you must sit by the fire, and I with you if that is acceptable.”
With his cane, Thomas waved away the young boys who tried to assist him.
“Can you not see that the King’s son helps me now? Eh, you nits? Prudence, fetch ale, fetch cider, for young Henry is home.”
Henry put his arm across the old man’s shoulders and arranged him carefully before the library fire.
Charles helped Elizabeth down and with the briefest of nods she disappeared indoors and ran lightly up the steps to her room, closing the door securely behind her. The front hall was frantic with activity as fires were lit and the kitchen staff called in from their cottages behind the manor house.
Agnes stood in the shadowy depths of the great hall and watched the scene unfold. She caught a glimpse of Elizabeth’s face as she fled upstairs.
“Madre de Dios,” she said to no one in particular as she crossed herself and watched the door close on Henry and Thomas.
“Lady Agnes!” She jerked her mind back from its wanderings.
“Sir Charles.”
“You are older,” Charles grinned.
“And you are no wiser. Come, we will sup together in the kitchen and tell each other all we know.”
“Madam, ‘tis a good plan.”
They walked arm in arm to the kitchen.
*****
In the Matins hour he came to her. She bolted the door behind him and followed him to the great hearth of her room. He reached slowly out and gently pulled the bow string of her nightdress. It fell around her feet and she stood naked and trembling before him. She watched as he undressed. His touch was fire upon her skin, and they fell together, deeper and deeper until the universe was only they two and the flames before which they lay. Gentle and soft, fierce and firm, they learned what it meant to truly love. At dawn, Henry crept back to his room. For seven days and seven nights ‘twas thus.
Even that day upon the ridge their conversation had flowed naturally as if they had never been apart. As the week sped by, Henry found pockets of his early identity that he had long believed dead. Each evening, as he and Ransdell, Edward and Thomas, and Charles sat round the fire in the library, he composed light music on the lute he had left long ago at Coudenoure. Poetry flowed from his pen, and Thomas’ talk of Michelangelo’s workshop, of art and books and culture brought Henry to life. He had forgotten what it was to be creative, and while the lessons learned at the hands of his fathers’ stewards would not leave him, he vowed never to let them take priority over what he now saw as his true vocation. He would be king, but he would he would also be philosopher, musician, and poet.
His days with Elizabeth were filled with learning and love. She had matured into a woman of such knowledge and grace as defied his common notion of what a true woman should be. Each moment seemed to provide him with fresh insight into the female sex and how severely he had underrated their intelligence and abilities. One morning, as he carried her easel and paints up the meadow for her, he said as much.
“Yes, ‘tis a richer life for me than that enjoyed by my sisters,” Elizabeth had said. “But those are my thoughts only. If you were to ask Prudence, as she manages her kitchen staff, or Consuelo as she manages the household, they would tell you ‘tis they that are blessed.”
She paused.
“Perhaps the blessings flow when one is happily ensconced in a safe, familial place and is given to practice a vocation.”
Henry nodded.
“You are right, I think. But, my love, your sisters as you call them have husbands and will have children.”
Elizabeth continued walking.
“You know I must marry Catherine now, for the kingdom depends upon it.”
“You told me that when we first talked, that day upon the ridge.” A slight irritation crept into Elizabeth’s voice. Henry remained silent. After a moment, she turned to face him.
“Henry, you say that I am intelligent for my kind.”
He laughed.
“More intelligent than my ministers and friends,” he observed.
“Then what makes you think I surrendered myself to you on a whim? Or out of thoughtless passion? Regardless of how I arrived at this moment, I am mistress of my own estate and of my own heart. The love you have shown me these past few days would see any woman through a lifetime. This is what I ask: when you leave two days hence, that you remember Coudenoure kindly, see that no harm falls unto my father in his dotage with his library, and that no one be allowed to pressure me as a titled maid for my hand. I wish to spend my days as you see me now, here at Coudenoure amongst my family. That is what I need from you now, my Henry.”
He bowed deeply.
“It shall be done.”
“And thing one more.” Elizabeth smiled. “That you shall paint today, my lord, not me, and I shall instruct you as you go.”
Henry laughed, secretly satisfied with the conversation. As the week had progressed, he had worried more and more about Elizabeth’s future. What would happen to her when he married Catherine? He could see to her financial needs and would always do so, but she insisted that once he was married she could no longer enjoy his company in her bed. They must then part, she had said, or risk the wrath of God.
Initially, Henry had agreed, but each night as he lay listening to her gentle breathing beside him, he cursed the fate which had decreed they must forever be apart. He would be king, and yet he was denied. He imagined his life upon the loom, the pattern always moving towards a predestined kingship and glory. But if that were true, then how had his love for Elizabeth come to such a pass? Were he and Elizabeth forcing the pattern to reflect their own feelings? He doubted it, for the past few days had taught them that they were powerless against their love for one another – it controlled them, and they did not control it. Their destiny was to be apart, but a single flame would always light their paths as they went their separate ways.
The week passed in a deeply familial and loving way, and on their last night together, as he lay with his head in Elizabeth’s lap in front of the fire in her room, they seemed finally to have talked themselves out. Content just to be with one another, they listened to the crackling of the fire and felt its warmth upon their bare skins. Elizabeth stroked Henry’s hair and smiled down at him.
“So, you should know that you leave a happy woman behind you at Coudenoure,” she said quietly.
“And you send a satisfied man abroad into his kingdom,” he laughed.
For some moments only the crackling of the fire was heard. Then Elizabeth spoke in a whisper.
“Will we see you again?”
He played with a strand of her hair.
“Yes, certainly, but I know not when.”
Henry sat up.
“My father is ill, more so than the public knows.”
He weighed his thoughts.
“When I leave here, I must travel to his palace at Richmond, and await the news which is sure to come.”
“You will be king.”
“Aye, I will be king. And some of what that means I like very much, and for some of it I care not at all.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“‘T
is so in every life.”
“Indeed.”
He looked at her with tender strength.
“You are the love of my life, Elizabeth.”
She nodded.
“And you, mine.”
They returned to her bed, and as morning broke he slipped away. Charles was waiting for him with his steed, and they rode in silence to Richmond.
Chapter Thirty-One
Consuelo could not stop eating. Each morning she appeared in the kitchen early, and Prudence would whip eggs for her, cooking them quickly in the frying pan on the spider at the edge of the hearth. No sooner had she finished those, however, than the family began appearing and she would eat again with them. Scones with fig marmalade, cheese, ham, great draughts of apple cider from the bounty of the orchard and plums as well. She seemed to be a bottomless well of hunger, and even Thomas began to wonder about her appetite. Dinner and supper were merely repeat performances of breakfast. As the months wore on, Edward began to beam with pride, and each time he returned home from a voyage he would bring her a trinket. This time a small bracelet of stones, now a fine piece of linen, once a small colorful bird in a tiny cage. She was pregnant, and in due course the midwife from Woolwich began paying routine visits. The woman had delivered Edward and confidence was high that Consuelo would be brought through the birth in fine condition. Agnes watched over the affair carefully, and made certain that Consuelo took rests frequently. She went about with a worried face and all assumed it was because of Consuelo’s impending labor. It was true that Agnes felt great concern, but her faith had grown stronger over the years and she was sure that a healthy baby and mother would be the final result. No, it was not Consuelo about whom she worried: it was Elizabeth.