Just Flesh and Blood

by Caro, Jane;

  ‘I will submit to your surgeon’s ministrations, my lord bishop.’

  Gingerly, I lowered myself into the seat, but the second I rested my weight upon it fully, the surgeon was upon me, his knee on my chest, his assistants grasping my arms firmly. My shock at this manhandling caused me to gasp and the second my jaws parted his instrument was in my mouth and grasping the tooth. There was a moment of intense pain, a sensation of great pressure, but before I even had the chance to scream, the blackened tooth was in the tight grip of the implement and no longer in my jaw.

  The lords and ladies who were gathered around us broke into spontaneous applause as the surgeon brandished my rotten tooth. I was too shocked and breathless to speak.

  There will be no pain in heaven, of that I am sure. I wish I could say the same of hell.

  My brain is becoming addled. I am not sure anymore of what is real and what is not. Maybe I was dreaming, for it seems to me I was talking to Bishop Aylmer but moments ago and he has been dead almost ten years.

  I hold my hand close to my nose and peer at it. The skin that covers the loose flesh is wrinkled and transparent. Brown spots discolour it and blue veins stand out from the flesh. Yet I am not so far gone that I do not know it as my own hand.

  But something is missing. I twist and turn the hand as if by doing so I can somehow discover what it is I lack. One of those who watch from the corner of the chamber sees the gesture. ‘The queen is signalling something.’

  It is a woman’s voice, young and clear like a bell. Suddenly she is close to me, bending down. ‘What do you require, Your Majesty? What can I fetch for you?’

  I cannot find any reason to answer her, so I do not. Instead I close my eyes. I do not require anything now except the one thing I cannot think of. It strikes me that she may know what it is I have lost, so I take my finger out of my mouth again and speak. My voice is dry and croaky from being so long unused, but it remains distinct. ‘Something is missing.’

  ‘What is missing, Your Grace? What is it that you lack? I will fetch it for you immediately.’

  But I can tell by her answer that she does not know what I seek and I turn my face away from her. I hear her ask others in the room for help.

  ‘The queen is missing something, but she cannot tell me what.’

  ‘Shall we give her water? It is a long time since she took any.’

  And water is fetched and they hold my head and I sip a little from the beaker. The taste and feel of the cool liquid are good, but water is not what I seek.

  And then, quite suddenly, perhaps the drink has refreshed my brain, I know once more what it is that is missing and I know how it is that I came to lose it. My coronation ring is no longer upon my finger. I am missing its familiar feel and weight.

  ‘It is either lose the ring, Your Grace, or lose the finger.’

  Now as I study the naked finger, which looks so frail and unprotected without its armour, I think it might have been better to lose the flesh than the jewel. ‘But how will you get it off, Master Surgeon? The skin has grown around the gold. It has become a part of me in literal truth.’

  ‘I will be gentle and will saw it through at its thinnest part with a fine rasp, but I cannot promise that there will be no pain at all.’

  And I was frightened, not so much of the pain but because it seemed to me that to lose my coronation ring was but a precursor to losing my crown and that in a year full of losses, this loss was the greatest of all.

  ‘You will be like the dental surgeon and perform your deed quickly?’

  ‘For in truth, my finger used to hurt quite badly but now it is worse, because I can feel little at all above the ring.’

  ‘Aye and that is why we must have it off, for otherwise gangrene could set in and you could lose much more than your finger.’

  His warning echoed that of my apothecary. Silently thanking Bishop Aylmer for his example so many years before, I closed my eyes and thrust my poor swollen hand towards the surgeon. ‘Have you the implement now upon you?’

  ‘I do indeed, Your Grace.’

  ‘Do your worst then, but as you value your queen, do it quickly.’

  And then there was a grip of iron about my wrist and a terrible thrill of pain as something sharp pierced the swollen flesh above the ring. I drew in my breath and tried to pull away, but the grip on my wrist did not move.

  ‘Only a moment or two longer, Your Majesty, and the job will be done.’

  The man’s face was close to mine and I could feel his hot breath on my cheek. It smelled faintly of onions.

  Then the horrible, hot rasping began and with it a sense of damp skin tearing. I squealed a little at the shock of it and wondered how long I could bear the torture, when suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, I felt the pop of the gold as it broke away and I opened my eyes. The iron grip on my wrist relaxed and I stared at the now broken ring still embedded in my finger.

  ‘There, Your Grace, the deed is almost done.’

  Then I watched, fascinated, as the surgeon carefully and gently pulled the gold band out from my flesh. It hurt a little, but I steeled myself to bear it without complaint. When finally my finger was liberated and soothing unguents were gently rubbed upon the skin to aid in the healing, I felt nothing but relief. It was not until later when I was alone in my chamber that a great dark weight fell upon me.

  I remember I put my hand up before my face, rather as I am doing now, and stared at the place where the ring had been.

  ‘So this is how it begins.’

  I am in my bed and I do not know how I came to be here. I can hear lamentations from my ladies who cluster about me and Archbishop Whitgift is praying for my soul. I hope he is praying hard.

  It is an odd thing to die and yet it is so ordinary. Every man must die, aye, and every woman too, even every queen. I am in no pain. In fact, my body feels already lost to me although my ears and my other senses register the movements of the living around me, so I cannot yet be quite dead. The living smell, I suddenly realise. They have a meaty, oily stench that comes off them in waves. The dead smell too, of course, but only in their grave if they are buried quick enough. My father’s poor corpse lay in state for so long, as his ministers squabbled about who would control the boy who was to inherit the throne, that it swelled and burst, emitting a stench so foul they buried him in a lead-lined coffin. I hope they bury me quickly enough that only the worms shall be offended.

  I am in my bed and in my night clothes. I am not so removed from my disintegrating flesh that I am unaware of my corsets having gone from me. I will never wear them again. I am sure they do not insist on whalebone in heaven. I hope I spend eternity in my night shift as it is the most comfortable garment I ever wore in life and I yearn so now for comfort and for peace. Angels are always depicted in loose white gowns and maybe that is because so many of us die in our beds. They bury us in our finest garments, of course, and bind up our jaws with bandages. They will put coins on my eyes too, so I can pay the ferry man on the River Styx – even though that is a pagan superstition and one that is no longer meant to be believed.

  But as they lower my corpse into its resting place, now that all my struggles are at an end, what have I achieved? How will I be remembered? Will posterity treat me kindly or …?

  My father’s memory has been treated kindly. He presided over great changes in England. He was a colossus, he changed the very God we worshipped, such was his power on earth. To this day he is remembered fondly by the ordinary folk of England as Bluff King Hal. There are few left who actually experienced his rule but his legacy remains a proud one. Truth be told, his legacy is probably more golden now than it ever was when he was alive.

  Would he have been proud of me, I wonder? The daughter whose birth felt like a direct slap from God? The girl he could not bear to look upon for so many of my earliest years? The child he neglected, discounted and mostly ignored
? When he was alive I longed for his approval. Now that I am dying, I find I long for it still. The few times he showed his pleasure at something I had done or said I store in my memory like golden talismans. I take them out every now and again and polish them, turn them this way and that so I can glory in his momentary pride.

  Madame Isabeau, he sometimes called me, a name no one else ever used. Whenever he said that name I knew I was in high favour. The first time was when my sister Mary and I gave him a book we had created together. I had written the translation inside and Mary had embroidered the cover. The second was when I presented another book to my last and most beloved stepmother, Queen Catherine Parr. This one I had worked entirely myself. I was eleven years old.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ I held the book behind my back as I curtsied to the queen. She was reading by the window, her dark auburn hair scraped back off her face. Her headdress was black, bordered by small white pearls. Her dress was black also, embroidered in silver and pearls. She almost always wore sombre colours – she was a widow as well as a wife – but with such style and grace that she made the other ladies look gaudy. I admired Catherine Parr. It was all I wanted in the world to grow up to be just like her.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth! How delightful. I am in need of some company and I can think of no one’s I would enjoy more than yours.’ She had such a talent for making people feel welcome and at ease. No doubt it is what my father liked about her also.

  ‘I have made you something, Your Grace.’ I felt almost shy about my little offering. I had laboured over my New Year’s gift for months because I wanted it to be perfect. The translation was challenging enough, but the embroidery on the cover had almost defeated me. I’d had to unpick my stitches over and over to make them even and straight. It was why my sister had embroidered the cover of my father’s similar gift a few years earlier. But this time, for Queen Catherine, I wanted to do it all myself.

  ‘Have you? How lovely!’

  I held it out to her. ‘It is a translation of Margaret of Navarre’s poem “The Mirror of the Sinful Soul”.’ I blurted the words out in a rush. I was so desperate for her to like my gift.

  She took the book in her hands and turned it over silently. Then she opened a page at random and read the words I had written there. I stood, arms again behind my back, chewing on my lip. I was in an agony of suspense.

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth …’

  She spoke – finally – after what seemed like an age. ‘This is … this is … magnificent!’

  And then she got up and hugged and kissed me most heartily. I loved it when she did so. Almost no one ever held me anymore and I was still quite a little girl.

  ‘You translated all this by yourself? And embroidered this beautiful cover?’

  I nodded, too overcome to speak.

  ‘I am always telling your father what a remarkable girl you are and now I realise that I did not understand the half of it. Here, let us go to the king and show him what you have done. He will be so proud of you.’

  As we walked along the corridor of Richmond Palace (the palace where I lie now, on my deathbed) the queen held my hand.

  (It strikes me now how rarely in my life I have experienced affectionate touch. I can probably count the number of times I was hugged or held on less than ten fingers. How I wish someone would hold my hand now.)

  She leant down towards me, so that no one but we two could hear. ‘How did you know the poem is one of my favourites?’

  ‘I heard you say so when you were discussing poetry with Lady Suffolk.’

  ‘Your mother knew Margaret of Navarre well, from her days at the Royal Court in France. Did you know that, Lady Elizabeth?’

  I shook my head, but I was lying, which is why I dared not speak. Blanche Parry, who had known my mother better than almost anyone, told me many tales of my mother’s time in France and I knew well that she had been friendly with all the royal children of King Henri’s court, including Princess Margaret. As Catherine Parr had perhaps guessed I had chosen the poem for two reasons. Because I knew my stepmother liked it, but also because I knew the author had known my mother.

  ‘I do not know much about their relationship first-hand, but they must have known one another. The French court is not so much larger than the English one and here everyone knows everyone.’

  ‘Aye, and their business.’

  ‘You are sharp, little Elizabeth. Not much escapes your notice.’

  I was an ignored and neglected princess. It was easy for a little girl to slip unnoticed behind a curtain or secrete herself in a window seat. If I was in a room and others of the court entered, I often tried to keep my presence unknown. I knew I made the courtiers uncomfortable. They were not sure whether to treat me as my father’s daughter, or my mother’s. It was better for everyone if I remained hidden. By making myself unobtrusive I heard many things. Perhaps it was in those years that I learnt what really goes on behind a monarch’s back.

  We had arrived at the king’s apartments. The queen asked his factotum to announce our arrival and then we waited for a few moments.

  I was always nervous before an audience with my father. I hoped for so much but usually received so little. I could see the queen had no such qualms. It was in the early days of their marriage and she was riding high in his favour.

  We were ushered into the king’s presence.

  My father sat in front of a great casement window in the chair with wheels that he now favoured. There was a stench in the room, only weakly ameliorated by the incense that burned in every available vessel and the scented candles that lit the room more effectively than the wintry sun. The stench followed my father everywhere. It was the smell of the rotting flesh in the wound on his leg that would never heal. One of the reasons he was so pleased with his new queen was that she was deft and gentle at dressing the weeping sore and soothing it with herbs and unguents.

  Like all who entered, I knew better than to react to the smell, but it took a few moments to grow accustomed to it. I curtsied low and let the queen approach my father while I hung back. The king acknowledged his wife, but it was as if I were made of thin air.

  ‘What ho, my darling? What brings you to my pain-wracked rooms?’ The king was pleased to see the queen, but he was also pouting like a sullen schoolboy. He needed her to know how sore his leg was. It rested on a footstool in front of him.

  ‘Is your poor leg troubling you very much today, Your Majesty? I am so sorry. Here let me change the dressing.’ And she took a few steps forward, but he stopped her.

  ‘There is no need. The surgeon has just this moment left, having performed the task and – while he does not do it nearly so gently and deftly as you do, sweeting – I could not bear to go through it again so soon.’

  ‘Of course not, my dearest lord. It is foolish to submit to unnecessary pain. But I have brought you something that might distract you from your leg a little.’

  ‘Good. All distractions are welcome.’

  Now I felt deeply frightened. What if the king did not like my little book? What if it failed to distract him? I would rather the queen had played down my offering.

  ‘It is a book, an ingenious little book, a gift to me from your remarkable daughter the Lady Elizabeth.’ She was holding it out to him, but he did not take it. Instead he looked around her as if he had only just noticed my presence.

  ‘The Lady Elizabeth? Yes, I wondered what she was doing here. Come here, child! I will not bite you!’

  He might not bite, but he certainly barked. The loudness of his voice made me jump.

  ‘What are you squirming for? I cannot abide a child who will not keep still.’

  ‘She is nervous, Your Majesty, because she so much wants you to like her book.’

  Queen Catherine held out both arms to me, encouraging me to walk forward, which I did, my heart hammering in my chest so hard I felt sure all in the room could hear it.<
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  Now my father took the book in his hands. He was enormously overweight by this time, his facial features shrunken in a face and neck of quite extraordinary proportions. It took two strong men to push him about the palace in his chair.

  The king’s fingers were plump and each one carried a large and priceless ring. This made him clumsy and awkward. He turned the book over the better to examine its cover. ‘Did you embroider this, Elizabeth? Or did you get one of your attendants to do it for you?’

  ‘I did it myself, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Hmmm. It is nicely done. It is good to see you pursuing more female accomplishments, my girl, at long last.’

  It was often this way when he spoke to me (a rare enough occurrence on its own). Even when he praised me, there was always a sting in the tail.

  ‘The cover is marvellous, but wait until you see what she has done inside.’ And my stepmother stood beside my father and gently helped him turn the vellum pages, reading snippets of my translation to him in her beautiful, soothing voice.

  ‘The child did this all by herself?’ he asked after a time.

  ‘Indeed. Without help of any kind.’

  ‘How old are you now, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I was eleven in September, Your Grace.’

  ‘Eleven? As old as that? We will need to be looking for eligible husbands for you soon.’

  My heart went from hammering to standing still. It was my greatest fear – that they would marry me off to some unknown prince and ship me off to God knows where. I planned to get very, very ill if such a thing was ever threatened.

  ‘This is a remarkable achievement for a child of eleven. I have been telling you that your youngest daughter is a prodigy. She has inherited your talent and your character.’

  ‘Just as well, given who her mother was.’

  Again, the slap in the midst of praise. I ignored it. I had become practised at ignoring snide references to my parentage.