by David Field
It was going to be a busy few days, a busy month, and what already promised to be a busy year. Today was 24th January, and on the morrow Henry’s oldest surviving child, daughter Margaret, was to be formally married to James IV of Scotland in a proxy ceremony at Richmond Palace with the Earl of Bothwell standing in for the bridegroom. There would be two days of jousting, and Margaret, aged just thirteen, would be Queen of Scotland. Then in the following month, Elizabeth was expected to be delivered of her seventh royal child.
‘Foxe here tells me that by building such a magnificent edifice to God, I shall be more assured of a seat in Heaven, but I would that my mortal bones be laid here anyway,’ Henry advised Janyns.
The architect smiled cynically. ‘As His Majesty is well aware, it will not be cheap,’ Janyns confirmed, ‘but when completed it will be the most splendid house of God built in the past thirty years. It will have three aisles, instead of the usual two, and five side chapels, with room behind the altar for more than one royal tomb. But, as his Grace has no doubt already advised Your Majesty, one cannot build a staircase to Heaven itself. Were that possible, mere designers such as myself would no doubt reap even more earthly reward for so doing.’
‘I must take the royal barge to Richmond ere the sun begins to sink this afternoon, so perhaps you would show us the first sketches of what the completed chapel will look like, Master Janyns?’
The next day, his new chapel was still on Henry’s mind as he watched, from the front row, the ceremony that would make his daughter a queen. It was taking place in the Queen’s Great Chamber, and Henry looked lovingly down at the bulging stomach of his wife as she leaned backwards slightly to ease the pressure on her spine, and her over-gown slipped back from her shoulder.
Next to his Queen was their younger surviving daughter, Mary, approaching her ninth birthday, and so excited to be wearing a new gown of cloth of gold for the occasion. Henry allowed his mind to wander from the solemn ceremony taking place at the altar that had been temporarily constructed, and began to explore his memory for any recollection of the existence of a prince of Spain who might be married to her, should it be necessary to send Katherine back to her parents, along with the dowry that Henry had already committed to his chapel.
On the other side of Mary stood her older brother Henry, some six inches taller than her, so that his peacock-feathered bonnet was clearly distinguishable above Mary’s more sober white hood. It might all come down to whether or not the young buck could be persuaded to take ‘the Spanish pudding’ as his wife, and currently the omens were not propitious. Henry frowned disapprovingly at his son’s choice of clothing for this solemn State occasion, and idly wondered if there was any colour of the rainbow that he had not managed to incorporate into his coat-hardie and cloak, and how much the royal tailor had charged for them.
Then, at the end of the family line, the stern face of his mother, the royal grandmother who had made even more protest at the early marriage of her namesake than Elizabeth had, accompanied by her usual stomach-churning descriptions of the agonising labour that had brought Henry into the world, torn her open all the way to her anus, and rendered her incapable of bearing any more children. Perhaps that was why she still made so much effort to control the life of her only one, Henry mused. It was a pity that Elizabeth did not maintain the same stern motherly regime over Hal, since the young devil seemed determined to spend his life roistering with his young companions in the hunt and the tiltyards. If the child that was due to be born in a few weeks was another boy, there might still be hope for the kingdom, but if not, Henry would have to work with what he already had.
A week later, Henry and Elizabeth travelled in solemn procession to the Tower, where it had been decided that the Queen would have her lying-in, within convenient distance of the large contingent of royal physicians who could be assembled at a moment’s notice, if required, since at thirty-six she was giving birth for the seventh time, and the received medical wisdom was that there was a heightened risk of infection or stillbirth.
Henry left her surrounded by her fussing Ladies, until a few days later when he was summoned to her chamber. Down at the Tower, it was all fuss and activity, as the royal physicians jostled for position around Elizabeth’s bed. They stepped aside dutifully as Henry’s entry was announced, and watched unobtrusively as the King sat on the side of the bed and took Elizabeth’s hand. She was sweating profusely, but smiled as Henry kissed her forehead lovingly.
‘Another boy, perhaps?’ she suggested. ‘Did I not say that I was still of an age to bear you more children?’
‘Another boy would indeed be a further sign from Heaven,’ Henry agreed, ‘although it is your continued life that must come first. Your physicians tell me that there is a greater risk with greater age.’
‘What greater age?’ Elizabeth countered. ‘It will be my thirty-seventh birthday once I rise from this bed, hopefully with another son in my arms, and the House of Tudor twice secured.’
‘Even so,’ Henry said out loud, ‘there must come an end to all this child-bearing.’
‘But I would not yet cease what leads to child-bearing,’ Elizabeth whispered back with a coy smile, before raising her voice so that she could be more easily heard by those around the bed. ‘Now you must leave me, my sweet. Do you wait for news in the outer chamber, that you may be the first to hold your child when one of my Ladies brings it through to you.’
Henry kissed her on the lips, and looked round at the physicians as he stood up.
‘Mind that you use all your skills to good effect, and do not waste your time arguing among yourselves. And no leeches — the Queen abhors leeches.’
The physicians bowed in unison, and Henry took a seat in the outer chamber.
By the third day, no-one had slept, and the physicians who came and went displayed increasingly worried countenances. Henry demanded to know what was causing the delay, since the other royal babies had been born within a day or so of the breaking of the waters. All he received in return were defeated-looking shakes of the head, although the boldest of them advised him that Elizabeth appeared to be suffering from some sort of fever.
At the end of the third day, there was a flurry of activity, and a physician pushed a sweating head through the dividing door for long enough to call for two midwives who had been seated in the outer chamber for as long as Henry had. There came a series of agonised shrieks from behind the closed door, several loud shouts from the physicians, and then — silence. After what seemed like an eternity, a midwife stuck her head around the bedchamber door and called for ‘Lady Catherine Gordon’. With a half-fearful glance at Henry, Catherine scurried into the bedchamber, and emerged shortly after with a bundle wrapped in white silk. She approached Henry as he stood up in anticipation, and bowed slightly, and somewhat formally, as she held out the bundle towards him.
‘Another royal princess, Your Majesty.’
Henry swallowed his disappointment and looked down at the wrinkled red face that stared back at him, almost in accusation. He carefully placed a finger on the end of its tiny nose, and whispered an endearment. The child closed both eyes and began blowing bubbles through the mucus that still covered its face.
‘It is weakly, Your Majesty,’ said a voice to the side of him, and he looked round into the face of one of the physicians, who was tentatively reaching out to take the child back from him.
‘And the Queen?’ Henry asked.
‘She is sleeping, Your Majesty. She herself is very weak, for it was a difficult birth. Perhaps there should be no more,’ he added tentatively, almost as if terrified for his life to be making such an impudent suggestion, but anxious to give the best advice consistent with his profession.
‘Let me know when Her Majesty is awake again,’ Henry instructed him, and resumed his seat, to one side of the excited, chattering Queen’s Ladies, as he tried to think of a name for the latest arrival. They had so convinced themselves that it would be a boy that no thought had been given to a name fo
r a girl.
By the time he was readmitted into the bedchamber, he had a name ready. It was the second day after the birth, and the inner chamber stunk disgustingly. The physicians all but slunk from his gaze as he walked past them and sat on the bed, from where Elizabeth smiled up weakly at him.
‘I fear that I let you down, husband — it is a girl, they tell me.’
‘Have they not let you hold her yet?’
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. ‘They say I have the childbed fever, and that I must not pass it to our daughter, but she has a wet nurse. What shall we call her?’
‘Kathryn,’ Henry replied confidently. ‘That was my great great grandmother’s name, and she was the start of the Beauforts, from whom my mother is descended.’
‘It is a good name,’ Elizabeth smiled, then winced as another spasm of pain passed through her womb. She grasped Henry firmly by the wrist, and did her best to smile again. ‘If it should come to pass that I do not survive this fever, there is a great favour that I would ask of you, as a father rather than as a king.’
‘Ask,’ Henry invited her, a worried frown on his face.
‘The Lady Catherine Gordon. She has served me well, and has grown close to Margaret, who will soon be travelling to Scotland. Please grant that Catherine return to her own land as Margaret’s companion. It is her country, where her heart lies, and she would be good for our daughter, who will be in a strange land, with strange speech. Margaret will also soon enough be bearing children, as Lady Catherine has done. Please, Henry, grant me this wish.’
‘It is already granted,’ Henry smiled down at her, ‘but no more talk of your not surviving. It will be your birthday a week today, and I shall arrange a feast and fireworks on the river bank at Richmond.’
Elizabeth had closed her eyes, and one of the physicians sidled close to Henry’s side and almost whispered as he advised him, ‘She will sleep again for some time, Your Majesty. It is the way of this fever — she has lost a great deal of blood, and more besides, and it may be that her innards have become diseased with the exposure to infection. Her best hope is to sleep it off.’
‘Very well,’ Henry sighed as he rose from the bed. ‘I shall be at Richmond. Bring me news by the hour.’
The physician bowed respectfully, and Henry left the chamber. In the outer room he saw Catherine Gordon seated in a corner, weeping quietly to herself, her head bowed. Henry walked over, and she began to rise hurriedly as she became aware of his approach. He beckoned her to remain seated, and smiled.
‘Your mistress has a fever, and will no doubt have need of your comfort when she awakes. I know that you regard me as one whose heart is black to its very roots, but you should know that your mistress has persuaded me that you should accompany the Princess Margaret when she travels north to claim her crown.’
Tears of gratitude rolled down Catherine’s face as she reached out and kissed Henry’s hand. ‘God bless you, Your Majesty — and grant a speedy return to full health to my Queen.’
Henry spent the next week withdrawn in his chambers, reading the Bible, sending out instructions for the celebration ceremony of the Queen’s birthday, and praying. He appeared unmoved when they brought him the news that the infant Kathryn had died, and when eventually a nervous Bishop Foxe brought him the tidings that Elizabeth had died the following day — her thirty-seventh birthday — without even knowing that the infant whose birth had caused her infection had not survived, Henry seemed to have prepared himself for the tragic news. A man in shock, he gazed at the pouring rain through the mullioned side window.
‘The fireworks would have been useless anyway, in this weather,’ he commented almost casually.
In the belief that Henry required a little time to absorb the terrible tidings, and compose himself once they sank in, Foxe bowed to withdraw, but was held back by Henry’s raised hand.
‘My new chapel — is it yet roofed?’
‘I believe not, Your Majesty, although in the past week I have been much preoccupied with — with more urgent matters.’
‘Indeed, as has the entire Court. But take yourself to Westminster without delay, find the master builder, and advise him that he shall have three hundred marks as a personal gift if he can roof it by the end of the month. Do you also supervise in person the construction of the altar as soon as the roof is on. Elizabeth shall lie in the crypt of the Abbey until that much of the work is completed, then I wish her transferred behind the altar of the new chapel. I would join her there when my time comes.’
The roof was completed as required. Once Foxe had supervised the installation of the altar, he was instructed by Henry to conduct Elizabeth’s funeral ceremony in his capacity as Bishop of Winchester, given the vacancy in the office of Archbishop of Canterbury created by the death of Henry Deane only five days after Elizabeth.
Due to Henry’s insistence that the funeral should go ahead in the incomplete new chapel, most of the nobles and other leading worthies who had been instructed to attend felt as if they were attending a Requiem Mass on a building site, as the casket was laid ceremonially on the platform that would be lowered into the hole in the ground behind the altar, prior to the memorial plinth being built over it in subsequent days.
As Foxe began reciting the words of the Pie Jesu Domine, Henry was seen to walk forward carrying in his hands a white rose and a red rose. He knelt at the side of the casket, laid the roses ceremonially on the its lid, and bowed his head. Foxe saw his shoulders shaking in what he took as a sign of Henry’s grief finally breaking through the stern surface he had maintained for a month. When it seemed to be taking a while, he glanced back again at the bowing monarch, and saw that his face was turning purple, and that he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
Suddenly alarmed, Foxe looked down into the body of the congregation standing in the nave among the piles of dressed stones, and recognised Thomas Linacre, now tutor to the young Prince Henry, but a physician by profession, and a former personal physician to Henry. Foxe gestured with his head at the shaking shoulders of his monarch, and Linacre looked more closely. Recognising the symptoms, he raced behind the altar and called for royal grooms to attend him, while Foxe broke off his recitation, and the choir drew uncertainly to a halt.
‘It is His Majesty’s customary ailment when greatly overcome with emotion,’ Linacre explained to the grooms. ‘He must be taken back to the Palace in a litter. I will accompany you, and see to his immediate comfort, but the King’s current physicians must also be called. Lose no time!’
By the time that Henry regained partial consciousness, he found himself back in his bedchamber at Richmond, to which he had been conveyed by royal barge during his insensibility. There were physicians all around him, and the ceiling seemed to him to be slowly rotating. Matthew Primrose smiled as he saw Henry’s eyes partially open.
‘Your Majesty has been gravely ill, and must even yet rest, if you are to survive. It was your usual malady of the chest when overcome by sudden shock or strong feelings, but it has now developed into a fever of sorts. I cannot be answerable for your condition if you do not rest as advised.’
Henry smiled back weakly. ‘Thank those who brought me here. Now I would rest, as advised. Send only my mother to attend me.’
Margaret Beaufort had been in attendance at Elizabeth’s funeral, and had nearly died of apoplexy herself when she saw Henry being carried out of the chapel, seemingly gasping his last. She had taken up temporary residence at Richmond, and had plagued the royal physicians by constantly stalking them in corridors, demanding news of her son’s condition.
During his subsequent delirium, many sights floated before Henry’s eyes. Once, he fancied himself back in Brittany, with the beautiful Eloise de Arradon slipping a green gown to the floor to reveal her nakedness, and the physician sitting by his bed was startled to hear Henry mutter ‘You had better put your gown back on, for my wife would not approve.’ On another, less enjoyable, occasion, he was once again on the battlefield, hiding behind his
horse, while Richard of Gloucester sharpened his axe in between rolling dice with Earl Stanley. He cried out in his dream, and his mother placed another cold towel on his forehead.
Finally, it seemed to him that a tall figure stood at the foot of his sick bed, and as his eyes focused he realised that he was looking at the ghost of his Uncle Jasper, who was shaking his head.
‘You cannot allow yourself the peace of death yet, Henry,’ Jasper said. ‘You have but one son to succeed you, and he is not yet twelve years of age. When you were twelve, you were held a prisoner in Pembroke Castle by Sir William Herbert. If I had come to you at that time, and informed you that you had just become the King of England, how well could you have handled the reins of government? You have been lax in the boy’s upbringing, but there is still time, if he is given the right tutors, and restrained from the headstrong lifestyle he seems to prefer. You do England no favours by delaying the education of your only surviving son in the duties for which he must be prepared. In short, get well, get up off your arse and get on with it!’
The figure faded, and Henry chuckled. His eyes opened, and there sat Richard Foxe, liturgy in hand and spouting something unintelligible in Latin.
‘I am not dead yet, priest,’ Henry announced. ‘And if you have come to hear my confession, tell your household that you will be gone a week at least.’
‘God be praised,’ Foxe smiled down at him, ‘your sense of humour is restored. I shall summon your physician at once.’
Instead of his physician, it was his mother who bustled into the chamber, carrying a jug of something that was steaming, and smelt of old horses.
‘Drink this,’ she commanded. When Henry wrinkled his nose at it, she tutted. ‘I have not spent the last week sitting at your bedside, mopping your brow, for you to disobey me now. This is the finest beef tea, and you need to build up your strength.’