by Betty Younis
“Where is this “baron”?”
“He is not here. He had business today in Greenwich…”
“Wench! You lie, for not five minutes ago we saw him arrive here. Where is the child?”
“What child?”
He struck Elizabeth across the face sending her sprawling against the library wall.
“She will lie! We must search the house. Eldwin, upstairs. The rest of you with me. Quickly before they hide it away!”
Thomas was waiting for them at the back door.
“Old man, where is the child?”
Thomas swung his sword in silent reply.
“Did you not hear me?”
Baron Thomas de Gray of Coudenoure pulled himself upright and spit before answering.
“You will burn in hell this very night. Now, come get your justice.”
Two of the rebels advanced with drawn swords. Thomas managed a deep slash on the leader’s arm before he was cut down. Elizabeth screamed and ran at them brandishing a candlestick seized from a small table. They pushed her aside and trampled Thomas’ body underfoot then raced across the yard.
“I hear a horse – they are taking the child away! Quickly! Quickly!”
Charles barreled forth from the stables with Constance clinging to his chest too frightened to scream. Looking towards the house, he saw Prudence running with the other girls trying to make the forest’s edge. Farther beyond that, he saw Elizabeth standing in the door over her father’s bleeding, still body, screaming. Just as his mount reared and he loosed the reins, the deep and somber notes of battle horns reached his ears. They blared out Henry’s call to war, and the sound of fifty horsemen thundered beneath their warning cry. The rebels too heard the commotion and turned.
Charles galloped to Prudence and grabbing Constance by one arm swung her down off the horse to waiting arms.
“I must save the king!” Charles shouted. “Stay in the forest until you hear my voice. Go, woman, and hide! Hide you all!”
He pulled his sword and turned upon the traitors as Henry roared into sight at the head of a small squadron of cavalry and archers from the east corner of the manor. Elizabeth raced through the melee which followed, frantically calling Constance’s name as she ran in Prudence’s footsteps. She had almost cleared the battle scene when she heard, more than felt, a dull thud against her side. Henry’s enraged howl echoed across the yard as he watched her go down. But his rage turned to horror as her assailant, the lead rebel, raised his sword high above his head and laughed as he looked back at Henry, helpless to reach her in time.
“You cannot save her, my grace,” he shouted with evil glee.
From behind him, a woman’s voice spoke shrilly.
“But I can.”
As he turned in surprise, Agnes plunged Thomas’ sword deep within his belly. He looked at her in shock, but there was no time to react further, as Elizabeth escaped, darting into the forest after her daughter. He lay there, helpless to follow. The last thing he ever looked upon in this world was Henry’s sword as it sliced through the air towards his throat.
*****
The rain gave forth a steady drumbeat as she ran and stumbled through the forest.
“Prudence! Where are you?”
From behind a massive oak a hand reached out and pulled her down. Prudence.
“Shhh, we must wait for dark now. ‘Tis our best chance. We will try and find a horse and make for Woolwich – Edward and Consuelo have friends there, do they not?”
Elizabeth nodded and lay on the wet ground, reaching out and touching the three tiny, petrified faces of the little girls. They were safe, and she turned a steady gaze in the direction of the manor house. Frightening sounds of a mighty clash still drifted through the rainy gloom of the forest from Coudenoure – the terrified screams of men and horses, metal against metal in heavy, loud bursts, sickening cries – the two women shielded Mary, little Agnes and Constance as best they could. Darkness came on faster now and the sounds of battle lessened little by little until nothing but a dreadful silence remained amidst the rain. Suddenly, they discerned the sounds of a single horse coming their way. It chose and picked its footing carefully through the undergrowth and were it not for its snorting at the occasional stumble they might not have heard it. They pressed the children beneath them and sent their prayers heavenward. A voice, no more than a whisper came to them.
“Elizabeth, where are you?”
They strained to hear its whispered cadence – was it familiar?
“Elizabeth! Prudence? ‘Tis me, Henry.”
She was almost certain.
“Stay here and do not move.”
Prudence’s answer came as no more than a soft note in her ear. Elizabeth crawled silently away from the group as the voice came closer.
“Elizabeth.”
Sure that she had put adequate distance between their hiding place and where she now was, she stood and answered.
“What is our firstborn’s name?”
Silence. She prepared to run deeper into the wood away from Prudence and the children.
“Bucephalus.”
A great gasp escaped her lips and she ran towards the voice through the darkness.
“Henry, where are you? Help us!”
In a burst he was upon her, holding her, intoning her name. The rain fell in torrents, and he pressed her against a tree, kissing her over and over as she sobbed and called his name. Grasping his hair, she pulled his face upwards and kissed him with a passion borne of eternal fire.
A small cough some distance away froze them.
“My king, ‘tis me, Charles. We must get back.”
“Prudence,” called Elizabeth softly, “‘Tis safe, come quickly.”
A rustling and the small sobs of tiny children came their way. Elizabeth suddenly froze.
“Henry, they left a man in the house! Consuelo may be there!” She was trembling.
He took her by the arms and shook her gently.
“Listen to me.”
She nodded.
“Stay here with Charles a moment longer. We will find him.” He mounted his horse.
Elizabeth never paused.
“No, my king. Charles, ride with him and protect him, do you hear my words?”
“You may depend upon it, Lady Elizabeth.”
“You would disobey your King?” Henry asked.
“Aye, if it means his life I would indeed,” came her trembling reply. “Now go, and hurry. We will hide once again and wait for your voice.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Through the long, dark weeks that followed, Elizabeth was sustained by one purpose. She told no one, instead moving in step with the others through the motions of grief and closure after the bloody battle which had occurred at Coudenoure. Thomas died as he had lived, in the service of King Henry at Bosworth, and now his son, King Henry, at Coudenoure. As the story unfolded, and Henry began to understand the sacrifice and bravery the old man had shown in the face of certain death, he wept openly and frequently on his trips to Coudenoure. Who had ever loved him thus?
The sacrifice took him back to his childhood, and each night in his dreams he and Elizabeth once more romped through Coudenoure under the loving gazes of Agnes and Thomas. The strong sense of belonging, of people who loved him deeply for himself, returned during these dreams, and a heavy depression now accompanied him during his waking hours. He had no one in his life now, save Elizabeth and Charles, no one else who knew him intimately and loved him unreservedly. Others most certainly vowed allegiance, but Henry realized that the love and adoration he felt whenever he entered a room of courtiers and ministers was skin deep, and would evaporate in an instant should he lose the crown. With a bitterness he never thought possible, he began to know the isolating nature of absolute power. The only antidote to the bitterness was time at Coudenoure or with Charles. His dependence upon their steady presence in his life became tantamount to that of a talisman against an evil foe.
In a strange t
urn of events, Agnes recovered from her mighty effort to save Elizabeth, but Ransdell did not. Even as he had realized that dire trouble was afoot at the manor, and had raced from his garden to assist, Agnes was already ahead of him and ignored his screams to slow down and let him handle whatever lay ahead. She had heard the horses upon the drive and as the rebels had forced their way through the front door, she began running, for she knew what they were after. It could only be. Elizabeth’s screaming over Thomas’ dead body had pulled her along, and Agnes had grabbed Thomas’ sword and run after Elizabeth through the yard, thinking of nothing but defense of her loved ones, even unto death. Ransdell, in turn, had followed her at a run, but as he passed across the gruesome scene had stopped abruptly, clutching his chest and falling face down directly into the muck of battle, barely able to breathe, much less rise.
*****
Consuelo arrived home late that evening, having accompanied Edward part way down the Thames on his departure for his next voyage. She had hired a small wherry to take her home as he continued on to Woolwich. The frantic undercurrents which had driven the unholy events at Coudenoure had dissipated, and even as Henry’s men loaded the rebels’ bodies onto wagons for public display in London, an exhausted numbness had settled in. Even from the river the light from the sentries’ torches lit the heavens. Concern became anxiety and by the time she reached the drive her breath was ragged.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
A sentry stepped forward with an unsheathed sword and spoke harshly to her.
“I live here – I am Consuelo and this is my home. What manner of chaos is this?”
Another man heavily armored stepped forward.
“Madam, the rebels tried to take this estate earlier today. We believe they planned to use it as a base for an attack against our king.”
Consuelo suspected otherwise.
“Kind sir, you may escort me if you wish, but I must get to the manor immediately.”
He nodded and a sentry accompanied her up the long drive. Inside was deadened chaos as Henry directed his troops. Thomas’ body lay stretched upon the main hall floor covered by a linen shroud. Henry saw her, and nodded knowingly to Charles. He pulled her into the empty kitchen, telling her of the day’s events.
“But I do not understand,” she began, “Where are the children, my mother? Where is Elizabeth? And where in God’s name is my father?”
Charles had barely finished when Consuelo raced upstairs. The three girls sat swaddled in blankets in front of the fire in Elizabeth’s room. To one side wrapped in multiple shawls sat old Agnes. She only stared at Consuelo and said nothing. In Elizabeth’s bed was Ransdell, silent and white as snow. Elizabeth and Prudence paced between them, offering broth and wiping their brows. Upon seeing her, the children broke into fresh tears and sobs. The night was long, and the following weeks bore no resemblance to normalcy for any of them.
Dawn was breaking as Henry entered the room and took Elizabeth into the hallway. She trembled as she fell into his arms. Hugging her mercilessly, Henry dried her tears and looked steadily into her reddened eyes.
“I sent some of my men earlier to Greenwich, and they have returned now with staff and guards. You will need time, Elizabeth.”
She could only nod.
“I will return as I can, but the people must see their king after such a shock – they must know that I am alive and well and that those who challenge England shall not survive.”
She kissed him passionately.
“Go,” she finally pushed him away, “I shall manage here, and you must manage the kingdom, my king. We will always be here for you.”
He turned and left.
Thomas was buried in the small cemetery once reserved for the holy men of the monastery which Coudenoure had in time past been. One month later, the guards were reduced in number and the staff of Greenwich returned to their stations at the palace. Two months later, Henry ordered the building of an estate wall around Coudenoure. It would encompass the great yard and the orchards, the cottages behind the house and that of Agnes and Ransdell as well. But the great meadow now lay beyond the pale, and as the wall went up higher and higher each day, Elizabeth wondered whether it kept others out, or her within. Henry had become obsessive in his desire to protect her, and she became unaccustomed to the rigors of a guarded existence. In time she would adjust, but for now it weighed heavily upon her soul. But each time she saw Constance once again playing merrily with her two friends, each time she thought of what might have happened and what might happen yet if the wall did protect them, she had nothing but gratitude for the man she would love until her last breath.
She stepped into the great library and interrupted Constance as she sat reading with one of the tutors Henry provided for the children of the estate.
“Constance, are you ready?”
“Aunt Elizabeth, I am busy reading Homer, can you not see?”
The tutor saw the look on Elizabeth’s face and excused himself from the room.
“Now, let us play our secret game. What is the word that must always begin it?”
Constance swung her legs as she sat in Elizabeth’s lap.
“Bucephalus,” she shouted happily.
“You are right, my little one!” Elizabeth smiled at the child and played with her hair as she asked the next question.
“And when Auntie Elizabeth says the word, what must you do?”
Constance did not hesitate.
“I must run quickly to the small stable at the edge of the great wall, near the farmland, behind our manor.”
“You are very good!” Elizabeth produced a fig coated in powdered sugar and as Constance happily munched on the treat she continued.
“And then what?”
“I will ride to a place you shall tell me about.”
“And what will you take with thee?”
“What you give me to take, Auntie. May I go play now?”
Elizabeth watched the child run from the room, satisfied with her beginnings.
The next time, she would be prepared.
Chapter Thirty-Four
January 5, 1524
Wolsey sat patiently waiting for King Henry to finish his morning dispatches. The winter this year was biting, and he rested his tiny feet on a small footstool covered in red velvet. He sat before the great hearth which formed the north wall of the King’s study at Greenwich. Nearby sat a bowl of fruit and nuts which he adroitly reached past to get at the plate of sweets just beyond. He was dressed, as always, in the robes only he was allowed to wear as papal legate to the Court of Henry VIII: a rich, red cassock with a white satin overlay. A bejeweled cross hung low upon his chest from a substantial chain of solid gold. A small velvet cap, round, red and high-fitting, crowned his luxurious look. Only his hair, thick and dark, short and straight, refused to cooperate with his image of what a man of his importance should look like. It jutted from beneath his ecclesial cap like autumn hay from a stack, and regardless of oil and careful dressing each morning, by afternoon it did as it pleased.
He cut his eyes to where Henry sat engrossed in a papal bull concerning the latest ecclesiastical ruling on the heresy of the Calvinists. Resting his hands on his ample belly, he continued to enjoy the quiet of the morning, dreaming of the time two days hence when he would travel to Hampton Court, a palace which had recently become his own and one which he was renovating at great expense.
“Tell me,” Henry interrupted his reverie, “What think you of the new Pope?”
Wolsey coughed.
“Your highness, I believe Clement to be a good man, but one held in the palm of King Charles’ hand. We must be careful with that one. I hear he thinks too highly indeed of the French king.”
Henry nodded in agreement and changed the subject.
“Catherine is here at Greenwich?” he inquired.
“The Queen is indeed here at Greenwich, my Grace, and might I say she is looking quite fetching in her new black velvet gown. Why, the sleeves
alone must have cost…”
Henry held up his hand for silence.
“Stop! You are wasting your time. I am done with that woman. Years upon years of marriage and what do I have to show for it? Eh? A daughter.”
Wolsey remained silent, for he knew the rant by heart and also knew that only the foolish or uninitiated interrupted it.
“I am King of England, the greatest of the great realms, and all I ask for is a son. Is that so much?”
Wolsey said nothing.
“No, ‘tis nothing and yet I am denied the one thing my heart truly desires – an heir, a son to carry my name and my line forward!”
Henry frowned as he approached the fire and sat near Wolsey. He, too, ignored the fruit and toyed with a candied cake as he fretted on.
“I tell you, Wolsey, I have done something to displease God. It must be so. And yet what? I go to mass at least four times daily. I am an excellent sovereign who has only what is good for my kingdom in my heart. And yet, here I am, with an aged wife who cannot carry my son, who must, must I say be waiting to be born. I tell you, I can no longer be in her presence, so offensive do I find her and her barrenness. What have I done to displease my God?”
The question hung in the air for several minutes until Henry roused himself from the melancholy he felt creeping up upon his soul. He finished the cake and walked to the door as he spoke.
“I shall ride to Richmond, Wolsey. I may be some time getting there.”
As he entered the great hall, a small group of young women, brightly dressed and giggling, stopped suddenly as he came into the room. All bowed deeply, but one, near the back of the group, did so more slowly than the others, revealing her face to him.
Henry gasped aloud.
“Elizabeth?” He reeled against a nearby wall. Before him stood a specter from ages past: Elizabeth in her youth. The woman who now stood frozen before him, not knowing what to say or do, was of such a close likeness to his beloved that he could hardly take it in. She had a dark complexion with pale rose cheeks. Her eyes, almond-shaped and large, were as dark as ebony and bespoke an intelligence far beyond what Henry normally saw in the women at his court. Her chin was sharp and well-defined as was Elizabeth’s, and her hair, a rich velvety chestnut, fell to her waist.