Six of One (4 page)

“Especially young Henry’s,” replied Elizabeth. “He was always your favorite amongst my children.”

“You know I preferred little boys to little girls. I
always
did, I suppose because my own child was a boy. Your oldest boy, Arthur, was a nice-enough child—but that silly name you went and gave him!
Henry
—now
that
was a name I could conjure with. I chose Henry’s tutor the most carefully of all. John Skelton was perfect for the job. Do you not agree, Elizabeth?”

“In terms of erudition, education, literary merit, yes, I agree. Skelton was such a prankster, though. I often wonder if his pawkiness wasn’t a bad influence on young Henry.”

“Certainly not!” countered the old woman, with spirit. “I chose Skelton
because
of his sense of humor. Too serious a man would never have gotten through to Henry the way Skelton did. Besides, I knew Skelton well, from way back. He knew just where to draw the line with his pranks. The man worshipped me from afar, you know, during his Cambridge days. I was the University’s patroness, and he paid chaste court to me like an old-time troubadour. How the man could make me laugh! He used to call me “Merry Margaret.” When I chastised him for flirting with such a mature woman as I was by that time, he said that I was lovely as a flower in midsummer. I felt like quite the hussy in his company, but he never crossed the line of courtly love and chivalry.”

The phrases were familiar to me; they were from John Skelton’s charming “To Mistress Margaret Hussey” (“Merry Margaret, as midsummer flower, gentle as a falcon, or hawk of the tower, with solace and gladness, much mirth and no madness”). That sweet, lighthearted sonnet had been written covertly for Margaret Beaufort, the wizened old lady I saw before me? I supposed it was possible; stranger things had happened—and stranger ones were about to.

“Mother-in-law, your service to my husband, to me, and to our children was stellar. You were like a bastion for our family; my husband, the king, always said so.”

The old woman was reedy and gaunt, all passion spent. She could not have looked less like a bastion if she tried, although that gabled headdress of hers could have passed muster on its own merits.

“They weren’t easy, those bastion years, especially when my son, Henry, was in exile overseas. I missed him so, even though I knew he was safe with my brother-in-law, Jasper Tudor, watching over him. Jasper was quite smitten with me when I was married to his brother, you know, so he would never let anything happen to my son, if only for my sake. Even so, it was good of my son, the king, to appreciate my own efforts on his behalf.”

“It wasn’t just your son who appreciated your efforts. Everyone at court spoke highly of you. Everyone, that is, except the Spanish ambassador.”

“The Spanish ambassador? What had he to say?”

“He said that you reminded him of a Spanish farthingale because you were—pardon my language—‘hard-assed and difficult to get around.’”

“The Spanish ambassador, faugh! The man was like a padded codpiece—all puffed up, but really small stuff on the inside.”

“The king didn’t like the man either. So obsequious! He said the Spanish ambassador was like his doublet and hose—always up his ass.”

I am sure you know, gentle reader, how it is when you just cannot smother a laugh. Even if you manage to maintain silence, the spasms give you away. My cover was blown, and the long night was about to begin in earnest.

Chapter Six

“Dissemblance, Ah Me!” or “Is That
a Resemblance I See?”

Margaret Beaufort, the mother-in-law, was the first of the two to speak to me. “So, you are finally awake. What amuses you so much that you laugh in the presence of a king’s mother and a queen, neither of whom is laughing herself?”

“I meant no disrespect,” I said. “It wasn’t the farthingale joke I was laughing about, honestly; it was the codpiece image.”

I castigated myself for this fib with a silent “liar, liar, pants on fire” until I remembered that my wardrobe for the evening had been reduced to that nightdress alone. There was nothing else, not even panties. I suddenly felt quite vulnerable.

“We will continue our discourse as soon as you compose yourself,” said Margaret Beaufort.

I took a deep breath, sat up a little bit in my bed, and smoothed my hair. I was not quite sure how to address royalty. Your Majesties? My Ladies? I took the avoidant way out by foregoing salutations altogether.

“The last thing I remember,” I said, “is passing out at my bachelorette party the night before my wedding. What day is this? Where am I, and how did I get here? I have got to hop to it; I have elaborate wedding plans to execute—if it isn’t too late already!”

The king’s mother and the queen were both banging away on the bedpost now, knocking as if for dear life. “What did I say?” I asked.

“‘Execute’ is not a word we bandy about lightly here,” explained Elizabeth.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “I shall be more careful about that going forward.” I decided at that point to play along with the Tudor Fantasia theme that was going on around me, even if I was not quite sure how I had gotten in the middle of it or what it all meant. I thought that it must be some kind of Renaissance Faire cabaret, organized by my bridesmaids in honor of my Tudor leanings. I acknowledged to myself that it might even be amusing some
other
time—like when I did not have a wedding dress waiting for me to be buttoned into it, bridesmaids to be chivied, a groom waiting for me at the altar, guests to be mingled with, and a plane to London to catch, all in short order.

“I promise to make my best effort not to say the ‘E’ word again, if you will oblige to tell me exactly what is going on. Did my bridesmaids arrange one of those ‘night in a medieval castle’ packages for me as part of the bachelorette festivities? Is
that
it? I must say, they did a bang-up job! This is the most authentic reenactment I have ever seen, and that is a compliment coming from me. Did I mention that I am a history professor?”

“Your friends do not know you are here. No one knows you are here. You need not worry though—you are quite safe. You will return from whence you came in plenty of time for your nuptials, if you should decide to exe—sorry, to
proceed with
—them after we have all had a chance to speak with you,” Margaret replied authoritatively.

“
If
’
?
All?
How many performers are there here, and what are they going to try to pull over on me? Can we get on with this so that I can get out of here before too much more time goes by?”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, Dolly. You must allow me to explain things to you.” As the old woman spoke, she reminded me more and more of Harry’s grandma. This made me disposed to like her, in spite of the circumstances. “My daughter-in-law and I are, so to speak, the gatekeepers here. Think of us as the ones who lowered the drawbridge for you upon your arrival.”

“I’m most beholden to you, I am sure,” I said. “But crossing your moat doesn’t exactly float my boat. And spending the entire night here is definitely
not
on my table d’hÙte.”

“You must have a little patience, Dolly. The fact of the matter is that you
are
here for the night; there is no escaping it. You may consider the drawbridge raised for the next several hours.”

Not being much of a diver or a swimmer, I did not see escape in my immediate future, so I listened intently as Margaret continued. “It is imperative that you understand what my daughter-in-law and I have to tell you before you move on to everything else that awaits you here tonight.”

“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation about Henry VII, the death of his son Prince Arthur, the death in childbirth of his wife, Elizabeth of York, the ascension of his second son, Henry VIII, to the throne, and the fates of Henry VIII’s wives. That is seductively familiar territory to me because of my research work—also because of the uncanny coincidental turn my personal life has taken toward my work. If nothing else, the names would have caught my attention. My fiancé’s name is Henry, although everyone calls him Harry. My future mother-in-law’s name is Elizabeth. She had a son, Arthur, who died young. And my fiancé, like your own grandson, has been married six times before.”

The elderly Margaret, worn out by the vicissitudes of the evening, deferred to her daughter-in-law with a meaningful glance. Bearing down on me, Elizabeth spoke.

“Dolly, look me in the face. Do not turn away. Tell me the truth. Tell
yourself
the truth. You’ve met me before, haven’t you?”

The woman in the incredible, red-velvet Queen of Hearts costume had her hands on my shoulders and her face inches away from my own. Her costume was so arresting that I hadn’t looked closely at her face until that moment. There was no denying that she looked
a lot
like Elizabeth, Harry’s mother.
My
Harry’s mother.

“You look a lot like my future mother-in-law,” I acknowledged, trying to appear calm and collected despite a growing angst. “Wait a minute!
Are
you my future mother-in-law? Elizabeth, is that you, talked into this Tudor-road-show stunt and that incredible costume by my cunning bridesmaids? No, it couldn’t be—
could
it?”

Whoever she was, the woman in the Queen of Hearts costume waxed enigmatic. “I may become your mother-in-law…and I may not. Harry may become your husband tomorrow…or he may not. Dolly, you must apprehend that your Harry and our Henry VIII are the same man, cosmically speaking. And that is only the beginning of what is in the cards. You must appreciate that there is more than mere coincidence at play here.”

Fine words, coming from a woman dressed like the Queen of Hearts. At the time, I thought that she was making much ado about a little déjà vu—but that was because I didn’t have a clue about what was
really
abrew.

Chapter Seven

Dolly Gets Her Sea Legs Back—and
Loses Them Forthwith

When a professor of Tudor history takes on a man with six ex-wives, she has to prepare herself for raised eyebrows and a lot of jibing. My family and friends delivered the goods, along with a heaping helping of advice: “Sure there are six of them, but they didn’t get
all
his money. He has enough left over to be a good catch.
You’re not getting any younger
—go for it!” said the budget-minded Kath.

My friends in academia were a little harder to reconcile. My fellow history professors reminded me that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived,” they recited. “You are too immersed in your work. You need professional help!” said my friends in the Psychology Department. The Social Work School tried to find me the right support group, but the closest they could get to it was Gambler’s Anonymous.

In the end, I spent a soul-searching afternoon with my spiritual friends in the Theology Department who contributed a cautionary reminder about what happened to Sir Thomas More when he tangled with Henry VIII. As you can see, I’d become accustomed to people pointing out the Harry-Henry VIII parallels, as if I could not see them for myself; so I felt that a wedding-eve rehash of all this fell into the category of “a day late and a dollar short”—surely, the time for this kind of thing had passed. I also thought that it was taking unfair advantage to hit me with it when I was alone in a strange place, in a strange nightdress, flat on my back with no panties on and the Queen of Hearts pinning me to the bed by my shoulders.

“Look,” I said to the one-woman, red-velvet restraint team, “I’ve got bride things to do. I am willing to see this Renny Faire performance through if my friends took the trouble to arrange it, but let’s move it along. You must let me up, and let me get into my own clothes.”

“Your nightdress
is
yours, Dolly. Get out of bed and look at it. Don’t you recognize it?”

I got out of bed and stood up. Looking down at the garment in question, I actually
did
recognize it. Molly Rose had given it to me only the day before as a shower gift. It was a beautiful, billowing, old-fashioned chemise, white handkerchief linen, fully floor length, and gathered at the neck and sleeves. She had also given me one just like it—only much larger, of course—for Harry. “Honeymoon gear for a history professor,” she had said. I didn’t know how they had gotten me out of my little black dress and into the big white one, but there was a looking glass on the far wall, and I could see that I looked quite lovely in it. It also felt good to be up on my feet again, a much less vulnerable position to be in; it gave me the confidence to speak a bit more assertively.

“You said that I had to understand what you two have to tell me in order for you to move ahead with your performance. I’ve already repeated your story back to you, so what’s the holdup?”

“Repeating the story, Dolly, is not exactly what we had in mind. It is our hope that you will learn to approach it in a new way entirely. We do not expect you to grasp all the concepts this early in your visit here. There are more women of the court for you to meet, and, like you, we want to move things along. My mother-in-law and I will endeavor to be as expeditious as possible.”

The women rose as if to exit, and I had to acknowledge that suddenly, I felt a little frightened again. It was almost as though having these mother figures with me had made me into a child again. In fact, I was not at all sure that I wanted to be left without them.

“Wait a minute! Are you two going to leave me here all alone?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to stay long enough to at least introduce me to the people I’m going to meet next?”

“You will meet the others as you go. They will handle their own introductions.”

“But my mother told me never, ever to talk to strangers!”

“They will not exactly be strangers to you, Dolly,” said Margaret. “You will see.”

“Well,” I began, playing for time, “my mother always told me that you can’t be too careful when you’re in a strange place. My mother was a very wise woman, you know. I’ve generally found her advice to be pretty sound.”

“I’m sure I would have approved of her, had I known her,” said Margaret graciously.

“Did she share any other advice with you, Dolly?” asked Elizabeth. “My own mother’s advice was well meant, but generally not very good.”

“Yes,” I answered. “Mother shared a world of advice with me. Some of it was the usual mother stuff, like marrying a doctor or wearing clean underwear—assuming you’re wearing any at all. Mother had more wide-ranging and esoteric advice as well.”

“Such as?”

“Well, mother always used to say, ‘If the house is filled with dread, place the beds at head-to-head.’”

“Really? Too bad they didn’t think to do that when Ann Boleyn first arrived here.”

“Mother also said, ‘Turn a mattress from foot to head, and you will never wed.’”

“Your mother seems to have been quite absorbed with beds.”

“Oh, she had other interests as well: fashion, for example. ‘Marry in red, and you’ll wish you were dead; marry in gray, and you’ll go far away.’ Mother was spot-on there; my wedding dress is a pale dove gray, and Harry and I are moving to England directly after the reception,” I said.

“It would seem that you get your propensity to rhyme from your mother, Dolly,” Elizabeth said fondly.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Rhyming
does
rather run in my family. At family reunions, I would gather with all my cousins, and we would make rhymes by the dozens. When it would get too much for mother, she would tell us that loose lips sink ships. She had some other nautical advice as well: ‘Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.’”

“What a coincidence! I gave the same advice to my two little brothers when my husband, Henry VII, sent them to sea,” said Elizabeth.

I found that one to be quite a poser. Elizabeth of York’s little brothers were Edward V and Richard, Duke of York, the legendary “Princes in the Tower.” The story goes that the boys were imprisoned in the Tower of London by their evil uncle, Richard, at the ages of thirteen and ten, respectively, just after their father, King Edward IV, had died. No one ever saw them again outside of the tower, and all mention of them ceased around 1483. The fates of the boys have remained a mystery. Most believe that either Evil Uncle Richard or their future brother-in-law, Henry VII, had them murdered and buried in the tower to clear his own path to the throne of England. Some believe that they died of natural causes in the tower. The skeletal remains of two children found within the tower centuries later would seem to confirm either theory, but history has never been entirely certain.

My professional interest aroused once again, I just
had
to ask.

“‘Put them to sea’? Is that a metaphor for the ultimate price? Was it Henry VII who had the boys killed in the tower, and not Evil Uncle Richard?”

Elizabeth assured me that on this occasion, she was being perfectly direct. “My brothers,” she said, “were
not
murdered, not by Uncle Richard or by Henry VII. It is as I told you: they went to sea.”