by Betty Younis
“So you sculpt stone, I understand?” Elizabeth began chatting as they pulled the heavy wych elm door of the manor house behind them.
“Yes. And you?”
Elizabeth chuckled.
“No, I have not the time nor the talent. But I do enjoy painting, and languages.”
“We must set you up here with paints and canvases,” Bess insisted. “Then, when you come and mother is too tired to talk, you may keep her company and paint. ’Tis very soothing, you know. Your father and my grandmother spent many happy days thus.”
Elizabeth stopped, horrified at the implication of what the young girl had just said. She turned and watched her warily. Bess met her gaze with a tranquil and wry smile.
“How did you know?” Elizabeth asked.
Bess shrugged.
“Are you familiar with the word “eavesdropper” Majesty?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Ah, indeed. And yes, I am familiar with it. In fact, my father…”
“And my grandfather…” It was Bess’ turn to smile.
Elizabeth waved her quiet.
“At Hampton Court, in the Great Hall, Henry had small figures carved to peep out through the high rafters.”
“Eavesdroppers!” laughed Bess. Elizabeth nodded.
“He wanted to remind everyone that the throne knows all and hears all. And so I am to assume you…overheard…others speak of your heritage.”
Bess giggled.
“Yes, and of course, there was Roberto.”
“Roberto? I do not understand!” Elizabeth was becoming alarmed – how many others knew of the young girl’s bloodline?
“Roberto, Majesty, in Rome.”
“And how did he know? Saints alive, does the entire world know of Coudenoure and the lineage of its owners? It seems I was the last to learn of it.”
“Roberto knew my grandmother. His father was a sea captain who was married to Agnes.”
“Agnes was married?”
“Why not?”
Elizabeth considered for a moment.
“Well, she visits the graves of Thomas and Elizabeth, not of her husband,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed Bess, “I have noticed that as well, but I think ’tis because her ties to Thomas and Elizabeth were life long, whereas her marriage to master Ransdell was brief in comparison.”
Elizabeth nodded and Bess continued.
“Roberto was Ransdell’s son and when my grandmother and her father left Rome, Roberto stayed behind to apprentice with Michelangelo. The talk amongst the family was frequently of Elizabeth and her love for Prince Henry.”
“I grew up in Roberto’s household, and naturally, he came to tell me those tales. And, I must say, Roberto believed that a secret was something you told one person at a time, not a thing one kept to oneself.”
“But your mother believes you do not know.”
Bess laughed.
“Funny, is it not? She has always told me that when she was young, king Henry and my grandmother never told her of her father. She found it out from others and always resented their not telling her themselves. And yet she repeats the same offense with her own child! It seems, Majesty, that generations repeat patterns, do they not?”
They walked in silence past the brown and lifeless stalks of winter’s kill.
“And you, Bess? What are your plans?”
Bess immediately blushed.
Elizabeth stared her down as they walked.
“I just mentioned that generations repeat.”
“Yes, well, what of it?” The reply was short and pointed.
“It seems I may be pre-contracted to Quinn Janyns from the neighboring estate.” She pointed vaguely westward.
“It seems? I do not understand. Did you accidentally take part in a marriage ceremony? Did you drink too much mead and lose your senses? Did you… ”
Elizabeth was warming to the subject and continued on in the same vein.
“Did you fall from a tree and temporarily lose your mind? And what on earth makes you think that you are repeating the patterns of a previous generation?”
“My grandmother was pre-contracted to your father and no one knew.”
“Good and kind Lord. You know, niece, I am constantly amazed at what I find when I come through the gates of Coudenoure.”
She paused as the implication of Bess’ statement became clear.
“Let me understand. Your mother knows not of your engagement?”
Bess nodded warily.
“And your mother believes you to be ignorant of your relationship to me?”
Bess gave a nervous giggle.
“Tell me, how many other secrets do you people keep from one another?”
“Not many.”
“’Tis not the answer I was hoping for.”
“Well, Majesty, all of us have skeletons, do we not? Some haunt us, some help us, but we all live with the past.”
“’Tis the first sensible thing out of your mouth on this walk, child,” Elizabeth replied. “Now tell me of your young man. He seemed a clod when I met him.”
Bess ignored the observation and sighed with bliss.
“Where to begin? He is as warm as the sun on a summer day. And bright? Oh Aunt, he is the most intelligent man I have ever known. Kind and good, honest and true…”
Elizabeth waved her hand laughing. She loved the way Bess threw herself into whatever life presented, heart and soul. Where she was cautious and closed, Bess was carefree and open. Had the girl received such a wonderful gift from Henry? He, too, was known for meeting life head on. Over her time at Coudenoure, Constance had repeatedly expressed concerns for Bess – such a naïve trust in the fates and assurance in oneself was not common among women of any age, much less in such a young girl. Had she herself ever been like that, Elizabeth wondered? Was it events which had stifled her spontaneity or was it her own nature? She reined in her thoughts and returned to the conversation.
“Kind and good, honest and true…Stop, please. Next you will tell me his second name is god.”
“No, but do you not agree that he is very handsome in a dark and smoldering manner?”
“He forgot to take his own hat off when he bowed.” she replied somewhat dryly. “Handsomeness can only take a person so far.”
“Quinn is awkward amongst women. That is all.”
“Indeed.”
Bess ignored her.
“He is an architect and so he understands me as a fellow artist. When we are of age, we will live happily and create beautiful art, beautiful buildings and a beautiful family.”
“Well, no one ever sees the dark clouds on their own horizons, do they?”
She patted her niece’s hand. Constance was right: love for such a child so full of joie de vivre and concern for the same were impossible to separate.
“And ’tis a good thing we do not,” she continued, “…for we could never make our way through it all if we knew our troubles in advance.”
As she spoke, Elizabeth’s thoughts again turned from Bess to herself, and she seemed to withdraw as she spoke. Bess noted the sudden sadness in her voice and squeezed her hand warmly.
“Do not fear, you will be fine now that you are queen. The past is behind you.”
“Perhaps, child, perhaps.”
Still the sadness.
“Aunt, you must stop, for if one more person on this estate begins to talk to the dead or mope in the corners I shall lose my religion.”
A smile played around Elizabeth’s lips.
“And I tell you further, Aunt, that you will be happier indeed when we set you up with paints and brushes. Just wait!”
“Ah, so that is all it takes to shake this suspicion towards the world that I have, is it? Then let us return to the house and share the knowledge with your mother so that perhaps she might shake her weariness and be happy once again.”
They walked arm in arm back to the manor, Bess chatting happily about her plans with Quinn. As they came within sight of t
he front door, it flew open and Prudence burst forth and ran screaming towards them, her face contorted by fear and grief.
“Hurry! Oh God, hurry! Constance is dead!”
Bess gave out a shriek, abandoned the path, and made a swift dash across the intervening field, ignoring the seeds and mud which stuck to her dress and shoes. Elizabeth’s guards, hearing the alarm, mounted their steeds and rode furiously towards the manor house. Elizabeth ran to keep up with Bess.
In the library, as if from a great distance, Constance heard her child screaming for her mother. She closed her eyes and her own mother appeared to her as in a dream. It was warm and light there, where she was. Her leg tingled and as she looked down she was made whole once again. Constance could feel the warmth beginning to envelope her and she gave herself over to it. Such love, such tenderness, and yes! Just behind her mother was Henry, a gentle smile on his face. She rose from the chair and ran towards them and into the light, and as she did her sadness fell away as surely as the dark of night is banished by the breaking dawn.
Agnes died the following day. They found her as always sitting on her bench in the cold sun of winter. Her cane rested on Thomas’ gravestone and her head was bowed. She, too, had gone home.
Chapter Eight
Bess had known loss but never death. She had left Rome behind for the great adventure of a future in her mother’s homeland. Gone were her friends, her studios and family. So too the warm climate, the oleo of cultures, and exotic beings from faraway lands with strange tongues and manners. As she settled into Coudenoure, that sense of sacrifice and occasional homesickness had made her feel more mature, somehow, as though she too knew what it meant to suffer loss.
But her mother’s death. And Agnes’ following on so quickly. No. It was not loss. It was fire raining down from heaven. Bess’ self-assurance deserted her and she was left a falling leaf in a vast and windy sky.
News of Constance’s death traveled fast and by sunset Quinn was at Coudenoure. The queen had left with her guards and he found Prudence sobbing in the library. There was no sign of Bess. As he swept into the room, she only glanced up.
“She is not here, young Janyns.” Prudence always referred to him by his last name. “She has gone out and I know not where. Try to find her for night is falling.”
Prudence returned to her tears leaving Quinn wondering what to do. He guessed Bess would retreat to her studio and as he hurried out the back kitchen door of the manor house, he heard the distant sound of hammer hitting stone. She was there. Early on in her tenure at Coudenoure Bess had recognized the small stable at the very rear of the yard as a place in which she could work. Situated at the end of the small avenue of cottages set aside for the estates’ crofters and servants, it caught light from all directions. She had torn out the exterior walls and replaced them with glass. Gone were the individual stables and the great feeding troughs, leaving the building with nothing but a high ceiling and a wide-open floor. An ethereal sense of space and light permeated the small building and both Bess and Constance had immediately fallen in love with its simple utilitarian beauty. They had hung art tools on the walls and had scattered old tables with paints and canvases all about its capacious interior. It was a mirror version of the studios they knew in Rome and provided a strong sense of continuity for them as they transitioned back to England and Coudenoure.
Roberto had made good on his promise to send marble and in the center of the room stood the most recent arrival – a huge block of stone wider than it was tall. A shaft of light shown upon its face, revealing the beginnings of a street scene carved in exquisite detail in bas-relief. The cold immutable power of the white stone stood in sharp contrast to the emotional scene being revealed as its layers were chipped and smoothed away: a beggar with his hand outstretched sat upon a low curb; down a little ways was a vendor with a cart piled high with tomatoes and eggplants; and there, in front of a row of buildings were two young boys playing hoops. Had anyone asked, Bess would have told them it was the street of Michelangelo’s studio and next to it, Roberto’s house – her home. The unfinished stone behind the carving rose above it like a protective cloud.
As he slid the door open, Bess’ pounding became louder. She was working not on the street scene but on a smaller piece of marble sitting in a far corner. There seemed to be no plan in her approach to the stone as her hammer laid vicious blows upon its surface. Huge chips flew from the resulting planes and cracks. She looked up briefly as he entered before continuing. He went to her, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. She threw her tools down and turned, sobbing, into his arms.
On the surface, they were an odd pair, Bess in her plain linen dresses and Quinn in his usually mismatched vests, trousers and stockings. She was shorter than he and sturdier as well. But it was not only their physicality and mode of dress which marked their personalities as distinct; their emotional makeup was noticeably different too. Whereas Bess was given to defiance in the face of social mores, Quinn tended to conform if for no other reason than for ease of passage; Bess wore her emotions and opinions on her sleeve; Quinn was not uncertain so much as disconnected, something most put down as his being circumspect.
When he had stumbled upon her one day, painting alone along the great ridge which separated her estate from that of Greenwich, she had seemed like an angel sent from heaven to inform his life and work, one sent to save him from his own imploding chaos. He had never known a woman who expressed herself in anything save needlework and Bess’ fearless approach to life and art had left him gasping for breath; he was certain her organizational skills were God’s own rules. In turn, his rambling and chaotic approach to life and architecture was one she understood from her days spent among other artists in Rome.
As she sobbed in his arms, Quinn had been uncertain how to comfort his love and had given her what he knew he had so often wished for in the face of tragedy – a pair of strong, loving arms. The night was long and he spent it with her and Prudence in the library, discussing arrangements and other practical matters. It seemed to be the best way to occupy her mind. The following morning, Elizabeth had returned.
“Who are you?” She had swept into the hall of Coudenoure and past him.
“I am Quinn Janyns. We have met several times. Colleen, why are you here?”
Elizabeth ignored the question but noted that Bess had not given her identity away.
She strode into the library and gathered Bess into her arms. The previous day had been a raging firestorm for Bess and Prudence. For Elizabeth, however, the trauma extended far beyond the immediate events.
Prudence’s screaming and Constance’s sudden death had brought back memories of her own mother’s death, memories she did not even know were there. She had long ago buried the agony of that day but now bits and snippets kept rising to the surface of her consciousness unbidden, but not necessarily unwelcome. Her night had been spent pacing in front of the hearth in her bedroom, drinking the tea Constance had introduced to her and remembering.
They were in bright sunshine in a garden, she and her mother. Anne feigned fear as she, Elizabeth, chased her about. Elizabeth closed her eyes, remembering their laughter, feeling the memory of that happy day. Her mother’s gown – was it green? Yes, or perhaps it was blue, the color of the sky, and her own little dress had been green. The game ended with her mother hugging her close – Elizabeth could feel Anne’s warm breath on her cheeks when she closed her eyes in front of the fire that evening. But with the unexpected flood of happy memories came the haunted whispers, those memories with the power to terrify her even now.
She knew her mother was executed in May. What a word, she mused – executed. So clean and antiseptic and dispassionate; so much more acceptable and objective than the word which truly applied: murdered. She had been at Hatfield, a child of but three when the news arrived. Nanny was with her. A letter had been delivered, and with it came screaming and crying and terror. Endless terror. Nanny held her close and whispered kind words in her ear, but ot
hers did not. She could not remember who told her the news or why, but she was told all the same.
She rose from her chair and threw her tea in the fire. Why could they not have kept it from her, if only for a little while? She had been so tiny, such a small child! So fragile. In the small table near the window she kept a lockbox and she opened it now. A small, secret panel in the back gave way to her prying fingers revealing a ring which lay within. Elizabeth held it gently and returned to her seat in front of the fire where she gazed intently at its ruby set in a largish pearl face. But the ring held a secret, one she had always loved. She slid her nail deftly between its surface and back and it sprang open revealing two miniature portraits: one of her father…and one of Anne. She must have gazed upon the faces a thousand times since the ring had been given to her by Anne as a child. They seemed so happy, her mother so vibrant – Holbein had performed a miracle by capturing not just their likenesses but their essence.
She held it to her lips, remembering. After some time, she rose – I am no longer a scared child, she thought, nor an imperiled princess. She placed the ring on her finger and held it out to the light of the fire. She might continue her practice of never speaking of her mother, but she would be forever close now, giving others the same comfort Elizabeth herself had felt that day as she and her mother had romped in the dazzling sunshine.
The next morning she had returned to Coudenoure, determined to spare Bess the traumas of her own past. A surge of maternal feelings for her niece drove her decision.
Her sudden appearance caught Quinn by surprise.
“Madam,” Quinn’s puzzlement was obvious in his voice, “…Madam, why are you here?”
“Saints in heaven, man, I am Elizabeth, your sovereign.”
Quinn suddenly remembered a conversation he had had with Agnes and shook his head vigorously.
“No, I remember now. Madame, you are confused. Elizabeth was Bess’ grandmother. Kind lady, you must sit and rest while I send for your family. I am sure they will come for you.”