The 7th Wife of Henry the 8th: Royal Sagas: Tudors I

by Betty Younis

  “Dear God, tell me the queen is fine,” she said anxiously.

  “Lady Elizabeth, the queen is fine,” Charles answered glumly, “And so is her daughter.”

  Elizabeth gasped.

  “What? You are mistaken, surely!”

  Agnes looked at her wryly as Charles spoke again.

  “Ask the name of the child, my lady.”

  Elizabeth looked at him not knowing what he wanted.

  “Elizabeth. He has named his daughter Elizabeth.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  March 1, 1536

  Constance had left her hair braided the prior evening to facilitate her plan. Before her maid came to stoke the morning fire, she was up and dressed, quietly peeking out her bedroom door. The tallow candles which kept away the midnight dark in the hall were beginning to sputter and go dark themselves, a sure indication that dawn was well on the way. Turning back, she packed her small easel with her paints, a small clean canvas and her mother’s tiny painting stool. With one last look at the room, she slipped out and tripped lightly down the main stairwell before turning through the kitchen and heading out a side door. The air was chilly, but her woolen cloak and hood protected her against the breeze.

  The night before had been a painful one, and she wished to make it up to her mother. For years, the unspoken secret of her birth had danced around the edges of many conversations at Coudenoure. The reasons for keeping her in the dark had always seemed nonsensical to her, and she and Mary had discussed the situation many times. Was it out of fear of the king? That could not be, since he routinely stopped by Coudenoure and always insisted on speaking to her and asking her after her health. Perhaps, then, it was fear of another attack, like the one which had occurred when she was just a small child? But that could not be the reason either – clearly, her paternity, if not known for certain was suspected by those at court and beyond. Indeed, she had often wondered if the occasional visitor her mother received from King Henry’s court was there to inquire about Coudenoure or her mother, or if they were actually there to catch a glimpse of the child whom, so it was rumored, could be no one else’s but Henry’s.

  But then again, perhaps those were only superficial reasons for keeping the details of her birth safely hidden from the world. Time and again, Mary returned to the fact that Constance had been born out of wedlock, and for the circumstances to be known and bruited about was tantamount to calling Elizabeth the lowest of whores. Remember, Mary always told her, that the plan may not have been to remain so secluded at Coudenoure. Perhaps Elizabeth had been intended to marry or attend court. Her reclusive lifestyle at Coudenoure had not been a choice so much as a gradual accretion of circumstance and fear over and around her until, like a pearl grown from a tiny grain of sand, she had embraced what her life had become.

  The evening before had begun as usual, with Agnes, Elizabeth, Constance and Prudence sewing happily before the fire in the kitchen. Mary was at her own cottage putting her three children to bed. In the years to come, Constance was never certain what made her choose that evening above all others to force the issue. Agnes was railing about the king trying to replace the pope, Elizabeth was telling her he was not, and Prudence was planning the feast she intended to cook for Shrove Sunday. It was no different from any other evening. Perhaps that simple fact, more than any other, was responsible. Constance was frustrated with the lack of answers and the constant wall of silence encountered whenever it seemed the conversation might head in the direction of her birth. That night, she decided she had had enough and she looked up from her hoop.

  “Auntie Elizabeth, you are not my aunt. You are my mother.”

  Three needles stopped mid-air, but no one looked up, and so she pressed on.

  “I know this because I sometimes slip into your bedroom and peer into the looking glass you have there. I can only be the daughter of King Henry, for I am his female counterpart in every way. Consuelo never lay with the king, and young Agnes and I were not sisters. I am your daughter and I need to hear you say it.”

  Elizabeth sighed, realizing that Constance would not be put off. She put her embroidery down and looked at her.

  “Child, ‘tis true. You are my daughter and your father is the king.”

  And just like that, the secrets were at an end. Elizabeth lay a hand on her daughter’s sleeve but Constance was suddenly, inexplicably angry and shook it off.

  “Why, mother? Why did you lie?”

  “Constance, you will not be calling your mother a liar in this house!” Agnes looked up in anger at the young woman. “We all did what we thought was best.”

  “Best for whom, Agnes? ‘Twas not best, ‘twas only convenient.”

  “That is not true,” Elizabeth began, “There are dangers associated with being the king’s child, Constance, and you are not old enough…”

  “I am older than you were when you welcomed him into your bed!”

  A gasp went round the small circle and Constance rose as she threw her embroidery aside.

  “I have spent my life as another’s child, and you seem to believe that is fine. Do you not see what pain you have caused me?”

  She was crying now and could not stop herself.

  “I wish you were not my mother! That is what I wish! Consuelo would never have kept me in the dark if you had not forced her to do so!”

  She ran from the room, leaving her companions open-mouthed and alarmed. Elizabeth rose to follow her but Agnes put a strong hand on her arm forcing her back into her seat.

  “Shhh, no, she will need to be alone for a moment. What she has known for many a year if finally confirmed for her.”

  “But she says she wishes I were not her mother!”

  Prudence finally spoke.

  “She says what she says in anger, Elizabeth, that is all. She has a wonderful life and she knows it, but she is young, and wishes to rebel. Her birth is all she has to rebel against. And so she does. Agnes is right – by morning she will be fine.”

  They continued speaking in low tones until the fire was almost gone, and they made their way together up the stairs. The servants had lit the night tallows, and Elizabeth hesitated outside Constance’s room. Agnes gave her a look and she ignored it, opening Constance’s door quietly. There was no movement and Elizabeth moved to the bed, listening to the quiet breathing of her child. She pulled and adjusted the covers around her, and smoothed her cheek before leaving as quietly as she had come. Constance waited until she was gone to turn over and stare at the ceiling.

  She knew she had no right to accuse her mother, and that in every way she had wronged her by shouting at her and screaming such frightful things at her. And so she decided to make it up to her by giving her a painting. When Elizabeth was younger, she would take Constance to the ridge which separated Greenwich Palace from Coudenoure. It was her favorite place to paint and provided a commanding view of the estate. But years earlier the older woman had ceased making the journey, for her knees would no longer accept the climbing. She frequently expressed remorse that she had never captured a morning’s frost upon the great landscape, and Constance determined that she would give her just that to express remorse over her outbreak.

  The morning was clear and cold, and a white lacy frost covered the ground. Constance loved this walk, for it changed with each season. In the winter, the naked forms of nature were evident all around her. The trees stood naked with their great arching branches; wild roses exposed their brambled interiors while wheat grass and the decaying forms of echinacea and lavender covered the ground with soft and gentle cloak of brown. But spring would arrive shortly, and hazy color would begin to float upon the meadow. The trees would become clouds of lime green and crocuses would appear from nowhere. The brilliant colors of spring were slowly replaced by the mature greens and soft colors of summer, which in turn gave way to the breezy softness of autumn reds and yellows. Yes, each season different in its turn.

  She had studied her mother’s own work painted upon the ridge and knew
the perspective and the place from which she loved to paint. She soon settled down and opening her small travelling palette, she began to paint. Many hours later, she was startled to hear hooves upon the ridge. Turning, she saw a solitary figure on a horse which hesitated and slowly picked its way across the rising ground behind her. But no sooner had she turned than the horse was pulled up short, and the figure on its back sat perfectly still, gazing at her intently. After some moments, spurs were put to its flanks, and it was not until the animal was almost upon her that Constance realized the heavily cloaked rider was a woman. She dismounted and threw back her hood.

  “Tell me, young woman, do you always paint upon the King’s land?”

  Constance smiled unsteadily, wondering to whom she spoke.

  “Oh, ‘tis not the king’s estate, my lady, but my own. It is called Coudenoure, and its boundary with Greenwich is at the base of this hill.”

  Constance nodded to indicate the property line. As she did so the hood fell from away from her face. The woman looked at her sharply before a jagged whisper escaped her lips.

  “So the rumor is true.”

  Constance said nothing, but began to feel uneasy.

  “Coudenoure.” She spit the word out. “And tell me, what is thy name?”

  “I am Lady Constance de Gray.”

  “A lady? Dressed like that?” The woman laughed and Constance’s uneasiness became tinged with intense dislike. Over the years, her mother and Agnes had told her of tales of the royal court, where some women judged others of their sex based upon the fineness of their clothing. Coudenoure was utterly lacking in such ways, and Constance was quick to come to its defense.

  “Aye, indeed, my lady, I am. This is my painting frock, and I am sure you will agree that keeping one’s hair braided and up is the best way to avoid getting paint in it. ‘Tis a shabby look, but I assure you, ‘tis very workable.” She paused deliberately before adding, “But I do confess that my usual garb is not much finer. At Coudenoure, we do not set store by such things. Do you not agree ‘tis the best way?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and Constance continued.

  “Your dress is fine indeed, my lady, and I would wager that you ride forth from Court, at Greenwich?”

  The woman laughed.

  “Is that what you would guess, eh?”

  “Indeed,” was Constance’s only response. It did not please the woman, which in turn pleased Constance.

  “Tell me, what is thy mother’s name?”

  With the certainty that the previous evening’s conversation had brought her, she said it proudly and simply.

  “Elizabeth. My mother is the Lady Elizabeth.”

  A hissing sound came from the stranger and Constance almost backed away.

  “And tell me, thy father? Who is thy father, child?”

  Constance panicked for a moment, realizing suddenly why her mother had kept her secret for so many years. If she were to tell the truth, there would be trouble, of that she was certain. So she stood straight, looked the stranger squarely in the face, and lied.

  “Thomas, my lady. My father is Thomas of Coudenoure.”

  The woman continued to stare at her in silence. Finally, she remounted her steed and without a word, turned and trotted away. Constance was not certain of her feelings. She had certainly acquitted herself well for Coudenoure and felt a deep satisfaction and pride for having done so, but at the same time, she was deeply suspicious of what had just occurred. What was a woman doing riding out alone on the king’s property? Who was she? Some errant maid accidentally separated from her party? That was the most likely explanation, and yet the woman did not conduct herself as a maid. She was shrill, demanding and seemed shocked by Constance’s lack of awe. Whatever the truth, Constance knew it deserved to be reported quickly back to the manor.

  She waited until the sound of the hooves had died away and the figure had disappeared back down the hillside. Quickly, she packed up and took the more direct, but difficult, path back to Coudenoure. She was covered in dirt and brambles by the time she ran up the drive and threw open the door, calling for her mother.

  “Elizabeth! Mother!”

  Agnes stomped heavily from the library while Prudence and Elizabeth ran from the kitchen.

  “What is it, Constance?”

  “A woman on a fine steed and beautifully dressed was on the ridge just now. I was already there painting, and she questioned me closely but I stood my ground.” Despite her brave words she was trembling.

  Elizabeth hugged her tightly.

  “‘Tis nothing, Constance, just a woman from Greenwich Palace, likely. Come sit, and tell us the conversation.”

  Constance did as she was told, and an ominous cloud seemed to descend upon the foursome as she spoke. When she had finished, Elizabeth asked, “What did this woman look like? ‘Tis possible we know her?”

  “That is the strangest thing of all, mother.”

  “Why?” asked Prudence.

  Constance looked at Elizabeth.

  “She looked just like you, mother. Just like you.”

  Agnes left the others to pick apart the conversation. She made her way to the back of the manor to the stable, and rapped sharply on the door with her cane. A sleepy stable boy appeared.

  “You, wake up! ‘Tis true that Lord Brandon keeps you informed of his whereabouts?”

  “Why, my lady, you know ‘tis true.”

  Agnes shook her head.

  “‘Tis a manner of speech, boy. Now tell me, where is the lord?”

  The dark haired young man rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

  “I think he is at Westhorpe Hall, ma’am, for I believe he intends to ride to London shortly and then on to Greenwich to hunt with the king.”

  “So you know not where he is?” Agnes snorted and thought for a moment.

  He shook his head.

  “You must find him. Begin at Westminster in London, and if his lordship is not present, then return south to Greenwich and wait for him there. Do you understand?”

  The lad nodded.

  “I need you to ride the fastest horse in the stable…” she used her cane to point at a huge, black destrier in the first stall.

  He shook his head vehemently.

  “I cannot ride that horse for it is the king’s mount as you know well.”

  Agnes whacked him on the leg with her cane.

  “Do as I say, you nit, and when you find him, tell him I must see him at once on the most urgent business.”

  “If he is not at leisure, to whom do I give this news?”

  “No one.” Agnes put her face very close to his. “And if you dare tell anyone else where you are from or why you ride so hard to see lord Brandon, I shall make sure the king knows you took his horse.”

  “Wait…” he began puzzling it out.

  “Just GO!” screamed Agnes.

  Within five minutes he was on his way.

  Agnes turned back towards the manor trying to ascertain its defensibility. Constance’s recounting of her conversation on the ridge, and her description of the woman to whom she spoke, left no doubt in Agnes’ mind that Queen Anne was now aware of Coudenoure. For reasons which she could not fathom, she felt threatened. She did not attempt to parse the deeper wells of her flawless intuition, but reacted in a practical manner. If a threat were abroad, then Coudenoure, and its hidden treasure, must be defended. But how? She realized that no one at Coudenoure knew how to reach out to King Henry. He appeared when he appeared and left when he left. There was never any rhyme nor reason, and over the years his visits had become routine and yet remained unpredictable. Never could Agnes remember a time when anyone from the estate had actually gone to court to seek him out.

  Only Charles Brandon had recognized the situation and only he understood the intricacies of both the King’s relationship to Coudenoure and to the court. After the last attempt to take Constance and use her with malicious intent against Henry, Charles had quietly begun keeping Agnes informed of his
own whereabouts, knowing full well that as a nobleman but not the king, he would be infinitely easier to approach successfully in time of need. So many layers of yeomen, guards, courtiers, walls, palaces and supplicants surrounded Henry that it would be almost impossible for anyone to navigate them all, particularly if time were critical.

  Agnes wondered how long Coudenoure would be vulnerable to the Queen’s whims: how long before Charles and the King realized they were desperately needed at Coudenoure? Should Queen Anne be successful in whatever scheme she might devise, their only hope lay with the king’s protection. The manor was staffed adequately for their needs, but it was a tiny operation. She listened to distant sounds of the old smithy’s hammer upon some piece of farm equipment. O’Connor was a good man, but aged like herself. Beyond that, she heard the shouts of the miller at the small wheel which produced flour from the grain of their own fields. The stable bustled with men, but many of them were very young, and their skills beyond their immediate jobs unknown and untested. They had no one upon whom to rely in a trice. But it had always been thus.

  She spat as she intoned the queen’s name and went back inside.

  Chapter Forty

  Anne threw herself off her mount and hurried past the bowing and curtseying courtiers and ladies. She ran lightly up the stairs and down a long hallway at the end of which lay her own quarters. Musicians strummed quietly in the large room while several of her ladies practiced their dance steps.

  “Where is the King?” she demanded of no one and everyone.

  “My Queen, he is inspecting his new fortifications on the coast, and I believe afterwards he will ride here to Greenwich for hunting. We have been worried about you, for we knew not why you went alone into the woods.”

  “I am the Queen, am I not? I ride as I please?”

  She did not say that rumors of the king’s latest dalliance, coupled with her recent miscarriage, had caused her to seek peace in the solitude of a quiet ride through the forest, to find a place where her nerves were not constantly jangled by considerations of the court. She needed to lay out a plan to secure her own future and that of her child and she had always been one to think when riding in solitude. This time, however, her plan was thwarted and her anxiety was evident to everyone in the room. The king kept a long-time mistress and her bastard daughter at a neighboring estate. This could only be because he placed them higher than her own daughter. It could not stand.