The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The Mary deep inside smugly informed her that it was easy to lie to the king, as long as one told him that which he wanted to hear. There was nothing to fear. But that other Mary, the one who had been taught that lying was a sin, resisted. The smug Mary retorted that any man, be he churl or king, who professed himself to be head of his own church was damned to Hell and not deserving of the truth, especially when the truth could make one a head shorter. The practical Mary gave an inward sigh, and accepted the fact that lying in such circumstances was not a sin, but a survival skill.

  Mary smiled and replied in her disconcertingly deep voice, “But, yes, Sire. Of course.”

  Henry peered at her through squinted eyes and cocked his head slightly, as if he were weighing her words and finding them wanting in some respect. “I would not have deemed you capable of such fickle behavior,” he said lightly. He reached out and snatched a ruby apple from a chased silver bowl piled high with them. He polished it on his sleeve and studied the effect; the apple shone like silver. “Ready to die one day, and converted the next. One born of two such stubborn people as your mother and myself should not by rights be capable of such a feat.” He attacked the apple.

  These were dangerous waters, but thanks to Chapuys, who had schooled her against this day, she knew how to parry every treacherous thrust of this verbal sword.

  “Why, Father,” she said, “the very thought that I was disobeying and distressing Your Grace compelled me to endeavor most sincerely to understand the truth. As soon as I realized that the truth would redeem me and place myself back into the light of your benevolence, I could stray no longer.” She glanced furtively towards the window to see if the flash of lighting she was expecting to strike her down at the blatant lie was forthcoming. It seemed not.

  “I see,” said Henry. “So you are now fully convinced that your mother, through no fault of her own, of course, lived in sin with me for nigh on twenty years, and that the infallible pope who granted the dispensation for us to marry was, in fact, mistaken?”

  Steely blue eyes met steely blue eyes. Henry’s were hard and wary. Mary’s were wide and innocent. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied confidently.

  “And that, as a consequence, you are illegitimate?”

  The absurd notion that they were dancing partners and that he just thrown her into the air flitted through Mary’s mind. If she answered correctly, he would catch her, if not…but Chapuys had taught her well. It was all unimportant. It meant nothing. A few words and the obstinate, obdurate man who was uttering them could not change fact. In the minds of almost the entire Christian world, her mother had died Queen of England, married, and the mother of a princess, and the man who claimed otherwise was a fool and a bully.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Mary, as if she were remarking upon the weather, and regretting an outing to a day of driving rain. She sought to keep herself completely detached.

  It had at first been difficult. She had begged Chapuys to apply for the dispensation that she had been promised if she was compelled on pain of death to submit to the king’s demands. But he had demurred, saying, “Your Grace, that would be most unwise. Should the King of England discover your application, or indeed, the result of it, you would be in the gravest danger. We simply cannot take such a risk. It would put paid to any denial you might make of insincerity in submitting to the king’s will.” Chapuys could see that her courage was flagging; what to offer as a sop…? “May I suggest, Your Grace, that you seek absolution from your confessor? Surely that will suffice until the Wheel of Fortune turns once again in our favor.” His candid blue eyes searched hers.

  Mary clasped her hands together under her chin and exclaimed, “Oh, good Chapuys! I will do so this very day! Do you suppose God will understand?”

  “My dear child,” he replied soothingly, “Can you doubt it?”

  So now, here she was, confessed and absolved, and asked once again to perjure her soul. She regarded her father blandly. The sheer hypocrisy of it all was almost tangible. While it was dangerous to lie, it seemed that lying on this occasion was necessary. It deeply injured her soul and her honor to do so, yet it was vital to her political future. It was a vile situation, and it gave the lie to everything she had ever known to be right and true.

  Henry leaned back in his chair. He munched his apple with a self-satisfied air. “That is as well,” he said, through a mouthful. “Then you will not object to writing as much in a letter to the emperor.” He mightily resented Mary’s seeming deference, and blatant attachment, to her Hapsburg relatives. What had they ever done for her, that she should hold them in such esteem and affection? He intended to demonstrate to them in no uncertain terms the depth of the sway he held over his daughter. What better way than for her to tell them herself?

  Mary strove to keep her face not expressionless, which might have given her away, but genial and pleasant. But really, she thought, this was altogether too much. How many times, and in how many ways, did she have to reiterate the hateful points of her capitulation? Why did he persist in tormenting her? She thought at first with relief, and then remembering Chapuys’ words, with a new-found horror, of the letters she had already dispatched that would give the lie to any such missives the king required of her now. She did not, could not, bring herself to regret those letters to her cousin and the pope, repudiating the lies she had been forced on pain of death to utter before witnesses and then to commit to paper. But if anything should happen and those letters fall into the king’s hand…well, it was done now.

  Mary smiled. “But of course,” she said. “I shall write tomorrow. Perhaps to the pope as well, think you not?” She had landed on her feet, but at great cost. Her heart was thudding, her hands shook, and a thin film of sweat that belied the chill of the room had broken out on her brow. A log shifted in the fire, fell, and crashed in a shower of sparks. It was an apt analogy to her life, she thought, as she rose, kissed Jane and her father, and went to her bed to sleep a dreamless sleep.

  # # #

  The day had been dark and dank, with rain falling in a steady drizzle since early in the morning. The sky had finally cleared in the late afternoon, but now evening was approaching and the air was beginning to turn cold. A smoky mist was rising slowly above the river, adding to the gloomy feel. Henry watched as it crept eerily over the riverbank and crawled inexorably towards the castle. Despite the fire dancing and crackling on the hearth, he felt chilled to the bone. His leg was always more painful when the weather was damp; but when it was cold and damp, the steady ache of it turned into a pulsating throb that threatened to drive him to distraction. He had given up on his apothecaries, whom, he suspected, were now loath to approach him with any sort of treatment. The pain they caused him with their ministrations was so intense that he lashed out at them mercilessly. Undoubtedly they all feared for their heads at this point, so dire were his threats. And he was not at all certain that he might not order the lot of them to the Tower for their ineptitude.

  The metallic sound of the halberds at his door caused him to turn his head. Half expecting to see the gaggle of useless old men he had been ruminating about come in with their knives and bleeding bowls, he was instead surprised to see the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk. Knowing how much the two men loathed each other, it was an unusual spectacle to say the least. Norfolk despised Brandon as a commoner jumped up by the king’s pleasure to parvenu duke, and Suffolk hated Norfolk as an insufferably smug toady, constantly currying the king’s favor. But on this occasion, both men wore such grim expressions that they might have been bookends.

  “Good e’en, gentlemen,” said Henry, fingering a beard rendered even more golden thanmob

  usual by the flickering firelight. “What ails the two of you?”

  The men glanced uneasily at Jane, and when she looked up, both men swept off their caps and bowed perfunctorily. She nodded briefly and went back to her needle.

  Henry winced as he lifted his swollen leg with both hands and shifted its position on the stool up
on which he had perched it. Seeing the look that passed between the two men he said, “You may speak before the queen.”

  The two men were uncharacteristically silent. Each was apparently waiting for the other to speak. Most unusual.

  Finally Norfolk drew breath and without preamble said, “Your Grace, the North has risen.”

  For a moment Henry was too stunned to speak; he was sure he had misunderstood. “The North? Risen? What north? In what manner risen? Arisen how?”

  “A royal courier passing from York on his way to London was set upon in Lincolnshire. He barely escaped with his life, and was half dead of exhaustion when he arrived here, not an hour since.” Norfolk braced himself. As senior duke, it was his place to speak, but he did not wish to be the bearer of this bit of bad news. Still, there was nothing for it. “Sire, a king’s commissioner and the bishop of Lincoln’s chancellor were murdered by the mob.”

  Jane’s needle stopped in mid air, her arm raised as if in salute. Her eyes went wide and her mouth was a round “O” of surprise at the shock of Norfolk’s words. Hadn’t she been trying to make the king see for weeks the error of his ways? And to no avail, it seemed…her pleas to the king to spare Catesby Abbey had fallen on deaf ears.

  Henry stood up so fast that his chair slid backwards and hit the hind leg of one of his hounds, who yelped in dismay, but otherwise did not stir.

  “Mob? What mob? Make sense, man!” he barked. “Begin at the beginning! And where is that whoreson of a courier? Why isn’t he here where he can tell me this tale himself?”

  Norfolk and Suffolk exchanged significant glances. It was Suffolk’s turn. “There is some doubt, Your Grace, as to whether the man will survive the night. He was badly injured. And barely in his senses. It was the devil’s own deed to get the story from him. He is not fit to be brought before you, Sire.”

  Henry’s eyes took on a faraway look and his voice was barely a whisper. “A mob? How dare they! The insufferable brutes!” Suddenly his focus came back and the beacon of his anger swung around to Norfolk. “For the love of God, what is this all about? And where is Cromwell?”

  Again those hasty glances. Norfolk took off his cap and tossed it onto a settle. “Sire, it all began on the evening four nights past, at St. James’ Church in Louth, just after evensong. Probably aided by a good deal of drink, a group of men apparently began cataloguing the closures of monasteries and nunneries. One thing led to another and before long the men took to the streets, inciting others to their folly. The mob grew until it swelled to as many as twenty thousand men. They…”

  Henry’s eyes bulged and his face turned as red as the flames that flickered in the hearth. “Twenty thousand! Surely that is an exaggeration!”

  Norfolk shook his head. It was better to face facts. “I am afraid, Your Grace, that the number is believed to be accurate. The primary reason for the uprising seems to be the closure of Louth Abbey.”

  Henry began to pace the room, and he beat one fist into the other in rapid succession. “The swine!” he roared. “The ungrateful swine! Have I not endeavored to free them from superstition and the yoke of Rome? Why would they as lief give their hard-earned pence to a few lazy monks instead of to their king?”

  Brandon walked to the sideboard, poured a goblet of wine for himself, and taking the flagon, refilled Henry’s winecup as well. “The mob marched for three days, gathering men all along the way from such places as Horncastle, Market Rasen, and Caistor. That is how their numbers swelled so. By the time they reached Lincoln, they were a considerable force. They have occupied the cathedral and the town and are demanding to be heard.”

  Henry stopped his pacing in mid-stride, planted his legs firmly apart, placed his hands on his hips and bellowed, “Or what?”

  Norfolk smirked. “Well, that, Sire, is the truly intriguing part. Or nothing, it seems. They claim that their grievances are not aimed at Your Grace. They claim that this is not an insurrection. They have no desire to supplant Your Grace. They simply want their old religious customs back.” Norfolk guffawed. “And they have little unity of purpose beyond that. Some go so far as to say that we must have the pope back, whilst others are content with the Royal Supremacy, as long as they can have their feast days back again.”

  Henry sputtered in his rage, and resumed his pacing. “Content? Content? Are they mad? My Royal Supremacy is the law of the land and I will not have it gainsaid! Especially by a tangle of disobedient churls!”

  “They are demanding Cromwell’s removal,” said Norfolk carefully.

  “Are they indeed?” snorted Henry. “Well, they shan’t have any of it! Cromwell is as clever as Wolsey ever was. But whereas Wolsey saw fit to enrich himself, Cromwell enriches England.”

  Norfolk had no sense of humor, but even he saw the absurdity in that statement. Henry was England; the Exchequer hadn’t looked so good since the days of Henry VII. The common man knew where the wealth of their sacred religious houses was going. And they objected mightily; enough to risk their lives. For if they thought for one moment that the king was going to either meet their demands or spare their lives, they were very much mistaken.

  “The royal courier marched with the men from Louth to Lincoln, trying to gather as much information as he could,” said Brandon, draining his cup. “He swears the ringleaders talked of nothing but a peaceful demonstration to air their grievances. He was only set upon when they reached Lincoln, where a man there pointed him out as a royal servant.”

  “Convenient!” expostulated Henry. His meanderings had taken him past the table where his wine cup stood. He drained it and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Armed, and talking of peace! What manner of weapons have they?”

  Brandon sat in the chair opposite Henry’s, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “Many are properly armed,” he said, “from previous wars. You know, the odd pikestaff, battleaxes, some bowmen, perhaps. Most have only crude weapons, farm implements and such.”

  “And these peaceful men saw fit to murder two men, and set upon a royal courier?” Henry’s eyes narrowed. He sat again and lifted his painful leg back onto the stool.

  “The courier swears that the ringleaders had no murderous intentions,” Brandon replied. “But you know how a mob can be. There are always some who tag along not for the worthiness of the cause, but simply to see what mischief they can make.”

  “Well,” said Henry. “I want these mischief makers quelled, immediately. How many men can you muster?”

  Brandon did a quick reckoning. “Suffolk can account for a thousand at a moment’s notice, more as the word spreads. Four thousand, perhaps.”

  “Ha!” jeered Henry. “That will put the fear of God into them! The sight of four thousand armed knights! They will run as soon as they see you coming! I want the ringleaders brought back to London in chains! Who are these men, anyway?”

  “It is said,” replied Norfolk, “that they are a monk of the abbey and a cobbler, Your Grace.”

  Henry found that with his blood roaring in his ears, he simply could not stay seated. He grimaced as he stood up and resumed his pacing. He was now in intolerable pain. He limped over to where Brandon sat in his chair and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Norfolk, send a handful of your best knights to Lincoln forthwith, under the royal banner,” ordered Henry. “Tell them to inform our northern friends that they are to disperse immediately or face the consequences. Tell them that our good duke of Suffolk is on his way to enforce the king’s peace. And he is not going to ask them twice.”

  Jane had uttered not a word as she listened to this exchange. But it made her blood run cold to think that had she been a man, and in Louth, she might very well have been amongst those men who had had enough of religious reform, and the robbing of the

  church to fill the royal coffers. It was, perhaps, a good thing that plague had broken out in Westminster, stilling the hands of all the carpenters and craftspeople preparing the abbey church for her coronation, and sending most of the population of L
ondon scurrying for what safety there was to be had from the pestilence. Had the king spent money on such lavish display in these times, it might very well have provided the spark for similar tinder in London. Still, she was disappointed. Perhaps next year…

  # # #

  The smoke from the torch was acrid and caused Chapuys’ eyes to tear and his breath to catch in his throat. He let out several barking hacks, but did not allow the coughing that shook his frame to break his stride as he made his way determinedly behind the obliging page who was leading him a shortcut down some very dark, chilly corridors to the princess’s apartments in Richmond Palace. He had been making the rounds of Henry’s castles, manors and hunting lodges for years, but the larger palaces still defied his sense of direction, especially in the dark. It was late to go visiting, but his errand was urgent. It was vital that he speak to the princess before anyone else did.

  It was such a pity, really; just when things seemed to be settling down for Mary, a new danger was rolling at her like a juggernaut. Until now, Mary’s state of vulnerability had been a personal choice, and a matter, even if unpleasantly so, that it was in her power to control. This new peril could not be controlled. It could only be managed. But he would steer her through this crisis as he had the predicament of her recent submission to the king’s will. He was a diplomat and a brilliant strategist; he would guide his charge through the murky waters ahead just as he always had. He had known Mary all of her life, and had been her confidante for many years now. He thought of her almost as a daughter.

  “Tis just there, Your Excellency,” said the page, indicating a chamber at the end of another long hall. He did not want to have to go any further; he wanted to join his fellows, who were dicing in the Great Hall. The shilling Chapuys had offered him to guide him to the Lady Mary’s apartments by the most expedient route, meaning fast and unobtrusive, was to be his stake in the game. His silence to his fellows on the subject of his tardiness or the unlikely appearance of a whole shilling to his credit went without saying, if he ever wanted to turn another shilling from the Imperial ambassador.