The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The king had stopped very close to Cromwell in his incessant pacing; Cromwell took the liberty of placing a soothing hand upon the king’s sleeve. “Get you another child on the queen, Sire. You are both young. And the task is not so unpleasant, eh?”

  Henry shrank back from Cromwell’s hand as the latter smiled leeringly; there was much that Henry liked and admired in Cromwell, but he decided that the man simply should not smile. He suppressed a shudder, and began his pacing again so that Cromwell would have to remove his hand.

  “All right, then,” Henry replied. “But what shall we do about this?” He snatched up the offending parchment and regarded it distastefully, then dashed it to the floor. It landed seal-first with a mighty crash. The blood-red seal shattered, its pieces flying in all directions.

  Cromwell looked thoughtful. Henry had planned a most elaborate celebration for the birth of the prince he had expected. The king, when informed by a trembling Norfolk of the birth of the princess, had reared up in all his Tudor fury and raged in his disappointment at Norfolk, at Anne, at Cromwell, at everyone in his path, for days afterward. The feasts and banquets, the games and jousts, the firing of the Tower cannon, and the bonfires, had all been cancelled. The only part of the ceremonial that had not been was, of course, the child’s christening. That had proceeded as planned, with the new princess wearing the ornate gown and bejeweled cap that should have been her brother’s, made of the finest purple velvet, trimmed with ermine and sewn with thousands of tiny seed pearls. The solemn ritual had taken place with all the peers of the realm in attendance at the silver baptismal font reserved for royal infants.

  Cromwell had tried in vain to convince the angry king not to show the world his distress over the sex of the child; he had tried to impress upon Henry how all would gloat at his discomfiture; but it was like trying to hold back the tide. But now that the king was calmer, perhaps this was an opportunity to rectify that breach in the royal reserve.

  “Your Grace,” said Cromwell carefully. “I believe that the Almighty is simply testing you. You have been unlucky in this matter of begetting an heir. But was not Job similarly tested? Did not that man also long to abandon hope in the face of adversity and give in to despair? And did not God bless Job in his latter days, and restore to him his goods? What I mean is, Your Grace, if you and Her Grace can beget a healthy, lively girl, then surely the sons will follow. You must just be patient a little while longer.”

  Henry appeared dumbstruck. “Of course!” he said. “Of course, you are right! Dear Cromwell! That shall be our tack. God only tries sorely those whom He loves most, eh? And who should He love better than His own anointed? I see. I agree with you. And where the devil is Fitzroy? Why dallies he so long in France? Did you not send my summons to him to come home?”

  Cromwell blinked again; the non-sequitur had caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly. He was just beginning to accustom himself to Henry’s jackdaw brain.

  “I did send for him, Your Grace. The messenger was dispatched within an hour of your request.”

  “Then where is the lad?”

  Cromwell hesitated. How much had the king heard about Fitzroy’s behavior in France? How much did he know? “I believe, Your Grace, that the earl of Richmond has become such fast friends with the dauphin and his royal brother that they are finding it hard to part with his company.”

  Henry guffawed. “Fast friends, indeed! They are hellions, all three of them, and their behavior has been abominable. Each fueling the other to greater misdeeds, I dare say.”

  So the king did know about his bastard son’s exploits on the continent. That was as well, then; Cromwell did not want to have to be the one to inform him that the three princes spent their days in the brothels of Paris and their nights terrorizing the countryside, raping, burning farms and killing livestock for sport. Cromwell noticed that the king was smiling to himself. Perhaps he enjoyed vicariously Fitzroy’s adventures. After all, Henry had been groomed for the clergy until the death of his older brother Arthur had thrust onto him the role of heir to the throne, and after that he had been kept a virtual prisoner by his father, Henry VII, for fear of the safety of his only surviving son. So Henry had had neither the inclination, nor the opportunity, to sow his wild oats.

  “Well, send for him again. And this time send an escort to fetch him back. I want the boy here.” Yes, that would teach that shrew of a wife of his a lesson! Giving him a girl! Let Anne gaze each day upon the face of his son to remind her that he was capable of fathering boys, even if she was not capable of bearing them! Suddenly in his pacing his foot came down upon a piece of the red seal and it gave a loud crack; this brought his thoughts back to Clement’s decree.

  “But what shall we do about Clement’s damnable decree, Thomas? Surely we cannot simply ignore it?”

  Cromwell felt himself relax; he had not realized until now that he had been strung as tight as a bow. One never knew which way the wind would blow when one disagreed with the king. Cromwell knew that whereas Henry had once loved the queen, now he loathed her. He wished to be rid of her. But now was not the time; and he had had the temerity to say this to his king! He who had begun life as a humble merchant’s son, was now beloved of the king, who depended upon his advice! But as soon as the feeling of pride began to swell in his breast Cromwell fought it back. Did not the bible say that Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall? He should stick to the matter at hand.

  “I believe, Your Grace, that rather than directly rebutting the Bishop of Rome’s decree, we should instead make a public show of support for the Princess Elizabeth,” he said. “Not just in terms of her own aggrandizement, but in terms of the Lady Mary as well. This will demonstrate to Clement and to all of Christendom that we in England care not a fig for such as this.” A large chunk of the red wax seal lay near his foot; he kicked it derisively.

  Henry smiled his slow smile as understanding dawned. “Ye-es, he said slowly. “Yes, I see. What have you in mind?”

  New Hall, Essex, December 1533

  A frigid draft whistled in through the open door, its icy fingers searching through the cloth of her gown. Mary tried to suppress a shiver. She wore no cloak or gloves; her feet were encased in flimsy silk house shoes. From all outward appearances, one would conclude that she had planned to spend this cold, winter’s day inside, in a chair by the fire. Except that there was no fire in the hearth, and the furniture in the room was covered with linen.

  Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, regarded Mary distastefully from across the room. A most difficult girl! Just like her mother, Katharine of Aragon, that old bitch! The king was married to his niece Anne, who had borne him a child. The deed was done. Regardless of the duke’s personal feelings for Anne, whom he thought a flighty, high strung, shrewish piece with little to recommend her to any man, the king had seen whatever it was that he could not and had wed her, in spite of the opinion of the Christian world that he was not free to do so. So why could not these two recalcitrant women admit defeat and leave the field clear for another?

  “My Lady, you cannot stay here. You must ready yourself for the journey,” said Norfolk, with just a hint of impatience in his voice.

  Mary rounded on him, her eyes narrowed and her voice hissing in barely a whisper. “Pole,” she said to the countess of Salisbury. “Please inform the duke that I will not have speech with those who will not address me correctly.”

  At this Norfolk did lose his temper. “Oh, come, Madam, spare me this mummery! We have a long journey before us and the weather is foul.” He turned to Lady Margaret, who, being older and wiser, he hoped might have more sense than to encourage Mary in her stubbornness. “If Her Highness is not properly dressed and ready to depart within the hour, I shall be forced to drag her bodily to the litter as she is. Do I make myself clear?” He turned once again to Mary. Her defiant expression, characterized by her narrowed, glittering eyes, out-thrust chin, and pursed lips, made him angrier still. He strode up to her and bent unt
il his face was only inches from her own.

  “You are the bastard daughter of an innocent king and a strumpet who once thought herself queen of England. No more and no less. You are nothing more than the bastard Lady Mary, who must depend for succor upon the mercy of the king, your father. I will tell you this, girl; if you were my daughter I would beat your head against the stone of this wall until it was as soft as a baked apple! Now, go do as I have bid you, and do so now!” As he spoke his voice had risen until this last came out in a spiteful roar.

  Lady Salisbury, who was descended from Edward the Fourth, Plantagenet, strode up to the angry duke and stood facing him at eye level. “Now see you here,” she said. “This girl is still the daughter of a king, and no one, including you, my lord duke, has leave to speak to her thus! And I will have you know that whatever else the fearful, misguided souls in this realm believe or do not believe about Katharine of Aragon, she is still a royal princess of Spain, and I will not have her spoken of in such a disrespectful manner in my presence!”

  Norfolk sneered and ignored the countess, turning instead to address Mary.

  Before he could speak she fixed her eyes upon a point just above his head and said, “I am a Princess of England. This is a title which belongs to me by right of blood and birth and to no one else. As God is my witness, I have never said, done, or condoned anything detrimental to my status as princess.”

  Norfolk crossed him arms on his chest and snorted. “Do not think to sway me from my purpose by parroting the words of the Imperial ambassador at me, girl. I have not come thither to dispute, but to see the king’s wishes accomplished. You will dress and you will get into yon litter, or I will bind your hands and tie you to its tail and you may walk all the way to Hatfield for all I care! But go to Hatfield you shall, and you will leave with me this day.”

  Mary glanced at Lady Margaret, who nodded slightly. There was nothing her governess could do to help her in this situation, except to defend her with words. Her mother had told her that she must obey her father, the king, in all things, save those which touched her conscience. And good Chapuys had crafted her speech of protest, and bid her recite it whenever she found herself in these situations. She must never, ever, appear by word or deed to be agreeing to or condoning any diminution of her royal status. But her grandmother, the warrior queen Isabella, had said that even the bravest soldier must sometimes retreat, that he may live to fight another day.

  “Well, then,” Mary replied. “If the king wishes it to be so, I will submit to his will. But let it be known that I do so under protest against whatever might be done to my prejudice.”

  Norfolk rolled his eyes and waved the two women out the door. “Yes, yes,” he said. “There has been enough discussion. Let us away before the roads become impassable.”

  Mary stopped in the doorway and looked around at the beautiful room, her favorite at New Hall, which some still called the Palace of Beaulieu. When would she see it again? Would she ever? Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought. Almost to herself she asked, “What is to become of my manor of Newhall?”

  Norfolk, thinking that Mary had addressed him, replied to her query venomously. “That need not concern you, my lady. It shall be well cared for, I assure you. It has been gifted by His Grace the king to my nephew, George Boleyn, as you will have no further use for it.”

  So that was it! she thought. It all comes back to Anne. This was Anne’s doing, not her father’s. Reports from court, which she received sporadically, indicated that all was not well between her father and his concubine, but perhaps the gossip was not to be believed after all. It appeared that Anne still had enough power and influence with the king to have his daughter stripped of her lands and titles. But to make her a lady-in-waiting to Anne’s bastard daughter was the final insult. No, that was not quite true; the final insult was that her bastard sister Elizabeth was now styled princess in her stead.

  And under whose care was she to be placed in this ignominious situation? That of the Lady Anne Shelton, who was none other than Anne Boleyn’s paternal aunt! Just what sort of treatment she could expect under that lady’s auspices, Mary feared she knew. And to have to go to Hatfield without her beloved Pole! If Anne Boleyn wished to demoralize her, to demean her, she could not have chosen a better way! And her own father had agreed to visit this fate upon her!

  But Mary was not really surprised at the turn events had taken. The handwriting had been on the wall in August when the Countess of Salisbury received a request from Thomas Cromwell for an inventory of all her possessions. Lady Margaret had been incensed, and had grumbled all through the exercise. But she had provided a complete and thorough list of everything her charge owned, down to the very coins in her privy purse.

  Then in September men had come to strip her of her livery. Every last item that contained her escutcheon or her colors of blue and green had been confiscated or replaced, the new items bearing simply the green and white of the Tudors. It was a calculated insult.

  But worse was to come. Later that month first the earl of Oxford had been sent to rail at her about her reluctance to accept the new order of things, and hard on his heels Lord Hussey had arrived to insist that she, and all her household, cease to use her title of princess.

  Mary paused in her musings to consider that these events had taken place just after the birth of her half-sister, Elizabeth, after the pope had sent his decree declaring her father’s “marriage” to Anne Boleyn null and void, making Elizabeth a bastard in the eyes of the Christian world. Perhaps her father’s actions were aimed less at making her unhappy than they were about making it appear that he stood by his marriage and his new heir? Mayhap; but if that were so, why not stop there? He had made his point. Why send the obnoxious Norfolk along in October to announce that her household was to be disbanded, that she was to be deprived of her beloved governess, and was to be sent to Hatfield to wait upon her new sister? Surely, she concluded once again, these things had to be Anne’s doing.

  # # #

  The road to Hatfield was long, cold, and dreary. Lady Margaret shared her doleful litter, stripped of its royal escutcheon, for only a brief two days before the countess and her little party turned off towards her own residence of Warblington in east Hampshire, leaving Mary to make the journey north to Hatfield with only her own glum thoughts for company.

  Upon her arrival at Hatfield in Hertfordshire, Lady Shelton had been haughty and rude to her. This boded ill for her time there, which seemed to stretch out before her in a long, miserable, never-ending vista.

  After Norfolk had delivered his angry charge into the tender mercies of Lady Shelton’s hands, he asked Mary if she had any message for the king, her father.

  “Commend me unto His Grace,” she said, “and tell him that his humble daughter, the Princess Mary, asks for his blessing.”

  “Hmph,” grunted Norfolk. “I will not deliver such a message to His Grace.”

  Mary looked the duke up and down scornfully. “Then I pray you go and leave me alone,” she replied.

  And then the darkest of her dark days began.

  Segovia, Spain, January 1534

  The day was chill; a fire crackled on the hearth of the emperor’s presence chamber. Charles was old-fashioned; the wind-eyes of the old castle were still open to the weather. An occasional blast of cold air whipped through them, but he did not mind it, for borne on the frigid wind was also the pleasing sound of his son, Prince Philip, and the sons of his nobles who were the prince’s companions, practicing their mock battles on the parade ground below.

  At six, Philip was already a solemn boy, taking pleasure only in his studies, his prayers and his physical pursuits. The heir to Charles’ vast dominions was so far an indifferent swordsman, but there would be others to fight his battles for him. Philip was good with horses, and that mattered more. As always, Charles sent a silent prayer up to the heavens to make the years speed by so that he could heave the burden of rule onto the shoulders of his son.

  Sud
denly a log snapped in the fireplace, throwing a spark out onto the floor. Charles watched as the ember flared bright red, then died to cold ash. Watching it made him think of Mary, whose short life had also flashed brilliantly and then faded away. At the thought of his lost love, Charles’ hand went instinctively to his breast, where he wore, and had worn since he was nine years old, a miniature of Mary Tudor around his neck on a thin gold chain.

  Mary had been dead for seven months now; he still could not quite believe it.

  Chapuys was not due to arrive for several more minutes; there was just time. Charles withdrew the little portrait from where it lay on his chest under his doublet. He opened the locket reverently and there she was before him, the colors of the little painting still vibrant and alive after all these years.

  Henry Tudor’s younger sister Mary had been an extraordinary beauty, with her silvery-golden hair, her gray-blue eyes, her creamy skin and her pink rosebud lips. Charles had fallen in love with her instantly the first time he beheld her portrait, sent to him so that he could become acquainted with his betrothed, albeit from afar. Alas that Mary had been older than he, instead of the other way around! He had been only a boy at the time of their betrothal, their proposed match a political one.

  His grandfather Maximillian, who had been Holy Roman Emperor then, had even toyed with the idea of marrying Mary himself. He would seize the little wooden frame from Charles’ hands and leer at the beautiful face in the painting, saying that she was far too good for Charles and that he would have her for himself. The thought of the beautiful English princess in his grandfather’s bed, her creamy naked legs entwined with Maximillian’s withered limbs, had made Charles feel murderous. But in the end it was not to his grandfather to whom he had lost Mary, it was to another powerful old man, King Louis the Twelfth of France.

  But losing Mary had been inevitable, Charles supposed. Their betrothal had stretched on for five long years, waiting for Charles to become marriageable. In that summer of 1514 Mary had been nineteen and he only not quite fifteen. The difference in their ages was not great, but it was on the wrong side; glaringly so once Mary had reached such an age. His ministers advised more delay; his grandfather, fool that he was, had done all in his power to tweak the young king of England’s nose. Between them they had lost Mary for him. But to marry her to Louis, that pocky old man!