The Nymph from Heaven, page 26
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
A wraith-like figure answered his knock. A gaunt, hollow-eyed creature, soaked to the skin, hair awry, worked her lips but no sound came out. He had barely made the acquaintance of the French Queen and her ladies, their errand being urgent the morning they sailed, so he was unable to address the creature by name or by title. They had been only two hours out from Dover when the red sky had fulfilled its promise. The sky opened up and the fierce gale he had feared began to batter them. In no time at all he had lost sight of the other ships. But Captain Palmer had made this voyage countless times and, he believed, he could have sailed across the Channel alone and blindfolded in a coracle, and landed at Boulogne. Steadfastly he had stood at the wheel for two whole days, refusing to budge, sustaining himself on the hard ship’s biscuits and the sour Flanders wine that Ketchum brought him from time to time.
Those below decks had fared no better, it seemed. His eyes, adjusted now to the dim light, revealed a hellish scene, and an even more hellish odor. The Queen and her women lay like sodden heaps about the cabin. Every now and then a groan escaped invisible lips, adding to the mournful sound of the howling wind whistling through the spaces in the wooden hull. It was evident that several of them had tried, but failed, to keep down such food as they had been brought.
“My Lady,” said the captain. “I have come to enquire as to the state of Her Grace and all you ladies.” He bowed.
“All are now prostrate, Sir, as you can see,” she replied, waving a distraught hand to indicate the state of the cabin. Then she added mournfully, “All except myself and one serving wench.” Even now, Lady Guildford could not believe the turn affairs had taken. All through the first day, Mary had sought to stay on deck, saying she felt better in the fresh air. And it was so; as long as she was on the deck, she was fine. But the moment she went below decks, where the tossing to and fro was worse than anywhere else, she became green with seasickness, lying prostrate on her bunk and praying for death. All the women had long since heaved up anything solid they had eaten and, being unable to face even the hardtack or strips of salt beef that was all the galley could provide in such circumstances, had reverted to dry heaves. Only Mary had had the courage to face the slippery deck, and all that first day had engaged in a vicious cycle of breathing fresh air topside, and being in danger of being washed away, only to give way to the worried pleading of Meeks, the bosun, that it was not safe for her to be on deck, whereby she would go below, and be sick.
Every time Mary entered the cabin, soaked to the skin, and threw herself onto her bunk, she was aware of the incessant murmurings of Lady Guildford. In spite of the roar of the storm, the clanging of unseen ship’s bells, the rhythmic assault of the waves against the hull, the clatter of the rigging, the snap of the sails, she could still hear the steady clicking of rosary beads, and hear Lady Guildford’s sonorous Hail Marys.
Through a nightmare night and into the next morning, the ladies all groaned and wept, fearing death and yet convinced they would, at this point, welcome it, and still Lady Guildford’s beads clicked on. It was impossible to sleep. Finally, Lady Guildford had raised her eyes and looked about her. She was still alive. So were the others. But whereas all of the others were incapable now of standing or even sitting up, she was not a bit ill. She was frightened, certainly, but not sick. Now, for a day and a night, Lady Guildford had suppressed her own fears and had done her best to make the others comfortable. She had sought to keep them on their bunks and as dry as possible. She had been to the galley and come back with biscuits, helping, forcing each lady to eat just a little, and then she had held their heads over the copper basin when the inevitable result followed. This was the third dawn of this incredible phantasmagory; she was certain that none of them would survive another day.
Sizing up the situation in one glance, Captain Palmer decided that a little bolstering up was warranted. “Have no fear, My Lady,” he said. “The storm is fierce, but certain to die down soon. The wind has been true, if harsh, and I believe that we are on course and will arrive in Boulogne today.” He smiled. God forgive him the lie. It was more probable that they would all be dead on the Channel floor before the day was out.
The death’s head that had been Lady Guildford smiled back. Even in her condition, it transformed her. “Truly?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Captain Palmer, puffing out his chest. “Truly. God grant us all just a little more perseverance, My Lady, and all will be well, I promise.” After all, it could happen…
Boulogne, October 4, 1514
Mary had been suspended in that half-world she had inhabited for so long now, between sleeping and wakefulness, between darkness and light, between life and death. Had it not been for the constant gnawing in her belly she would have sworn that her soul had left its fleshly bounds. But it was always there, the pain of sickness. There was an intense hunger, for she had not eaten anything, had drunk only sips of well-watered wine for going on three days; the very thought of food was followed by an overwhelming nausea that brought on the dry heaves and she would retch fitfully into the basin; then that would subside and the pain would start all over again. At first she had been afraid to die; now she prayed fervently that she would. Only the thought of Brandon kept some unknown, unknowable part of her clinging to life.
Suddenly there was a great crash, and all of the wretched women, their individual sufferings forgotten for the moment, sat up and said in unison, “What was that?” The wind still buffeted the ship, the waves still crashed into her with alarming regularity, but something was different. Whereas before the rhythm of swell-and-pitch, swell-and-pitch, had been very dependable, now the vessel seemed to reel drunkenly, with no pattern to its movement. Perversely, this made Mary feel almost relieved for a few moments, but then her body adjusted to this new swirling motion, and the nausea rose once again.
“I will go to inquire,” shouted Lady Guildford. It was a pity; she had been able to sit on the end of Mary’s bunk for almost an hour, which had at least kept her legs out of the water that was now almost a foot deep in the cabin. She was not dry; that was impossible, but at least she felt less wet. Now she swung her legs around and plunged them back into the cold, dark water.
Incredibly, Lady Guildford found that she had completely lost her fear. She was convinced that she was going to die, and once that thought had settled in her mind, and she had ceased to fight it, she had become eerily calm. Even the thought of going topside into the teeth of the storm no longer frightened her.
But she was defeated by the heavy hatch; she could not budge it, try as she might. Frustrated, she gave it one last battering heave and, miraculously, it flung wide open. Then she realized why; the face of the captain stared down at her from above. “You must stay below, My Lady,” he bellowed. “It is too dangerous up here for you.”
Lady Guildford clung to the ladder in the wind. “What was that fearsome noise?” she shouted.
Captain Palmer hesitated for a fraction of a second, then thought better of it. If they were all to die, the ladies should not have to do so in ignorance. “We have lost the main mast,” he yelled. “You must have heard, or felt it, fall.”
Wordlessly, Lady Guildford descended the ladder and sloshed back to the cabin. So it was to be death after all despite the fragile hope that she had nurtured in her secret heart. And then she felt a sharp thud; all of a sudden the wind died and all became very quiet. She had been able to hear nothing for two and half days except the terrified screams and of the women, and the howling wind. Now she could hear little sounds, like the movement of the water inside the ship; the little slap, slap slap sound it made against the hull. The ship was moving differently now, too. It was rocking, gently, as if it were a giant cradle. It felt almost still.
# # #
It was late in the afternoon of the third day when the ship hit a sandbar and ran aground. Although Captain Palmer was devastated by the loss of his ship, it was this that probably saved all of their lives. The rain was falling gently now, for the wind had died to almost nothing. There was a thin mist, but after a few moments it cleared and he could see the shoreline. “Thanks be to God!” he shouted. “Thanks be to God! Meeks! Ketchum! Land ho!” He scrambled over the broken mast and the rigging, laughing like a boy.
“I canna’ believe it, sir!” answered Ketchum. “I wonder where it is we be, then?”
Captain Palmer snorted. “Tis the shores of Boulogne, or I’ll be a Frenchman myself!”
“Captain,” said a voice from behind. “May I make a suggestion?” It was Sir Christopher Garnyshe, one of the men of Mary’s suite. All of the gentlemen had made their brawn available to the captain in the crisis. Most of them had limited experience with the sea, but were still most useful, Sir Christopher among them. “There are still three undamaged longboats, Sir.”
That was one of the things that Captain Palmer admired so much about Sir Christopher; he had shown the captain, technically his inferior, nothing but the greatest respect, recognizing that while on board his ship in the teeth of a fearsome storm, only the captain’s word was law. “What do you suggest, then, Sir Christopher?”
“I must try to get the Queen to land, and all her ladies. I am no seaman and do not know how long this calm will last; but I am willing to try to get them all ashore as long as this respite favors us.”
Captain Palmer thought for a moment. It was a sensible suggestion. No matter where they were, surely these people, when they knew that it was their new queen and her suite come from England, would give them succor. “I agree, Sir Christopher. I will have my men prepare the first boat, if you will fetch Her Grace.”
And so it was that Mary, Queen of France, arrived on the shores of her new realm, carried in Sir Christopher’s arms, for the long boat had sustained more damage than had been visible, and had failed them just off shore. Drenched to the skin, bedraggled and nauseous, Mary still recognized her duty. As soon as he set her on her feet she turned to him, still clinging to his arms, and said, “Sir Christopher, I thank you. And tell the captain that all the men will be rewarded for their bravery.” With that, she inelegantly plopped down onto the sand on her hands and knees and was sick again.
Sir Christopher discreetly turned his back and shouted to the people running down to the beach, “Upon what shore have we landed, if you please?” A few people shrugged in confusion; they did not speak English. But then Sir Christopher saw two very tall men approaching, waving their arms. He hurried towards them. “I beg you,” he said. “Do you speak English? Upon what shore do we stand?”
“This is Boulogne, Mon Sieur,” said the taller of the two men. He was dressed in very fine clothes, and beside him stood a cardinal, by the look of his robes. “We have awaited the arrival of Queen Marie these past days. Her fleet is overdue.”
“We are the first to land, then?” asked Sir Christopher.
“Oui, the first ship in days,” said the Cardinal. “I am the Cardinal de Amboise, and this is the Duc de Vendome. And you are…?”
He bowed and said, “Sir Christopher Garnyshe, My Lords, at your service. Praise be to God! The captain was right! But I am forgetting the Queen…” He turned to see Mary, her dress ruined, her hair falling wet and stringy about her sodden shoulders, tottering towards them. Pale, forlorn, but still so very lovely, she smiled and said, “Thank you for looking out for our arrival, Mon Sieurs. I am Mary Tudor, Queen of France.”
In the blink of an eye the Duc and the Cardinal were on their knees in the sand, each fervently kissing a hand. With a slight tug, she indicated that they should rise, which the Cardinal, the elder of the two, did rather stiffly.
“With your permission, Your Grace, I must go and help the others,” said Sir Christopher. The other two longboats, more sound than the one in which Mary had been brought to shore, were just scraping the sand.
Mary nodded, and turned once again to the Duc and the Cardinal.
“Your Grace,” said the Duc, “We have feared for your safety for many days now. But we are prepared. A chamber awaits you in the house of a local gentlewoman, Madame de Verel. Let us escort you…”
“But…but…my ladies…my trunks…”
“All will be seen to,” said the Duc solicitously. “We must get you dry and warm now. Come, we will help you.”
Mary looked around at the scene on the beach. Mercifully, the rain had stopped, but the day was drawing to a close and the sky was still roiling with dark clouds. There was some clearing, just a narrow band, on the far horizon. As the sun set, there was a just a moment between its journey below the clouds, before it disappeared into the sea, when it filled the sky and turned the clouds an eerie golden red. In that flash of light Mary saw the dark skeleton of the ruined ship, the little figures moving like ants all along the shore. For just a moment, the sky now blood-red above them, they all resembled tortured figures writhing in the flames of hell. Then just as suddenly as it had flashed its last light between the clouds, the sun dipped below the horizon and all was blue, cold twilight. Mary shivered in her soaked dress as the breeze blew a gust along the shore. It was an inauspicious beginning to her reign as Queen of France.
Chapter 10
“I reckon I have of him the greatest jewel that ever one prince had of another.” - Louis XII, King of France
Abbeville, France, October 1514
It was a wonderfully cool, crisp morning, with a sky bluer than a robin’s egg. As the royal party set out from the gates of Abbeville, doves mourned and larks called in the woods. The horses frisked and their breath made little steam clouds that rose and then disappeared. François, Duc d’Orleans, Duc d’Bretagne, Duc d’Valois, and Comte d’Angouleme, considered this morning’s errand with mixed feelings. For he was also the Dauphin, the heir to the throne of France, a position many times threatened over the years, but of late, seemingly unassailable.
The queen, Anne of Brittany, was dead, having given up the ghost in January. She had vociferously opposed François’ match with her daughter, Claude, heiress to Brittany through her, who was also Brittany’s Duchesse. But with the queen gone there had been nothing to stand in the way of the match, and by May François had wed King Louis’ daughter, further consolidating his position as heir to the throne of France. The Princess Claude was now five months gone with his child. All had seemed assured. François would inherit France from his uncle, he would rule Brittany by right of his marriage to Claude, and France would remain united. And now this.
He would never forget the day, not so long ago, when his mother, Louise of Savoy, had called him and his sister Marguerite to her side, to hear the news that their Uncle Louis, the King of France, intended to remarry. His mother had railed and cried; but she would do so only in front of her precious, trusted children. To everyone else she presented that icy exterior, that expressionless mask, that made everyone wonder what went on in her devious brain.
How was it possible, François wondered? Louis, to marry again, he who had been so distraught over the death of his beloved Queen Anne only eight months earlier? The little trinity of Savoyards, Louise, Marguerite and François, had agonized over Anne’s every pregnancy, fearing that she would bear a male child who lived, which would dash their hopes for François. When Queen Anne died, far from mourning her, an unlovable woman in any case, they had rejoiced. François’ position as Dauphin was now assured, and Louis was in ill health. He wished to die; he did not want to live without Queen Anne, he had said so himself. The way was clear, and the end of the long struggle was finally in sight.
Now here he was on this crystal blue morning, riding to greet his own nemesis, the woman who was Louis’ revenge incarnate on himself and his mother. She was rumored to be beautiful, and François was very susceptible to beauty. But Mary Tudor would have to be a goddess indeed to appeal to him, she who was about to upset all of his mother’s careful plans, she who was about to relegate him to obscurity, he who would have been, should have been, king of France.
François looked about him. His courtiers were all dressed in their finest clothes, but none could outshine him. He was dressed in his favorite cloth of silver pulled with cloth of gold. He wore a black velvet cap adorned with a pheasant’s feather and a diamond brooch. His horse was draped with cloth of gold, and his harness was silver gilt. Rings glittered from every finger. His best friends rode at his side; Robert de la Marck, the Sieur de Fleuranges, and his dear Antoine, the Duc de Lorraine. They, too, were dressed sumptuously. They would show these barbaric English how to put on a show, and no mistake.
“It is a lovely day for our errand, Your Highness,” remarked Fleuranges. He could see that his friend was brooding, and sought to distract his mind. “She is sure to be a hag, you know,” he said with a laugh. “Princesses who are reputed to be beautiful rarely are.”
François snorted. “She will have to be a siren indeed to inspire virility in the king,” he said. “I have it on the very best authority that he is not capable of a son. Since that is the reason for this whole charade, I am certain that we have nothing to fear.”
“You are right, I trow,” replied Fleuranges. “What authority?”
“I cannot reveal the source of my information,” said François enigmatically. “But all will be well. There is nothing to fear.”
Fleuranges said nothing and kept his eyes on the horizon. He knew that François was whistling in the dark, as it were. His words were meant to convince and reassure himself, not Fleuranges.
François let out a heavy sigh. “I must admit, my dear Fleuranges, that this marriage has pierced me to the heart.”
“I know it. And I am sorry.”
“There is no need for sorrow, my friend. It was ordained before my birth that I would rule France, and rule France I shall. And neither Louis nor his new love will gainsay me.” The men rode on in silence.
It was just on noon when Fleuranges, who had very subtle hearing, stiffened in his saddle and cocked his head.
