The Nymph from Heaven, page 10
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
But despite her troubles, she had spent the winter, during the majority of which he had been very ill, by his side. She played her lute and sang to him, they played cards and chess; she read to him. His mother, Lady Margaret, had observed how Mary seemed to be clinging to her father, and was glad of it; for once Mary left England she might never see her father again. Lady Margaret had rarely been from her son’s side, especially in these later years; she could not contemplate a fate that would leave them separate forever. And then the tears would fill her eyes, for she knew that soon her darling boy, her smart boy, her clever boy, now a middle-aged king, would be with God. She had indeed walked the earth too long if she must live to see Henry dead. It was a thought that horrified her.
Henry felt a cough rising and sought to suppress it. He could not, and the sound of it caused Mary to stir. King Henry reached quickly for the stack of linen cloths that were always kept at his bedside. As the cough racked him, he held the square up to his mouth. When the spell quieted and he withdrew the cloth, it was spotted with red.
Mary’s eyes opened a slit and she was just about to stretch and yawn in a most unregal manner when she saw the blood. “Father!” she exclaimed. “Father, what is it?”
Henry cursed himself for a fool; he had tried so hard to keep from everyone that he was coughing blood these past few days. Well, there was no help for it. The truth was always best, especially when it was obvious. “It is these accursed lungs,” he said. “I am afraid they will be the death of me.”
“Father, please,” cried Mary, who had risen and was sitting beside him on the bed. “Do not speak of death. It is unlucky.” She crossed herself and then waved her hand at the window and said, “See how fine the day is. May we not ask Sir Richard to take you outside in the chair? We could sit in the sun and you could breathe the fresh air. Surely that will restore you.”
She was looking at him so anxiously that he could not say her nay. He smiled and said, “An excellent notion, my child. Send the page for Sir Richard. And bring your playing cards. I shall win this time, I assure you.”
Mary flew from the room gone in a flurry of pale cream satin and was gone, leaving the scent of roses behind her.
# # #
It was odd, Mary reflected, that her father had spent a king’s ransom on his tomb, he who had been so careful with his money all his life. She was unfamiliar with the concept of a paradox, and yet she recognized one when she saw it. Another thought that struck her was that even though he had not shrunk from the idea of building his tomb long before his death, her father had demurred at the idea of his funeral effigy being made while he still breathed.
In the end it really didn’t matter; royal funerals, however much anticipated, took time to arrange. In her mind’s eye, Mary could see the myriad messengers taking ship across the channel and riding helter-skelter to the courts of Europe announcing the sad tidings. Ambassadors who had returned home to see to their own affairs as soon as the weather had made travel possible after the long winter were quickly being recalled. Mary pictured them riding swift horses or being jostled in litters, depending on the state of their own health, to return to England in time for the obsequies. And all the while her father’s effigy was being lovingly crafted. When it was finished, painted to look very lifelike and dressed in her father’s own royal robes, complete with orb and scepter, it was almost frightening in its reality.
Her brother Henry was two months shy of his eighteenth birthday; Grandmother Beaufort, though prostrate with grief, would govern England as regent until he attained that age. That Lady Margaret was fully capable of doing so, even in her frail state of health, no one was in doubt. It seemed almost as if the awesome responsibility of reigning over England, even for so short a time, was all that kept her sane in the days just after her son’s death. She had been calm and eminently sensible the day her beloved son had died right before her eyes. She had been reluctant to give way to her grief, always endeavoring to be a rock for those who needed her. But when she and Mary were alone later that night, her anguish had been terrible to behold.
And soon her brother Henry would be king. How different things were going to be now, she thought. She had heard Henry say often enough, “When I am king…”. And she knew what he meant. No more thrift, no more frugality; no more being kept a prisoner in the apartments behind the King’s own; no more lessons. Henry had known for seven years now that he would someday be king. It was different, he had once explained to Mary, than being born the Prince of Wales and always knowing that one day he would rule. For the first eleven years of his life he had been groomed for the church. He was to have been a bishop, or a cardinal, perhaps; he was to have been at his brother Arthur’s right hand to support him in his effort to rule England, as his chancellor. Two brothers, one King of England, the other a prince of the church, would have been invincible. But, loyal as he would have been to Arthur and to England, Henry knew that he would always have been in second place. So when Arthur died and Henry had taken his place as heir, not a day had gone by that he had not thanked God and planned what he would do when the time came. And now the time was near; it was almost here.
All of these thoughts chased themselves through Mary’s mind, round and round, like figures on a Greek vase. She was so filled with pain and sadness that she could hardly bear it; and yet she felt a strange elation at what the future held. Only two short months to mourn, and then Henry would be crowned King of England. The King is dead; long live the King. They had shouted that as the Archbishop of Canterbury had closed her father’s eyes and placed the gold coins for Charon upon them. How could it be done, she wondered? How could this heaviness in her heart be lifted in time for the joy of seeing her dear brother’s coronation? And yet it must be done. She had asked Grandmother Beaufort how they would manage it, and she, that eminently sensible woman, had pressed her lips together and said, “Mary, you must learn to turn a hard heart to a hard sorrow, and do your duty.”
# # #
It was early spring and the days were lengthening, but it had been gloomy all day and had darkened early. Mary sat her palfrey and swayed to its gentle walk. Her back ached after a full nine hours in the saddle, with only the briefest of rests, a necessary errand was beginning to make itself felt once more, and a wire had come loose from the bejeweled golden net that held her hair. It was rubbing her neck raw; she placed a cautious finger on her nape, underneath the net, and felt the sticky blood. She was tired, hungry, and weary to the bone. Then suddenly she rejoiced in all of these sensations, as unpleasant as they were, as the thought struck her mind that her father would never feel anything again.
Merciful God in heaven, she thought, as the tears welled up in her eyes for the hundredth time on that long, miserable day, how am I going to get through this? He had been a good father and had loved all of his children; but Mary had always been his favorite. God alone knows, she thought, how much I loved him.
Mary was not over-pious, but she had been raised in the Catholic Church and prayer at such moments came naturally to her. Thy will be done, she thought. Then she considered the words, perhaps for the first time. She had submitted to the King’s will when she had been forced to go through that hated proxy marriage with Charles of Castile. Henry, the King of England, was a different man than Henry, her father, had been. But God was a figure altogether removed; He had always been a sort of shadowy figure for Mary, lurking around corners and watching one’s every deed, reading one’s every thought, aided by that unknown, unknowable phantom, the Holy Ghost. But now, Mary understood what the words meant. Thy will be done. They meant that one had to accept meekly what God gave you. What you did from there was up to you.
One day, just before his death, Mary and Grandmother Beaufort had been sewing together by the King’s bedside. Her father was sleeping his fevered, restless slumber, his breath rasping with every intake and exhale of air. Lady Margaret had startled Mary by saying, apropos of nothing, “You are betrothed now. You will need a motto. Think on it.” Such concerns were of paramount importance to Lady Margaret; badges, escutcheons, crests, mottoes, all the symbols of rank, were the very breath of life to her. The Beaufort portcullis was emblazoned with the royal arms of England on practically everything Lady Margaret owned, and even appeared in the stained glass of her windows at Collyweston.
Mary, always outwardly obedient, responded, “I will think on it, My Lady,” and had promptly forgotten the whole matter until this moment. Suddenly, it came to her. La volante de Dieu me suffit. The will of God suffices me. It was perfect. It sounded proper, very submissive, but it was not. In Mary’s mind, it meant, Throw at me what fate you will, and see what I will do to thwart you! It was not for nothing that the blood of the cold, calculating Tudor and the fiery, volatile Plantagenet mingled in her veins. Children of such ill-starred combinations often inherited the worst traits of both, but Mary had received the best of everything. She was beautiful; she was not smart, but she was clever. She had charm and knew how to use it. She had a temper but her natural sweetness of manner kept that in check. But beneath all of this seeming acquiescence lurked a stubbornness of will, a spine of steel that would assure, in the end, she got what she wanted. The will of God was just a starting point for such as her.
Then these brave thoughts were overwhelmed by another inconsolable rush of emotion. Death was final, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her father was gone. Before she could suppress it, a small sob escaped her lips.
A voice startled her out of her reverie. “Excessive grief indicates a lamentable lack of faith,” the voice said.
Mary turned tear-filled eyes to the death’s head that peered out at her from behind the black velvet curtains of the litter. “I am sorry, Grandmother,” Mary replied. “I shall miss him.” Lady Margaret’s red-rimmed eyes told their own tale. It was not just her age and the frail state of her health that had decided her grandmother on using the litter for the journey that day from Richmond to London. Her grief over the death of her son was profound and intensely private, not meant for the staring eyes of the yokels who had left the plow that day to line the roadside to witness the final progress of their king.
There was no reply for a moment and then Lady Margaret said, in a kindly voice, “Do you wish to ride in the litter with me, child? You must be full tired of riding on that palfrey.”
As sore as she was, Mary had no desire to travel in the claustrophobic litter. “I am content to ride, My Lady,” she replied meekly. “But…”
Lady Margaret was a quick study and knew what ailed Mary besides grief. “Sir Thomas!” she bellowed. “A brief halt, if you will. We are nearing London Bridge; if we are to stop and rest before the procession into the city, we must do so now.”
Sir Thomas Brandon, King Henry’s Master of Horse, nodded to his nephew Charles, who rode along beside him, and Brandon cantered towards the front of the cavalcade to call the halt. It had been Mary’s only comfort that day, that she had had sight of Brandon throughout the ride. His behavior had been very proper; after briefly offering her his formal condolences as he had helped her to mount her palfrey before the cortege set out from Richmond Palace that morning, he had not so much as glanced at her. But the sight of his strong back on his horse just in front of her had been sustaining.
King Henry had lain in state at Richmond Palace for a full seventeen days after his death, while the royal funeral was planned. Finally, on the eighth day of May, the royal family and all Henry’s servants had set out for London, where the people waited to bid farewell to their king. A great host preceded the king’s chariot, which was draped with black velvet and that bore the elaborate coffin with its life-like effigy, crowned, sceptered, and securely seated on a throne below a canopy of cloth of gold. It was drawn by five great coursers trapped in black velvet with golden harness.
Leading the long column were the king’s standard bearers, the cloths bearing the royal arms of England fluttering in the breeze and providing almost the only color one could see; there followed the king’s messengers, dressed in black robes and with their leather dispatch boxes clutched close to their chests. They were followed by the king’s musicians; all his minstrels, trumpeters, and heralds marched dolefully in their black tabards with lowered heads. Then marched the king’s household ministers and special councilors. Behind these and closer still to the hearse rode the great nobles and peers, and the Knights of the Garter. But closest, symbolically close, were the spiritual lords; canons and friars, priests and abbots, and the Archbishop of Canterbury in full regalia, carrying his golden, jewel-encrusted crosier and swinging a censer from a golden chain that billowed the smoke of sweet-smelling incense.
Directly behind the hearse rode Prince Henry and the Duke of Buckingham; next rode the King’s Master of Horse, Sir Thomas Brandon and Sir Charles, his nephew. Just behind the men on their horses rode Mary and Katharine on identical white palfreys, looking ghostly amongst so much black. Lady Margaret’s black-draped litter, containing herself and old Lady Dacre, ambled along beside them. Behind the royal family there rode all the ladies and gentlemen of the court, swathed in the funeral colors of royal purple, black, and brown. The ornaments that relieved their stark dress were mostly conservative, but Mary blazed with diamonds and her jeweled net was covered with precious stones. Only the creamy color of the fine lawn fabric pulled through her sleeves relieved the tedium of her dark purple gown.
Behind the royal family and the court trod the foreign dignitaries who had already been resident at, or who had come directly to, Richmond Palace from the continent, followed by the Richmond guildsmen, merchants and tradesmen, all of whom had benefited from the proximity of the royal palace in their midst. Flanking all to left and to right were the black-clad King’s Guard, three hundred strong.
Black clouds had lowered as they set out, obscuring the sun and threatening a deluge, but it had not rained. All the day through thunder had rumbled off in the distance and sheet lightning had added to the eerie effect. The very air seemed charged. The only other sounds that could be heard were the dull thud of the horse’s hooves, the jingle of harness, the squeak of wheels, and an occasional sob from one of the women. There was a feeling of anticipation in the air, but of what?
Mary thought she knew. As she nodded gravely throughout the day to the common folk who lined the roads in silent salute to their dead king, Mary thought about the future. Grandmother Beaufort would rule as regent for ten weeks and then Henry would come of age. England was, wanted desperately to believe herself to be, on the verge of a golden age. Young Henry had been held a virtual prisoner by his father right up until the end, but the people had seen him on state occasions and knew that the future held for them the reign of this golden boy, this young prince, who would surely make England merry again.
King Henry the Seventh had brought peace to the land after a long and protracted period of the civil war, which in the years to come, would be known as the Wars of the Roses; he had stabilized the economy with judicious trade treaties, and his refusal to involve England in any foreign wars; he had assured the prosperity of the wool merchants, and through them, the entire country, with the marriage alliance with the Holy Roman Empire. He had been a good king, a just king, and the people mourned him sincerely. But his had been a sobering influence and his court had been without a queen for years. The people now looked to Prince Henry, the future Henry the Eighth, with hope that things were going to go now from good to better.
It took almost an hour to get the procession halted, the necessary errands accomplished, the horses watered and rested, and on the move again. It was full dusk as the company approached London Bridge. Despite the threatening dark purple clouds, it still had not rained; but a mist had risen and all was now very damp. Mary could feel the moisture clinging to her eyelashes and clothing. The light from thousands of torches and candles held by the crowd seemed suspended in the air, the glowing auras surrounding them adding a mystical element to the scene. Silently, the city officials fell in to lead the cortege on the final stage of its sad journey through the City of London to St. Paul’s Cathedral.
The Lord Mayor of London appeared just in front of the chariot bearing the coffin, carrying that symbol of his office, his mace. Somber-clad foreign dignitaries found their places with those who had made the journey from Richmond. Florentines, Flemings, Venetians, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Portuguese, and the handful of Eastern diplomats that graced Henry’s court proceeded in solemn array with downcast eyes.
As the cortege stepped onto the bridge, some unseen signal must have been given, because the city’s church bells began to ring, tolling dolefully for the dead king. By the time they were across the bridge and were wending their way through the narrow streets, the noise was deafening. Exhausted, Mary closed her eyes in the gathering darkness, trusting to her palfrey to follow the movement in front of it. It was a mistake; the swaying motion of the horse did its work and she awoke with a jerk realizing that she had dropped off to sleep. It was eerie to be amongst so many people, and to hear nothing but the bells; never had she seen a crowd so silent.
And then finally she was in front of the cathedral and strong hands were lifting her down from her horse for the procession up the stairs and into the church. It was Brandon, but she could barely see him in the gloom. His warm breath brushed her ear sending shivers up her spine as he whispered, “It has been a long day, Your Grace. Are you feeling quite all right?”
His strong hands on her waist, his warm lips brushing her ear, revived her as no food, no wine could have done. “I am well, thank you,” was all that she could manage to whisper back in her confusion. And then he was gone, having made his way to the litter to hand down Lady Margaret, who was very stiff indeed. He handed Lady Margaret off to Prince Henry, and then assisted Lady Dacre back onto her tottering feet.
