The Nymph from Heaven, page 1
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
The Nymph From Heaven
The first book of The Tudor Chronicles
BY BONNY G SMITH
Other than actual historical persons, this is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to persons living or dead is unintentional.
All opinions are mine and not those of any entity named herein.
Copyright Bonny G Smith 2017
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.
ISBN-978-1981312160
ISBN-10:1981312161
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the historical figures who inspired me to write it...real people who had little choice but to live their lives in view of the world as they knew it. I sincerely hope they would feel
I have done their stories justice.
"She is a paradise...a nymph from heaven."
- Lorenzo Pasqualigo,
Venetian merchant and court jeweler to King Henry VIII
Acknowledgements
Editing by Richard A. McClure
Cover Design by Kimberly J. Sluis
Prologue
“Eighth Henry ruling this land, He had a sister fair…”
– The Suffolk Garland
Westhorpe, Suffolk, England, June 1533
She was uncertain what had awakened her. The room was dark, quiet, and very still. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could barely make out the faint pinkish glow of the embers that earlier had been a blazing fire. Jane must have fallen asleep, letting the fire go out. Ah, well, she thought, it was warm for June, and no one but the sick needed a fire during that lovely month.
Using all her strength, Mary raised herself slightly on her pillows. If there were anyone else in the room besides herself and Jane, she did not want to rouse them. Of all the plenty and privileges bestowed upon royalty, one thing that was most sadly lacking was privacy. One was simply never alone. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw no one but Jane, asleep in the chair, her head to one side and her hand resting over her heart. Dear Jane. She had come for a summer visit and had had this thrust upon her.
For Mary was certain that, this time, she was sick unto death. She only hoped that Brandon would come again, before... But that was a vain hope. It was three weeks and more since the coronation of the Great Whore. Why could he not be spared now, for just a little while, to see his dying wife? But she had been ill so often, and this illness had been so conveniently timed, that it was likely no one believed she was sick, save those closest to her, who knew it to be true.
She had refused to attend Anne Boleyn’s coronation on the first of June. Even on her better days, she was far too frail to have made the long journey to London. She had only recently returned from a trip to town for her daughter Frances’s wedding. No one could guess what that exertion had cost her; it had probably brought on this last bout of illness, of which she was sure to die. But she would never, in any case, have agreed to lend the aura of her royalty to such an affair.
It was bad enough that she had been forced to send the jewels that Henry had demanded of her, to decorate his sham queen. How that must have galled Brandon, who had not only been forced to attend the various ceremonies and celebrations, but who, as Earl Marshal, must arrange them all. Mary sneered to think of Anne Boleyn bedecked in the jewels of a long line of French and English queens. Well, she wished Henry joy of the woman for whose sake he had broken Katharine’s heart, not to mention upset the delicate balance of politics and religion all over Europe. She had begged; she had pleaded; but all to no avail. Henry would have Anne crowned queen if it tore the whole world asunder.
A flicker caught her eye; Mary leaned slightly to the left to see what it was that had distracted her from her musings. The bedpost and heavy velvet curtain had hidden from her eye the tiny flame atop the stub of candle on the table just inside her chamber door. Last night’s thick candle was now burnt low. The ivory-colored wax lay melted in an intricate pattern, all over the candle holder, and had spilt onto the table. A gentle breeze caused the flame to gutter. It went out momentarily, and then came back, stubbornly holding on. Just like me, she thought. Well, not much longer now.
Mary’s glance took in the far side of the hearth. She noticed that the log basket was gone. That must be what had awakened her; the young maidservant whose duty it was to sleep on the pallet at the foot of her bed must have arisen early, seen that the fire was out, and gone to fetch more firewood.
She lay back, breathless with the exertion even this little exertion required. She knew she was dying; this morning could very well be her last on this earth. She turned her head towards the window; it was covered with an arras. The same wind that had caused it to lift and make the candle flame flutter now lifted it enough to show it outlined by a faint, gray light. It must be very early.
Perhaps, thought Mary, I can use these few precious moments alone to collect my thoughts. Maybe, in this unexpected moment of solitude, on this knife-edge of time, she could think back on how she had come here, to this situation, to this moment. Soon she would be with Saint Michael and all His angels. But would she? Had her life been blameless enough to hope for that?
Yes! she cried in her very soul. I am blameless. I never did a conscious wrong to anyone. Ah, said a voice. But you could have done more good. Had a more selfish creature ever roamed the earth? Not true! she protested to whomever, or whatever, awaited her on the other side. I did my duty and asked for no more than the reward I was promised. Yes, promised. Had I not fought for what I wanted all would have been lost.
But even now that mocking voice said, yes, yes, you got what you wanted. But were you happy with it?
Yes, she was happy. She had had more happiness than most royal princesses can ever hope to attain. But now she was to die and her beloved Brandon would go on without her. Horrible thought! She had seen the way he looked at the Willoughby girl. And she, destined for their son, Henry! So she was to be punished after all. She would soon be forced to look down from Heaven every day…and night…Oh, God help me, the nights…to see Brandon loving another. So in the end we meet our fate, it seems. We can mock God and the devil but in the end we are undone. Perhaps if she thought think back over it all, she would discover that one detail that she had overlooked, and that should have changed the outcome.
For it was not supposed to end this way. Brandon was so much older than she was. She had always feared, always dreaded, the long years that she would have to wait after his death to join him. And now, in cruel mockery of those fears, she was to die first. Not fair! I’ve always had my own way... If I think hard enough, perhaps I can find a way to change things, even now…
Chapter 1
“Her beauty exceeds description.”
– Lorenzo Pasqualigo, Venetian merchant and court jeweler to Henry VIII
Richmond Palace, January 1502
The winter wind gusted outside, and every now and then one could feel a draft blow in through a chink in a wind-eye. The palace of Richmond was new, stoutly built, and beautiful, but its glazing was not proof against the high winds on that cold, blustery January day. A corner of the splendid cloth of gold canopy held over the heads of the royal family lifted slightly in the breeze, catching Mary’s eye, but her gaze did not waver. The crowded room was silent; the moment had come at last.
Hidden by their voluminous sleeves, Mary’s hand sought Henry’s. He too kept his eyes trained on the crowd, his head tilted slightly upwards in a manner not haughty, exactly, but that left no doubt that he was his father’s son, and a prince of England. He gave Mary’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
Without turning her head, Mary scanned the mass of people within her range of vision. All were dressed in their finest clothes. Silks and satins, velvets and brocades, in rich, deep red, dark blue, green and royal purple; shimmering cloth of gold and silver; all trimmed with fur and stiff with jewels, adorned every person in the crowded room. Gossip amongst the queen’s ladies held that many had spent great sums of money on their clothes for this august ceremony, to impress the Scots for the sake of England’s, and the King’s, pride. To Mary, more used to the schoolroom, it seemed a glittering affair.
Suddenly, in one swift movement, the trumpeters lifted their shining instruments. Every one of the long metal tubes was hung with a banner displaying either the arms of England or those of Scotland. A diplomatic touch, and very appropriate. Even at the age of six, Her Grace the Princess Mary was very much aware of the importance of pageantry, display and protocol; this whole ceremony, down to the detail of banner arms, had been carefully planned by her Grandmother Beaufort.
Even though Mary was expecting the fanfare, when the blast came from eighteen trumpets at such close quarters, she jumped. Henry’s hand gripped hers and she straightened, hoping no one had noticed. No one had, for all eyes were upon the procession entering the Queen’s Great Chamber. The Bishops of Glasgow and Moray, followed by the Earl of Bothwell, entered the room slowly and sedately. The Scots had changed into garments even more sumptuous than those in which they had celebrated High Mass earlier that morning.
A buzz of anticipation had arisen during the clarion call, but now all was awestruck silence as the Princess Margaret paused ever so briefly in the archway. Tall for her age at twelve, wearing a white cloth
Margaret stopped just in front of the royal dais, taking her place beside the Earl of Bothwell, who would stand proxy for her betrothed, King James IV of Scotland. Without further ado, the Bishop of Glasgow’s voice, raised as if for High Mass, rang out, reading the pope’s dispensation. The dispensation had been easily obtained. Princess Margaret, assisted by the King, her father, and Grandmother Beaufort, had herself written the letter of request to Pope Alexander VI. The Borgia pope had granted the dispensation swiftly and without reservation, hoping that the marriage of a princess of England into the royal house of Scotland would secure peace in those two lands. The pope marveled that two countries sharing the same island should be so different, and so prone to argument and warfare. He had little faith in such marriages, as they so often came to naught, resulting in divided loyalties for the bride and continued bloodshed. There was example of such even in this dispensation; James IV’s great-grandmother was Joan Beaufort, a relative the Scottish king had in common with the Tudor children, including of course, Margaret, his betrothed.
Grandmother Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, was a great-grandchild of John of Gaunt, father of Joan Beaufort, who was her great-aunt; hence the need for a dispensation for the marriage between James and Margaret, their relationship being within the forbidden degrees set by the church. The Beaufort line had begun as the illegitimate offspring of John of Gaunt, patriarch of the House of Lancaster, third son of Edward III, and his mistress, Catherine Swynford. In time, John of Gaunt’s Beaufort children had all been legitimized, and the Scots did not seem to mind a bit of blood from the wrong side of the blanket. But the English did mind, and it was this taint that had almost cost her dear son Henry his throne. Even as late as Mary’s birth year of 1495, Yorkist pretenders had been plaguing them. Grandmother Beaufort, or Lady Margaret as she was known to the court, always bristled visibly if anyone dared to mention the illegitimacy of the Beaufort line.
The archbishop concluded his reading of the dispensation and faced King Henry. He asked in a loud, clear voice, “Doth Your Grace know of any impediment other than there is dispensed withal? Doth the Queen likewise?”
King Henry replied, “There is none,” and Queen Elizabeth of York nodded her head in agreement.
The Archbishop of Glasgow bowed to them and then turned to the Earl of Bothwell. “Is it the very will and mind of the King of Scotland that the said Earl of Bothwell should in his name assure the said Princess?”
“It is,” replied the earl.
The archbishop turned then to Princess Margaret and asked, “Are you content without compulsion, and of your own free will?”
Mary held her breath, but without pause Margaret replied, her voice clear and sure with no hint of wavering or nervousness, “If it please my lord and father the King and my Lady Mother the Queen, I am content.”
“It is my will and pleasure,” said the King, and Margaret knelt for her parents’ blessing. The blessing given, Lord Bothwell raised her up, and still holding Margaret by the hand, the archbishop led him through his vows on behalf of King James. When these were complete, it was Margaret’s turn. In a firm voice and without hesitation, she declared, “I, Margaret, the first begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince and Princess, Henry by the grace of God, King of England and Elizabeth, Queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last, contract matrimony with the right high and mighty Prince, James, King of Scotland unto and for my husband and spouse and all others for him forsake.” There was a moment so silent and still that one could have heard a pin fall, and then the trumpets blared, the minstrels struck up and the people cheered. It was done.
Queen Elizabeth then stepped forward and took her daughter, now the Queen of Scotland, by the hand, and led her, followed by all the royal party, to the wedding feast. Mary walked beside her brother Prince Henry, her hand on his arm. She stole a look at him, and saw that Grandmother Beaufort, who was walking ahead of them arm in arm with their father the king, looking over her shoulder, was doing the same. Their grandmother had Henry fixed with a gimlet eye, and Mary knew why. A stickler for the strictest court protocol, Grandmother Beaufort had briefed the royal family and the prelates on the order in which everyone was to speak, walk, stand and process, for this memorable occasion. When she had reviewed the recessional order for after the service, and Prince Henry realized that he was now to give way to his sister Margaret, he was indignant.
“But I am a prince!” he had cried, his face red with anger. “I have always taken precedence over the princesses!”
Lady Margaret had eyed him coolly and replied, “On that day your sister Margaret will no longer be a princess. She will be a queen.”
Henry knew better than to argue with his grandmother. He bowed stiffly and said no more. But Mary knew that he was annoyed. He had always chafed at being the second son, destined for the church. Practically his only pleasure was lording it over his sisters, especially since their brother Arthur had married Katharine of Aragon and moved to their principality of Wales, there to learn to rule. Until Margaret’s wedding, Prince Henry had been the most important person at court behind the king and queen. The thought of Margaret, haughty, competitive Margaret, his elder by two years, as a queen and with a right to precede him in all things, was unbearable. Had she been going away to Scotland immediately, perhaps it should not have been so bad. But Grandmother Beaufort, fearing for Margaret’s tender years, decreed that she was to stay at the English court for another full year before going to her husband. Henry was unsure how he was going to cope with Margaret as a queen for a whole year!
Mary knew all of this and was determined to try to ease her brother’s lot as much as possible. She adored him, and he knew it. From the moment that Henry had first laid eyes upon his baby sister in her cradle, draped with the finest gauze, in the nursery at Eltham Palace, he had determined to make her his own. He had been disarmed by her tight grip when she had taken one of his fingers into her tiny, starfish hand, and then put it into her mouth to suck. That grip was belied by her sheer smallness and seeming fragility. Henry felt a fierce protectiveness towards his tiny little sister in that moment that was to last her lifetime. Only four years separated Henry and Mary, and he was her older brother; two years separated Henry and Margaret, and she was his elder sister. The six-year gap between Margaret and Mary did not make for closeness, so Mary naturally gravitated towards Henry, and tended to take his part in nursery quarrels. The love between them was sure and strong. Mary always knew when Henry was hurt or upset, and she acted as balm to his sores. For this he loved her dearly.
# # #
The wind died down and the day was perfect, with its winter blue sky and puffy white clouds, for the jousts in celebration of the Scottish marriage. Mary surveyed the colorful scene, glad that she had been allowed to sit in the royal stand, and not forced to bide with the nursery staff. Margaret, now Queen of Scotland, sat with the king and queen and Grandmother Beaufort under the royal canopy of estate. Mary and Henry, along with other young people of the court, sat lower in the stand, the ladies waving their ribands and throwing flowers onto the tiltyard whenever their favorite knights rode by to take their places for the competition.
“Oh, Mary, look!” cried Henry. “There’s Buckingham!” The Duke of Buckingham was known for his penchant for display; he never failed to dazzle the eye. His horse was bedecked in blue and crimson velvet, embroidered in gold with the insignia of the Order of the Garter. His armor glinted in the sun. He made his charger cavort as he passed the royal stand, and the flowers fell from the stands in a shower of color, as the bedazzled ladies demonstrated their approval of his antics.
