by Betty Younis
And Coudenoure. She hardly knew what to think of the place with its ancient walls and ruins. An estate, albeit a small one, full of old women who talked serenely to the dead, who limped around alone in a library God himself must envy, who treated their servants as friends and who had no recognition of her or the times they lived in – what manner of place was that, she wondered? The house and its inhabitants seemed barely tethered to the earth, much less to her own life and reign. It was as if she had stumbled across a schism in time that allowed her to leave her own troubles in the here and now and float away into a past filled with her father and those he loved. People who did not fear or envy him, or covet his favor, but who simply loved him as he was. They knew nothing of Dudley and her trials and she was certain that had they known, they could not have cared less. Good Lord, she thought savagely, I understand why my father hid the place away from the world and those who might destroy it, and I have only been queen for a year. How much more so must he have guarded such a refuge as the years upon the throne took their toll?
Dudley had sent frantic messages to her all evening, and she had resolutely ignored them. Their situation had moved from intoxicatingly and romantically dangerous and amusing to something far more serious – something that could have consequences beyond her control were she not careful. She suspected that Coudenoure might provide a tiny sliver of relief from the strains of court. And that tiny ray of sunlit distraction, divorced from anything that might be considered relevant or that might haunt her, could prove to be a dose of tonic against the stress and anxiety she felt otherwise. As she had galloped away down the long, straight drive the previous day, she had found herself energized by the place’s dream-like quality, and felt herself now better able to deal anew with her real-life problems. Somehow that moment of respite in such an utterly simplistic and quiet place had given her enough reserves to continue on. But the rest of the story was that of her father. She could not go back in time, but there was no need for that since Coudenoure seemed to bridge the two worlds of past and present. Between knowledge of her father and respite from her growing concerns, the place and its proximity was a most welcome discovery. She had decided on impulse to ride out that morning and revisit it. Perhaps the strain of the past few days had imbued it with more charm and grace than it actually possessed. Another trip would tell the tale.
She left the guards at the end of the drive and once again rode the great drive alone. No one appeared to meet her or assist her dismount and she smiled to herself as she pulled the rope attached to the ancient bell on the door jamb. What a place, she thought. Who are these people. After the second clanging ring, a loud racket could be heard on the other side of the door. It took a moment for Elizabeth to realize it was a voice.
“Settle down, do you here? You will wake the dead. Aye, you will if you ring that infernal bell again.”
It was the old woman from the cemetery, Agnes. She looked at Elizabeth suspiciously as she wagged her cane.
“I know you, young lassie – you were here yesterday. Or the day before.” She paused. “Was it last week?” Elizabeth moved to answer but was met by more cane waving.
“It was definitely of recent times, so what matter.” Agnes satisfied herself with that answer and moved to let Elizabeth enter.
“Old ma’am, you are right – I visited with you…” Elizabeth hesitated and then decided to be bold, “…and Thomas and Elizabeth yesterday, remember? You sent me here to talk with Constance.”
Agnes smiled.
“Oh, aye, I remember now. You were confused about your own name.” She reached out and gave Elizabeth a reassuring pat on her arm while winking at her. “No mind, no mind. We all have our moments, do we not? Now, we will go have breakfast with Constance and Prudence, but dear, try and remember that Elizabeth is dead for otherwise you will be thought a nit.” She pointed to her own head with a knowing look and nod.
Elizabeth had never been referred to as a nit, but Agnes continued on oblivious to her guest’s surprise.
“Yes, yes, let us go to the library. Come.”
Elizabeth stepped into the cool interior and was once again escorted into the great room which ran parallel to the hall. Constance, the servant Prudence and a young woman were seated before the fire – a table was drawn close to it for warmth. Elizabeth spoke before Constance could say anything.
“I am Colleen, from Greenwich Palace. I was here yesterday.”
“Well done, dear, well done,” Agnes whispered in her ear.
Constance smiled at the deceit.
“Please join us, Colleen.”
The young woman rose and pulled two chairs to the table for Elizabeth and Agnes. Elizabeth studied her carefully for she had not seen her on her previous visit to Coudenoure. She was tall with deep set gray eyes. Her hair was an uncontrollable riot of rich, black curls which escaped the netting set in place to give it shape and form. Instead, it flowed around her like a halo and framed her face enchantingly. She was not beautiful, but she was arresting and very interesting.
Constance saw Elizabeth studying the girl and spoke quickly.
“This is my daughter, Bess.”
“Ah,” thought Elizabeth, “That was the look which crossed her face yesterday. The shoe drops – she has a child and was concerned about me knowing.”
Bess offered a plate of fruit to Elizabeth, smiling and chatting with Prudence the entire time.
“No, you do not understand. Marble has veins which the sculptor ignores at his own peril, for if you work against the stone it will shatter.”
“Child, why not paint? ’Tis much easier and cheaper.”
“Dear Prudence, an artist does not choose her medium, it chooses her. Now, I must go to the studio and plan – you know I have a new piece of stone coming sometime in the next three months. My father said he would send it.”
Before she could leave, the door opened and Quinn appeared. He looked around the room and almost fainted. It was his worst nightmare – a room full of women and nary a man with whom he could stand. He wanted to impress his beloved, and so with what he hoped was a courtly, gallant smile, he bowed deeply. It was a grand gesture. Had it not been for his cap falling off, it would have been grander still. As he picked it up Bess moved to his side.
“Lady Colleen, this is Master Quinn Janyns, from Tyche, the estate which bounds Coudenoure’s far side. He is a fine architect.”
Elizabeth said nothing, studying the boy and his dress. He was tall and athletically built, with dark curls and ebony eyes. His dress was that of a dandy and the simple linen frocks worn by the women in the room made him stand out like a peacock. An awkward silence set in as she continued to stare at him in an imperial manner and he continued to shuffle on his feet.
Bess broke the spell by kissing her mother, grabbing a plum scone and moving towards the door. Quinn followed obediently and gratefully.
Agnes looked at the two of them with sharp, knowing eyes and believing them out of earshot, spoke authoritatively.
“That young woman will never find a husband if she continues being so bossy and that young man continues following her about.”
Constance patted her hand.
“She says she will not marry, that her work is her calling.”
Bess was grateful that Quinn was too wrapped within himself to have heard the remark. She had not informed them of her contract with Quinn. It was a small deceit, and a necessary one, she assured herself, for they would surely say she was too young to know her own heart much less pledge it in marriage. She pulled the library door behind them.
Before Agnes could wave her cane and commence pontificating on young women and manners, Constance spoke.
“You must forgive my daughter. She was raised in the studio of her father and thinks of nothing but art day and night.”
“’Tis not that simple.” Prudence laughed. “She thinks and speaks of it in five different languages.”
“So she is gifted with language abilities, is she?”
> “Indeed,” Constance chimed in, “They seem to run in our family. And you, Colleen, you have the gift of speaking in foreign tongues?”
Elizabeth smiled with pride.
“I believe I may match her in those abilities, for they run in my family as well.” The double entendre was not lost upon Constance.
The breakfast was finished and Agnes and Prudence left them alone before the fire. The two women sat in a comfortable silence for some time taking each other’s measure and considering their unique situation.
Finally, Constance spoke.
“Majesty…,” she began, but Elizabeth cut her off by gently patting her hand. She looked her sister in the eye and a small chuckle escaped her lips.
“Call me Colleen.”
Constance laughed as Elizabeth continued in a more serious vein.
“’Tis a simple matter,” she stated matter-of-factly. “If you, or your daughter betray me, there will be consequences.”
“How would we betray you?” Constance asked incredulously. “Surely you must realize that Coudenoure stands with you, and if you are worried about my daughter – “
“Yes,” Elizabeth interjected bluntly, “I am. For she could be a menace to the stability of my kingdom if her heritage became known.”
“Majesty…”
“Colleen.”
“Yes, well, Colleen, the only person outside of you and me living who knows my heritage is Agnes, and I believe we can both agree that knowledge is safe with her. And as for me, if I wished to be connected to the court or the throne I would have made that clear years ago. Surely you must see that.”
“Indeed.”
“And as for my daughter, she believes her father is Roberto Ransdell, an English artist who lives in Rome, and that one of her grandfathers was a tradesman and that the other died at sea.”
Elizabeth noticed the careful phrasing used by Constance.
“You say she believes – ’tis true?”
“Well, mostly.”
“A convenient answer.”
“’Tis long and complicated, Colleen, and to understand your father you must understand his circumstance here at Coudenoure.”
Elizabeth leaned back in the chair and waited. Constance suddenly shouted for Prudence and as she appeared in the library door, called out to her.
“Prudence, my friend, would you bring me the lockbox from my bedroom? I have need of it.”
Prudence disappeared and again the two women sat in silence before the fire. Prudence returned shortly with a smallish box which sported a significant lock. She bowed and left the room, pulling the door behind her.
Elizabeth watched as Constance fished for a necklace from under her over blouse. At the end of a long, gold chain were two objects: a key and a gold cross set with rubies. Constance pulled the box closer and leaned towards it at the same time. The key fit neatly in the lock and as she carefully opened its lid, she finally spoke.
“If we are to start, we shall begin at the beginning. This is the first item I own which indicates the love and collaboration between our father and my mother. ’Tis the document which set the renovation of Coudenoure in motion. It was drawn up when my mother, and our father, were young.” She paused as she continued fidgeting with the lockbox. “Young indeed.”
“There are others, here, but we shall begin with this.”
Elizabeth gasped.
“You have documents? In our father’s hand?”
“Yes. Some letters, some songs and poems. Some schemes in which they conspired together for projects at Coudenoure. There is a rather large piece of paper, drawn in my mother’s hand, which served as the plan for the original renovations of the estate’s grounds. Yes, this is what I was looking for. “
She began unfolding the page as she spoke.
“And here, see this? That is your father’s annotation.”
Elizabeth clasped the paper and read slowly.
“Bucephalus?” she asked curiously. “Alexander’s horse? I do not understand.”
Constance pointed at the page.
“Ah, read this.”
Elizabeth read as instructed.
“For Elizabeth and our chipmunk Bucephalus.”
She looked at Constance.
“Apparently, when they were quite young, your father and my mother Elizabeth would sit under yonder tree.” She leaned and waved her cane in the direction of the window. Elizabeth moved quickly to the window and saw an ancient elm on the far hillside beyond the perimeter wall. Constance went on.
“They called it Bucephalus, for Henry declared that such a small inconsequential creature should at least possess a grand name. They trained it to eat from their hands and apparently referred to it humorously as their first born.”
Elizabeth laughed and read her father’s note again – it was light and playful, a million miles from the world that awaited him as king. It pleased her to touch it and run her fingers gently over its surface. Her father had written it so long ago. She glanced at Constance and saw that she, too, was being drawn back into the past. There were tears on her cheeks, but whether of fond memories or sorrow Elizabeth could not tell. She folded the paper and returned it to Constance.
“You know, this place, this room, ’tis very peaceful.”
“Yes,” Constance agreed, “I believe they planned it that way. They would sit here, where you and I sit now, for hours upon hours, chatting, writing and dreaming. Sometimes Henry would compose upon his lute while mother tended to her needlepoint.”
Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes. The warmth from the fire smelt of burning wood and ash, while the light from the window etched patterns across the floor and bookshelves. Their chairs were deep and soft, and without realizing it, she dozed off. When she woke, someone had placed an old shawl across her lap for warmth.
She awoke not with a jolt, but with a strong sense of relaxation and refreshment. She sat up and looked about. Constance was tatting quietly exactly where she had been before.
“How long was I asleep?” Elizabeth asked.
“’Tis almost noon, Majesty. Shall I ask Prudence to prepare a meal?”
Elizabeth shook her head and stood.
“No, no, I must get back – I will be missed otherwise.”
She smiled at Constance.
“I shall be back when my schedule allows.” she stated, “And we have much to talk about, and not just our father. I am curious about your daughter, Bess – you must tell me about her, and how you came to be lame.”
Constance smiled in return as Elizabeth swept from the room. She listened to the horse galloping down the drive and wondered what would come of the sudden connection between Coudenoure and the new queen.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth de Grey was named after her grandmother, but she had never been called Elizabeth, only Bess. She was tall, as was her mother, but not lithe. Strongly built like a Grecian goddess from long ago, and with warm honey-colored skin, she had presence. Intelligence shone forth from her ocean gray eyes like those of her mother, and passion radiated from her like light from a flame. She was not a fussy woman, nor was she overly feminine, but a woman’s grace permeated her every move.
Constance had worried about telling her daughter of their impending move back to Coudenoure. After all, Bess had been raised in Rome, in an open, artistic manner, one which had allowed her great freedoms. From an early age she had spent her days first in this studio, now that one, absorbing the lessons and language of art. Her world was one of color and form, not of protocol and ritual. Roberto, her presumed father, had once told her of her grandmother Elizabeth’s predilection for dressing as a boy in order to travel the streets and galleries of Rome unimpeded by the rules which governed the behavior of the female sex. Bess had immediately fallen in love with the idea and not soon after could be seen in the market place or the Vatican or on the wharves of Ostia also dressed as a young man of the Roman middle class. Constance had finally tumbled to how her daughter was spending her d
ays when she showed up at Roberto’s studio unexpectedly and Bess ran in with new canvases tucked under the man’s shirt and vest she was wearing. Despite her best attempt at feigned apoplexy, when Bess cited her grandmother’s behavior and Roberto had laughed, Constance lost the battle – she came to learn that with a head strong daughter one must choose one’s fights carefully.
When she learned of the impending move back to England, Bess had surprised Constance with her enthusiasm for it. It would be an adventure, she declared. Like her mother and grandmother before her, she would sail the world and meet interesting people. Constance thought of England with its heavy mists and rolling wooded hills, so different from Rome and the Italian countryside. She thought of her own sojourn into uncharted lands and the bitter lessons she had learned about living one’s life through the imprint left behind by one’s parents. It was dangerous to expect a common outcome from similar experiences in separate lives – the most one could hope for was a deeper understanding of oneself and one’s inheritance. But Bess was young and like all those who are young believed that life’s problems could be solved by moving on. She was immune to the descriptions of England intended to prepare her for the different climate and different life she would lead there. Constance explained that there would be no fusion of cultures as there was in Rome – Rome was a bustling metropolis, but England was an isle, far from the East and Africa, and more importantly far from Coudenoure. There would be no merchants from Cathay, no Moormen with their strange tongue or Africans with their exotic spices in the marketplaces. No invitations to warm southern villas in the rolling hills of Italy would come their way at Coudenoure.