by Betty Younis
Henry felt the years roll away as he continued to stare, entranced and amazed at the resemblance between the two women. For a split second, he was back in his youth, running after Elizabeth, hearing her laughter float back to him upon a cool spring breeze. The sensation passed, and after a moment, he approached the group.
“What is your name?” he asked softly.
The woman’s eyes grew even larger and after a brief curtsey, she spoke.
“Anne, your Grace, my name is Anne Boleyn.”
Henry bowed and exited through the great heavy doors. His horse had been readied for him, and a small wooden stool was placed just below the stirrup as an aid to him for mounting. As he wheeled away towards the guards’ gate, he smiled for the first time that day.
*****
Smoke was rising from the chimneys at Coudenoure, and as always, Elizabeth awaited him beneath the doors’ lintel. Yes, he thought as he dismounted, we are both older now. Her face, once unlined and soft as a rose petal, carried her history upon it: deep lines ran from her nose to the corners of her small mouth, and her brow was deeply furrowed. Her hair, once a delight to run one’s fingers through, was now graying with touches of white. She habitually wore it in a tight knot upon the back of her head, drawn away from her face deliberately as if she were proud to let the viewer see her and what the years had wrought. Her style of dress had changed as well. Gone were the pleasing pastels and embroidered flowers which her youthful gowns had displayed. Instead, she dressed simply in garb that marked has as neither lady nor servant, neither girl nor woman. She smiled at him as if she knew and understood what he was thinking.
“Yes,” she laughed with a slightly rueful tone, “We are older, are we not?”
Henry laughed.
“I tell you, Elizabeth, that horse grows taller each day. If I could demand that someone ride him for me, perhaps I would.”
“You are here because of the anniversary?” she asked.
“Aye, I could not let you be alone on such a day. Thomas was a good man, perhaps the best, and we remember him together, my love.”
She nodded and they began to walk towards the old friars’ cemetery near the orchard. So much had changed since that day! Captain Ransdell had never recovered from the stroke he suffered trying to help Agnes and her, and had died only a few months later. Agnes nursed him until the very end, and he was laid to rest beneath the same trees as Thomas. Young Agnes had fallen to the sweating sickness three years earlier, and Constance and Mary were left to carry on without her. In time, Mary had married a young stable hand, and with encouragement from Henry and Elizabeth, his knowledge of horses had grown daily, but in the second year of their marriage he had died from the kick of a mare as she foaled. Mary’s culinary skills now rivaled those of her mother.
Edward, Consuelo’s husband, had come and gone with the tides for many years. But his times away grew longer, and his visits home shorter and shorter until one day they had simply ceased altogether. Consuelo was never certain if she missed him or not, for the change had been slow in coming, and over the years she had adjusted to being on her own. Occasionally she wondered what had happened to him, and sometimes mourned, but she was never certain if her sorrow was for the loss of Edward, or the loss of innocence about the ephemeral nature of some love. Roberto, left long ago in Rome, had never been a man of writing.
“How many we have lost, Henry.” Elizabeth spoke softly.
“But we have each other, and we have Coudenoure, the manor we have built together.”
“Indeed we do,” she said, looking about her.
With Henry’s will and money, and Elizabeth’s passion and daily attendance, Coudenoure had grown from a hulk of an aged monastery to a true manor and home. The wall which had once made Elizabeth feel trapped now gave her a sense of security. The ghostly remains of the original great chapel now provided her with a sense of continuity. Some years earlier she had considered taking them down but Janyns had caused such a ruckus about her plans that she had left them as they had stood for centuries. Soaring, arching windows, skeletal and empty, reached high into the peaceful rural sky. They were elemental and over time, Elizabeth had come to hear and appreciate the rhythm they provided to the paean of the landscape all round, never understanding it but always aware of it.
They stood silently over Thomas’ grave, holding hands and saying prayers. Elizabeth had gathered berried branches and yew as they walked, and she placed them against the marble grave marker. She bent and kissed it and crossed herself before turning, giving Henry time to say his own prayers in peace. After a moment, they walked back indoors and Prudence prepared a lunch for them. Over cards, Henry remembered his morning.
“There is a young woman at court, one of the queen’s ladies, who is the very image of you in your youth.”
Elizabeth smiled and took the trick.
“Indeed! So she is beautiful then.”
They both laughed.
“She is,” Henry replied as he threw down what remained of his hand in disgust. Elizabeth shuffled the deck.
“I have only one thought these days, Elizabeth – I need to know why God has denied me an heir.”
She counted cards for each and as they picked up their hands, she replied.
“I do not know the answer, my sovereign, and I cannot pretend to know the mind of God.”
“Although there are those abroad now who do so,” replied Henry. “I do not care for the pope, but neither do I care for those who would be a law unto themselves, answering only to God.”
They played on. Henry won the hand, and it was Elizabeth’s turn to throw down her cards in feigned unhappiness.
“No more!” she exclaimed and moved to the fire. “Come, play for me while I sew.”
The afternoon sped by as they sat together just as they had done a thousand times before, Henry strumming his lute and Elizabeth intent upon her needlework. Sometimes she painted, as did Henry, but the sense of an old and true love, together with contentment, was always the same. Henry paused in his lute playing and a slight noise could be heard in the library wall. They both smiled.
“All things change, and yet they remain just as they always were,” Elizabeth noted quietly.
Outside, in the main hall, Constance carefully replaced the small piece of mortar she had removed so that she and Mary could overhear Henry’s conversation with Elizabeth.
“Shhh,” Mary said fiercely, “Or they will tumble to our perch.”
Constance and she moved quietly through the hall and back into the kitchen. Prudence ignored them as they picked up fruit from a bowl and tripped lightly back out into the main hall. Only when they were situated on a low stair together did Constance speak.
“‘Tis astounding, is it not?”
Mary nodded in agreement.
“And yet they do not know! They believe us to be as ignorant as the day they first proclaimed it as the truth!”
Constance looked at her friend thoughtfully.
“Do you think they imagine that we never steal into Aunt Elizabeth’s room and peer into the looking glass she brought from Rome? And that the likeness is not unmistakable? And yet…”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“I am the king’s daughter. It must be so. And Elizabeth is my mother, not may aunt. Yet they continue to fob off on one and all this fiction about twins. But why?”
“Because, friend, you were born out of wedlock, and Auntie Elizabeth could not confess to you. And as the daughter of Henry, you must take care that you are not taken from us by those who might wish him ill.”
Constance waved away her friend Mary’s explanations.
“She is my mother, and just once, I would like to call her thus.”
“She loves you more than anything, Constance.”
“As I do her.”
“Do not forget her diligence after the battle, when we were but children.”
Constance sighed. Her long red hair, offset perfectly by her pale, alabaster skin an
d grey blue eyes, fell to her waist. As she had grown older, the resemblance to her father had grown more pronounced, until visitors to Coudenoure, should they have met the king, would stare at her in knowing wonder. Rumors at court abounded, but no one dared speak of the bastard child of Coudenoure openly for fear of retribution from King Henry.
Constance had grown to womanhood as her mother had before her unrestrained by court decorum or family considerations. As a result, her interests were those of a well-read noble, one versed in several languages, familiar with the cultural norms and mores of her status but standing beyond them. Constance had been indulged but not spoiled. She was more than a little artistic, and her painting skills had surpassed those of her mother years earlier. As they sat around the fire in the evenings, old Agnes would regale them all with tales of Malaga and Rome. Talk of the famous artist, Michelangelo, was frequently on her lips with dire warnings about what would happen should they not keep a safe distance from such heathens.
“But Auntie Agnes,” Constance would tease, “How can he be a heathen and yet paint for the Pope at the Vatican?”
Agnes always ignored such comments, only wagging her finger in response.
Henry’s visits to Coudenoure, while not predictable, always played out in the same, comforting fashion. After a walk with Elizabeth, one in which they could speak without worry about the listening post in the library wall, they would take a small meal, play cards and chat in the library. Sometimes it was music, sometimes, one would read to the other, but the routine had fossilized years earlier and neither desired the slightest change.
As always when he left Coudenoure, Henry felt refreshed riding down the long drive late that afternoon. His spirit had been soothed. He rode on to Richmond, and thence to Westminster Palace some days after that.
Elizabeth watched him leave, and went into the great kitchen to see Prudence.
“His Highness has left?” Prudence asked.
“Yes, but I fear he is becoming ever more troubled by his lack of male issue,” Elizabeth replied. “‘Tis ever harder to turn his thoughts to less frustrating fields.”
Prudence nodded and dismissed the scullery maids who had been assisting her. She poured two cups of cider and sat down opposite her friend, looking at her keenly.
“Elizabeth, you are troubled today, and it is not just the anniversary of your father’s death or the king’s visit. You have been quiet for some days.”
Elizabeth sighed.
“I am not sure what ails me,” she replied ruefully, “…for I have everything any woman could ever want.”
She waved her arm and looked about the kitchen.
“My estate is beautiful and well-run, and ‘tis mine. I indulge myself in artistic endeavors and have a beautiful daughter.”
Prudence stayed silent.
“I learn your cooking, I read my books, I stroll my grounds and ride my horses, and yet…”
After a moment, she spoke again.
“Perhaps ‘tis purpose I lack? Constance is now a maid with a mind of her own. She has no need of her aging mother. And while I enjoy my simple days, I long for something, but I know not what.”
Prudence did not even pretend to understand.
“You must be happy as I am,” she began, “…and be not always looking for something beyond what you have. I wonder if the adventures you had as a child did not make it more difficult for you now.”
“No,” Elizabeth stated firmly, “They made me what I am, ‘tis true, but I would not trade them. I believe I must find meaning in my days or I shall continue to be unhappy, for that is what it is becoming.”
“What about the library?” asked Prudence. “Lord Thomas was always saying it should be organized and catalogued. And you have said the same many times. And yet it goes undone.”
“Because ‘tis a huge undertaking,” Elizabeth explained, “One that would necessitate much time.”
She paused and looked thoughtfully at Prudence.
“And then, of course, the gaps in the collections need be noted and acquisition of appropriate manuscripts sought to fill them.”
Prudence smiled as she sensed Elizabeth warming to the task.
“And how to organize them – that is the question. It would be wise to find how others organize theirs, perhaps? It would have made my father so happy, and it honors him. And it came to you on the anniversary of him giving himself for Constance and Coudenoure. Prudence, once again, you have saved me!”
Elizabeth clapped her hands and rose. “That is exactly what I must do!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Early the next morning, she appeared at breakfast with paper, quills, ink and determination. Constance had no interest in being drafted into the effort and Elizabeth began on her own. By noon the library air was heavy with dust and the musty smell usually associated with parchment mites and papyrus rolls. Elizabeth had directed the servants bring in every book, manuscript, codex and scrap of vellum the library had to offer and they lay in great heaps upon the tables. She hardly noticed when Constance tripped through the door and announced Robert Janyns.
Elizabeth turned, blew a strand of hair from her face and sneezed. Janyns, dressed from head to foot in royal blue velvet, including his stockings, scarf and hat, bowed deeply before making an exaggerated examination of the scene which lay before him.
“And was it amusing for you, my lady?” he asked sardonically as he perused the chaos.
Elizabeth, too, paused to take a look at her handiwork.
“Auntie, I believe you have lost your mind.” With that, Constance turned towards the door. “I am going riding!” she offered over her shoulder as she disappeared into the great hall. The heels of her riding boots could be heard clicking lightly across the stone floor and Janyns let out a long sigh.
“Children, Madame, are barely to be tolerated – they are such rude little creatures, do you not agree?”
Elizabeth had to laugh at the petulant tone and eternal truth of her guest’s words. Prudence appeared and as they settled themselves at the end of one of the long tables, Janyns spoke to her.
“Prudence, is that not correct?”
Prudence smiled shyly.
“Our good King Henry tells me constantly that he will bring me some of your divine cakes. Yet every time he comes to Coudenoure and returns to Richmond or Greenwich or London, he says he has forgotten them. I am beginning to believe that the cakes are consumed while en route to their rightful owner. I really should say something.”
Prudence laughed as she replied, “Kind sir, I do on occasion send treats and special foods with the king when he departs, but I would never speak as to what happens to them once they are gone from Coudenoure.”
Janyns sniffed. “Yes, well, you and I need to come to our own arrangement concerning the results of your culinary artistry. Indeed, I believe that those who can turn radishes and nuts, leaves and such into gastronomical delicacies are among our greatest artists!”
He paused.
“After architects, of course.”
He reached for the nearest piece of spice cake, slathered fresh butter on it and listened as Elizabeth explained her purpose in the deconstruction of the library.
“So that is my doing,” she finished and helped herself to another dried fig, “Now tell me what brings you to my small estate, my good Janyns.”
“Ah, sadness, Elizabeth, ‘tis sadness that brings me here.”
Elizabeth waited while he buttered another piece of cake and drained his cup of cider.
“You know that last year, my beloved Bessie passed from this earth.”
Elizabeth stifled a smile.
“I knew her not, but I have heard you speak of her often,” she managed in a somber tone. She declined to speak of the usual contexts (screaming and throwing candlesticks) and the adjectives which accompanied the architect’s mentioning of his beloved Bessie (vexatious, nonsensical, fickle, and her absolute favorites…pretentious and overly sensitive).
“I
am sorry to hear of your loss.”
Janyns nodded sadly.
“Yes, but you see, my sorrows do not end there! I have asked three maids since then to honor me with their hands in marriage, and yet all three have seen fit to deny me such eternal happiness!”
“No!” Elizabeth exclaimed dramatically.
Again Janyns nodded.
“And so I come here seeking solace in the peaceful halls of Coudenoure and the soothing flavors of Prudence’s spice cakes and pickled herrings and …”
His hand paused mid-air and he looked up from the cake tray and into Elizabeth’s inquiring eyes.
“Tell me,” he said artfully as though her answer mattered not one whit to him – he was simply passing the afternoon in idle gossip with an old friend – “…the good lady Prudence, how is her husband these days?”
Elizabeth laughed aloud and Janyns blushed.
“Prudence’s Joshua died some years ago,” Elizabeth explained, “But would you really marry a woman for her spice cake?”
“Madame,” replied Janyns with all the dignity the situation would allow, which was not much, “I am beyond wanting the pleasures of young flesh. I am in need of someone to keep my house and cook for me and warm me at night in my bed.”
“And three maids turned down such a chivalrous offer? ‘Tis hard to understand.”
Janyns smiled ruefully.
“‘Tis true that my blunt approach does not seem to captivate the ladies in the manner I was hoping it would.”
Elizabeth stood.
“Why not stay at Coudenoure for a day or two and give your weary heart respite from its searching for a mate? Help me design a new scheme for the library, one that will enchant Henry and help me maintain it in an orderly fashion.”
“I could do that,” he said slowly as he eyed the room. “Henry and I have spoken often of a new scheme to organize his own libraries. Did you know that some of his collections are still kept in scribes’ desks? Really, ‘tis quite medieval, and Henry is such a forward-thinking king! Our idea, well, mine really, is that rather than piling the books and scrolls willy-nilly as they are now, we will make a showcase for them by having grand shelving cover entire walls. Each shelf would be made of the finest wood and each could hold a separate author’s work, or epoch of thought…you understand. Very Roman.”