The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The thought that he had orchestrated Anne’s downfall had done nothing but add to his horror when he watched in frozen fascination as the headsman lifted and swung his mighty sword in a two-handed grip. It had been all he could do to remain upright and to keep his face expressionless. He had come near to fainting, he knew, because he felt the blood drain from his face almost as quickly as Anne’s blood left her body in that great arcing geyser. Revenge was sweet, but God Almighty, he wished he could have enjoyed it from a distance. If only he could be more like the king, who celebrated his triumphs with a bluff enjoyment that never seemed a bit forced, no matter what the unpleasant consequences for the vanquished. Henry seemed capable of just stepping over the bodies, metaphorically of course, and going his merry way without a second thought or a backward glance. Cromwell could have done the same had it not been for his squeamish stomach and his bounden duty to witness the spectacle of death. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks to St. Michael and all his angels that none of the men had been drawn and quartered. He might not have survived witnessing that with his reason intact.

  Only the knowledge that it had been him or Anne came between him and incipient madness. The sight of another human being suffering such a brutal death frightened him unspeakably, but the thought of his own head being lopped from his neck was enough to send him into a blind panic. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, forced his hand to steadiness and resolutely picked up the mug of ale. This time, his hand was steadier and he was able to take a long draught and swallow past the lump in his throat. He would be better now. Better Anne than him.

  The road from London to Hunsdon, May 1536

  The sky was still a dark indigo blue, jeweled by the light of a million tiny stars, as the carriage pulled away from the Tower of London. The days of May had so far been pleasant and warm, but the nights were chill. Lady Mary Kingston pulled her cloak about her, nestling her chin into its fur collar. Not for love or money would she have made this journey to Hunsdon; but for honour’s sake, she must go. The obligation to fulfill the last request of a condemned woman about to die a horrible death was not to be taken lightly, or disregarded.

  The eastern horizon at first showed just a tiny sliver of apple green, then gradually the sky began to turn aquamarine, and finally, resolved into a clear azure blue. The stars faded as the sun peeked over the horizon, and the day broke at last. The miles melted away, each one bringing Lady Kingston closer to the distasteful task that she had been set. She tried not to think about it, and instead watched as the yellow gorse thickets sped by and lush white hawthorn blossoms snowed the lanes as they traveled through each tiny village.

  Lady Kingston wanted to do her duty and have done with her memories of Anne Boleyn’s brief but extremely wearing sojourn in the Tower. Never had she been so personally affected by a prisoner. It had nothing to do with Anne being a woman; there had been women prisoners aplenty during her time in the Tower. But this was different. Lady Kingston had been required to abide with the queen night and day, to remember every word she uttered, and on the briefest of breaks, when she was relieved by one of the other ladies who shared a similar duty, must spend her time away from the often hysterical queen writing down what she had said so that the information could be sent directly to Secretary Cromwell. It was clear that there was some nervousness about the quality of the evidence against the queen. The men whose job it was to ensure a guilty verdict were apparently dependent upon the pitiful gleanings that Lady Kingston and her cohorts were able to gather as Anne raved.

  And there had been no doubt that a verdict of guilty was required. To fail to deliver such a verdict was unthinkable. The king wanted to be rid of his wife and he would not be gainsaid. The thought that the rantings of a woman frightened out of her wits were all that there was to support such a verdict, that and the confession of a man who had been tortured, made Lady Kingston’s blood run cold. Not for nothing was she the wife of the keeper of the Tower. She had seen Master Smeaton with her own eyes, and she knew what a tortured man looked like. It had been a stroke of genius to accuse the hapless musician along with the rest of the men. In addition to such grave charges as royal adultery and incest, it served to irretrievably besmirch the queen’s character to have consorted in an intimate manner with a menial; and Cromwell would not have dared to torture a confession out of one the courtiers, who had plenty of people to speak for them. Poor Master Smeaton was quite alone, and had no one. Lady Kingston shivered, and drew her cloak closer about her.

  Over the course of her short time in the Tower, Anne’s behavior had swung disconcertingly between stark terror and calm acceptance, sometimes thrice or more in the space of an hour. To be required to be in her company for hours, for days on end, would have driven a less determined person to distraction. But Lady Kingston knew what her duty was, and she loved her husband; she would do what was needful to support him in his doleful occupation as Constable of the Tower.

  The other ladies who had been chosen as the queen’s companions were detestable to the queen, among them Lady Boleyn, Anne’s aunt by marriage, who hated her, and Mistress Cosyns, who held heaven only knew what grudge against the queen, and showed it at every opportunity. If the king was trying to break her, he had chosen well. Only Lady Kingston was ostensibly a neutral party. And then suddenly she wasn’t.

  It was true that Anne was the queen, that is, she had been the queen until the day she signed the document that was the annulment of her marriage, after which she was simply Marquis of Pembroke again. The deference due to one’s queen was sacrosanct; Anne had had a coronation, and had been touched with the holy chrism. Could such really be taken from her by the simple stroke of a pen? Could God’s anointed be dashed to nothing by mortal men? It seemed that it was so, and if it was, then a condemned marquis was an altogether different issue to a condemned queen.

  But queen or marquis, it had seemingly made no difference to Sir William. Very early in Anne’s imprisonment, Sir William had got into the habit of visiting the queen every evening. Prisoner or not, adulteress or not, she was still the queen, he had said, and it was his duty to see her comfortable until her trial was over and sentence, if any, carried out. But the nightly visits had continued even after the queen became just the Lady Pembroke once more. What excuse now, she wondered? But Sir William owed excuses to no one but the king; certainly he offered none to his wife.

  With an intuition that was older than Eve, suddenly Lady Kingston knew what had happened. Her husband had become infatuated with Anne. Accused she might be, condemned she might be, but she was still capable of radiating that inexplicable charm that had smitten the king of England, and that had brought this whole sorry situation about in the first place. And still Lady Kingston must spend her days and nights in Anne’s presence, relieved only for the most necessary of errands or to scribble her writings. She was not allowed even to sleep in her own bed. Her own bed where her husband lay, thinking, perhaps dreaming, of Anne. What allure, what charisma, did this rather ordinary creature (to Lady Kingston’s eye), have that so enchanted the men around her? It was true that not all men were lured into her net, but for those who were, the conquest was complete. And Lady Kingston believed that Sir William had been so drawn.

  Lady Kingston had been married once before, and she was Sir William’s third wife; neither of them was young and fanciful. To broach the matter, to give it substance, to raise a fuss, to say anything at all would be, she knew, the gravest of errors. Anne was going to die, of this there was no doubt, and she was going to die soon. Better to keep her own counsel and wait out the storm. After all, she would have Sir William for the rest of their lives. She must do nothing, say nothing, that would mar their future life together. But still, it rankled. One of the reasons that she had consented to marry Sir William was because of his spotless reputation. She loved him and would have married him anyway, but she was relieved that he had never been known to gad about as did so many gentlemen of the court. That made her suspicions even more
hurtful. Why now, and why Anne? Try as she might, she simply could not see what it was evident that others had seen, and seeing, had become enthralled by.

  There was no doubt that Anne Boleyn was a formidable foe. Lady Kingston had watched as the king turned away from Queen Katharine for this woman, and turned the world upside down to have her. Thank God and the saints that Anne’s days were numbered. Lady Kingston wanted nothing more than to have done with Mistress Anne and get her life back to normal.

  And then Anne had called for her and given her this loathsome commission.

  # # #

  Lady Kingston alighted stiffly from the carriage and only with difficulty resisted the urge to rub her sore backside. Even with the dubious cushioning of several petticoats and her folded cloak, the jolting of the carriage all the way from London to Hunsdon had felt as though it would shake her apart.

  She lifted her eyes to the façade of the house. It was made of brick, of an unusual reddish hue, much darker and richer than the pale red brick she was used to seeing around London, and altogether different from the smooth, gray stone used in her native Bolton.

  She had been living in the Tower for four years, and one would have thought that her desire to make a home in her own house would have abated by now, but it had not; if anything, it was stronger than ever. And her case was made worse in that Sir William did own several manors, but they were rarely able to repair to any of them because of his duties as Constable of the Tower. If she chose to, she could have lived in any of them, but that would have meant separation for long periods of time, and that she would not hear of. Just look at how attached Sir William had become to the queen in the short time she had been in her husband’s care! No, there was temptation everywhere at court; better that she remained there.

  She sighed, smoothed her skirts, and entered into a hall rendered even dimmer than it normally must have been by the brightness of the day outside.

  The mob-capped housekeeper met her in the hall with a smile, bobbed a curtsey and said, “My lady, we have been expecting you. Was your journey tolerable?”

  Lady Kingston smiled back. “Only just,” she replied. “At least the roads were dry.”

  “This way, my lady, if you please,” said the woman. They left the hall and proceeded down a dimly lit corridor until they reached an archway that led into a pleasant room with wide, mullioned windows. Here all was bright and welcoming. Lady Kingston blinked as the dazzling sunlight met her eyes.

  Lady Shelton rose and extended a hand. “My dear Lady Kingston,” she said. “How good of you to come. The Lady Mary is expecting you.”

  Lady Kingston noticed that Lady Shelton’s protuberant eyes had an odd habit of looking first into one eye and then the other in rapid succession. For some reason this made her slightly uneasy, so she walked to the window and looked out onto the garden. “What a lovely garden you have,” she said.

  Lady Shelton followed her to the window. “Yes,” she said. “It is indeed. And what news from London, Lady Kingston?” Except as patroness, Anne’s death meant little to Lady Shelton, even though Anne was her niece.

  Lady Kingston turned to meet those rapidly shifting eyes and could not suppress a shudder. It was shocking how people seemed so eager to hear the ghastly details of an execution. They all seemed to think that she, as Lady of the Tower, would know all, and knowing, be willing to share. It was true that she had been one of those required to witness Anne’s death, but Sir William had warned her, as he always did, that she was to repeat nothing, discuss with no one, any information regarding what she had seen or heard. Surely Lady Shelton knew this; it was a direct invitation to share confidences where certainly none were warranted. She turned to face Lady Shelton with a warm smile on her face. The smile was a façade; through years of experience, she knew how to handle such people and their grisly enquiries.

  “My dear Lady Shelton, I regret that time is of the essence. I must be back in London tonight, and therefore must see the Lady Mary immediately.” With an effort she kept her own eyes steady, which was difficult when Lady Shelton’s eyes moved back and forth so rapidly and disconcertingly, as they searched her face.

  Lady Shelton was silent just that moment too long; she suspected, rightly, that Lady Kingston was brushing her off. “Such a tedious journey to make twice in one day,” she said. “Certainly you must stay the night here at Hunsdon, and return to town tomorrow.”

  “That, much to my regret,” she smiled, “is impossible. My husband needs me; as you know, I am much engaged in supporting his work as Keeper of the Tower.”

  Lady Shelton sighed. “All right, then. Please wait here and I will fetch the Lady Mary. You may use my parlour for your visit.” Lady Shelton left the room with a rustle of silk.

  As soon as she was gone, Lady Kingston made a rapid survey of the room. There were three doors, one at the front and one at each side. All were made of very thick oak; they would provide a stout barrier to the eavesdropping that she surmised Lady Shelton had planned. The room seemed cozy but was actually quite large. She selected a chair that was roughly in the middle of the room. If she used that chair and spoke as softly as possible, Lady Shelton should not be able to hear what she must say to the king’s daughter. As distasteful as this errand was to her, she intended to discharge her promise to the best of her ability.

  The door to the corridor swung open on silent hinges and Mary entered. Lady Kingston had been a lady-in-waiting to Katharine of Aragon for almost twenty years, and was in her service when Mary was born. She had unobtrusively left royal service when Anne rose in ascendance over the lady she considered to be the rightful queen. She had not returned for four years and only then because she had married Sir William. She had not laid eyes on Mary for years; she remembered her as a pretty, gifted child. Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she was appalled to find that she could not speak for fear that her voice would break. But she need not have worried. At the sight of her visitor, Mary rushed forward, hands extended, with tears in her own eyes.

  “Lady Kingston!” she cried. “Lady Shelton said you had asked permission to visit Hunsdon, and now here you are! How exceedingly kind of you to come!” Mary remembered Lady Kingston as one of Katharine’s most loyal ladies. It was not lost on her that Lady Kingston had developed a series of illnesses that necessitated her retirement from court for a time, coincident with Queen Katharine being persecuted and Anne being foisted upon the court in her place.

  Lady Kingston recovered herself and made a deep curtsey to the woman she still thought of as princess, and rightful heir to the throne of England. She was careful not to change her position in the room, so that Mary, in her excitement at seeing an old familiar face, had strode man-like straight up to her, without Lady Kingston having taken a step. Thus she was able to say that which she felt she must, albeit in a very soft voice.

  “Your Grace, it does my heart good to see you, as well. And all grown up, into a lovely young woman. God bless Your Grace.” The tears were real and would not go away; they fell silently down her cheeks.

  Mary glanced over her shoulder at the door, then at the other doors to the room, and quickly came to the same conclusion as Lady Kingston. Safe, as long as they kept their voices down. “Lady Kingston, you must not endanger yourself on my account. I know full well that you were loyal to my mother and are loyal to me. When it is needful, you have my permission to address me as you must.”

  Uncharacteristically tongue-tied, all Lady Kingston could do was to smile her understanding through her tears and nod her head.

  “Lady Kingston, do you have a message for me? Is it from my father, the king?” Mary’s eyes shone with expectation. Now that Anne was dead, she expected daily to hear from her father that all was now well between them, and that she was welcome back at court. She understood that these things took time, but she had waited so long…and now here was Lady Kingston, come from court. What else could it mean?

  Lady Kingston knew full well the import of her charge, but
she had not thought of how Mary would view her appearance at Hunsdon. Oh dear, oh dear, she thought. This is going to be even more difficult than she had imagined.

  “I do have a message for Your Grace,” she said. “But it…I mean, that is…I am afraid…”

  A fleeting look of disappointment flitted across Mary’s face. If not from her father, then from whom? And why was Lady Kingston so nonplussed?

  There was nothing for it but to get on with it. “Your Grace,” said Lady Kingston. “I have a message for you from…” Christ on the cross, she had almost said “the queen”. That would never do. “I have a message for you from…”

  “Oh, dear God,” said Mary, her hand flying to her mouth. “I understand. Lady Kingston, you are indeed a courageous woman, as well as an honorable one. Do not be discomfited. I am ready to hear…to listen…”

  At this Lady Kingston’s tears flowed even stronger. She pulled out a little linen square and wiped her streaming eyes. “I am no mummer,” she sobbed. “But I have acted the fool before this, so I must act the fool now, I suppose. I made a promise, you see.”

  # # #

  Mary laid her hands on Lady Kingston’s shoulders. “Dear Lady Kingston,” she said. “Please, do not distress yourself. You are kind beyond belief to have taken on such a commission. I understand, truly, I do. Your position as Lady of the Tower demands that you discharge this duty. I am ready.” Mary steeled herself.