The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Chapuys dismissed the boy with a nod and gave him his coin. The young man handed him the torch; he had no need of it. He could navigate these winding, labyrinthine corridors in the darkness and be none the worse.

  When Chapuys arrived at the door of Mary’s apartments, he tapped lightly. A few seconds later the door opened a crack on silent hinges and the hooded head of Eleanor, Lady Kempe, peered out at him.

  “Your Excellency!” she said. “The pr…the Lady Mary is within. Please, come in.” Lady Kempe was still dressed despite the hour; he hoped that Mary would be as well. Mary seemed to need little sleep and he knew her as someone whose habit was to keep late hours. Lady Kempe indicated a chair by the hearth, and bustled away to announce his arrival to Mary.

  He had just reclined and sat holding his hands out to the blaze, the corridors had been very cold indeed, when Mary swept into the room. Her eyes held a questioning look, and her manner was tense. She had not been forbidden the company of the Imperial ambassador; even Henry could not get away with that, now that his daughter was restored to favor. But an unplanned, unannounced visit to her rooms, and at such an hour, must surely mean bad news.

  “Dear Chapuys!” she said, holding out a porcelain hand. He took it and briefly brushed it with his lips.

  “My Lady,” he said, a slight question in his voice to match the question in her eyes.

  Mary glanced involuntarily at the door to the inner chamber. “My women may be trusted,” she said. “There is not a spy amongst them, unless I miss my guess.” It was true; Mary was fortunate in her servants. Many of them had been with her since childhood and could be trusted implicitly. Even her newer servants had already begun to exhibit the fierce loyalty to her that she would inspire in those close to her for the rest of her life.

  “I beg you, good sir, tell me, what is amiss?” Mary searched his eyes. That trouble of some momentous sort was afoot she was in no doubt. What now, she wondered?

  “The men of the north have named you in their conditions to the king,” said Chapuys. “They are demanding your legitimization and restoral to the succession.”

  Mary smirked. “Empty promises, even if His Grace gives them what they ask for. He may legitimize me to make me attractive as a marriage pawn, but he will never let me marry a Catholic. And I will not wed anything but. No reformers for me, I fear me. Not even if the king commanded it. And as to the succession, that would be forfeit with the queen’s first birth pangs, which cannot be long delayed, for her sake.” Mary shifted in her chair, and raised a hand to push back an errant lock of fire-gold hair. “But the rising has been put down, has it not? Weren’t the instigators hanged not three days since?”

  “Indeed, they were,” agreed Chapuys. “And that in itself was a grave mistake on the part of the king. The people of London did not take kindly to the vicar of Louth being hanged in his religious robes. It is an insult to the church. Such action is more apt to raise ire than to subdue tempers.”

  “Jesu,” said Mary, sitting down in the nearest chair. “I was not told of that!”

  “You are sheltered from a great deal,” replied Chapuys. “It is better so; the less you know, the better I can protect you. But the time has come when you must know that which is being said. You must deny all involvement with this new uprising.”

  Mary snorted inelegantly. “That will not be difficult. I neither have knowledge of it, nor of my supposed part in it.”

  “And that,” said Chapuys, “is most fortunate.”

  “But what has happened now?” asked Mary. “I thought that the duke of Suffolk went north to disperse the mob and bring the instigators back to London to answer for themselves and the men they incited.”

  “And so he did. But if the people of London were appalled at the hanging of the vicar in his priestly garb, the men of the north were enraged. The rising in Lincoln has indeed been put down, but now the men of York have risen.” The door to the inner chamber opened, but Chapuys waved Lady Eleanor away. The fire was dying for lack of attention. He placed a fresh log and moved it into position with the poker.

  “But what of their leadership? A multitude of men who share common grievances are easily assembled once their blood is up. But without their vicar and their cobbler, who will show them the way?” Mary’s eyes, normally so blue, looked almost black; the pupils were large with the dim light of the room and what must be an overwhelming fear.

  Chapuys, satisfied with the fire, which was now glowing brightly, sat down across from Mary. “Your Grace, a new man has arisen. He is Robert Aske. A lawyer, and the son of Sir Robert Aske of Aske Hall, in Selby, just south of York. He led his followers to York just as the men did at Lincoln. Word has it that he has evicted the king’s new tenants and brought back the monks and nuns. He has restored religious services as they ought to be, despising Cranmer’s Ten Articles and the new order of prayer. But there are other grievances, as well we know. There are economic issues. And…political ones.” His clear, blue eyes regarded her candidly.

  The thunderbolt that Mary had been half-humouredly expecting when she lied to her father became a near-reality; a flash of lightning burst in her brain and suddenly she knew what was afoot. Chapuys had for many a long day sought to obtain her compliance with plans involving the lords of the north to rise up in Katharine’s name against the king, and later, when Katharine demurred, in Mary’s own name. Mary, honouring the promise she had made to her mother so long ago, would not agree. Chapuys, being the diplomat that he was, had never held her reluctance to support his ideas against her. But now the cauldron that he had stirred for so long had boiled over and he was helpless to stop it. It was beyond his control. If her father believed that she was complicit in any way in these risings, it was likely her life would be forfeit. How ironic that she should die, not at Anne’s hands, as so many had expected and feared for so long, but at her own father’s, and at the instigation of the common man who simply wanted his sacred religion restored to him whole and uncorrupted.

  Chapuys leaned closer and lowered his voice. “The king, perhaps the council as well, will question you. You must be calm in your demeanor when you are called. Do not feign ignorance; but do not deny involvement too vehemently. It is expected that you would have knowledge of such an accusation; however, being innocent of any involvement or participation in these most unfortunate events, you can tell them nothing. You are as shocked as they are. An empty declaration, I assure you, as this was no surprise to any but the king himself.”

  “Buy why should my father believe that I would be a party to such a thing? He knows what my submission to his will cost me. Being sentimental, he is very well aware of my feelings and what he has done to me. What would I have to gain, and why pay such a high price for it?”

  Chapuys shook his head. “His Grace will not want to believe it, and therefore will not. And the queen will be for you.”

  Mary considered. “Yes, there is that.”

  “There is danger from two other quarters,” said Chapuys. “As you are aware, Lady Hussey was released from the Tower.”

  Mary stood and began to pace the small room. Chapuys had the ridiculous thought that she seemed as if she were dancing, as her skirts swirled bell-like at each turn whenever she came face to face with the wall. “Yes,” replied Mary. “I was so relieved. She was there for so long!”

  “Lady Hussey went home to Sleaford, as I am sure she was glad to do. But shortly after, she gave succor to five hundred pilgrims on their way to join the men at York,” said Chapuys. ‘That is what they are calling themselves, you know,” he said. “Pilgrims. On a Pilgrimage of Grace. They even have a banner.”

  “Indeed?

  “The Five Wounds of Christ,” Chapuys said. “Lady Hussey’s behavior reflects on you. She is in your service.”

  “Was,” said Mary, shaking her head. “The king did not blame me for Lady Hussey’s recent faux pas, even though he sent her to the Tower for it. That was strictly a demonstration of royal pique, I do assure you. You must
not read too much into it.” It was a frail hope; already Chapuys was shaking his head in repudiation.

  “By itself, it is not enough to condemn you,” said Chapuys. “but the king also resents mightily your reliance upon the favor and advice of the emperor. His Grace naturally, if incorrectly, assumes that you are in your cousin’s confidence.”

  Mary snorted. “He cannot possibly believe such a thing,” she said. “And even if I were, it would be a family matter, not a political one.”

  Chapuys considered. “Even if that were true, Your Grace, I doubt if the king would consider such a distinction worth making.” He glanced at the candle in its holder on the little table that lay between them. “It grows late,” he said, rising and stifling a yawn. He should have been in his bed an hour since.

  Mary’s eyes flashed. “I doubt if I shall be able to sleep.”

  “Why, my lady, you will sleep the sleep of the guiltless, and a more pleasant slumber cannot be found.” No such blameless repose awaited him. He could only pray that his folly would not be visited upon the princess.

  Whitehall Palace, November 1536

  Henry viewed himself in the glass and gave his cap a final tweak. It was his favorite black felt hat, sewn all around the brim with diamonds and pearls. A king should look a king, if not for himself, then for those around him. This was especially important when one must hold court with a host of foreign ambassadors. He threw back the shoulder of his cloth of gold cape with its powdered ermine lining and trim and exited to the outer chamber, the last of the private rooms between him and the presence chamber, wherein sat his gilt throne, under an elaborate cloth of estate, backed by his royal arms and his motto. God and my right. Never more so than now, he thought. Supreme Head of the Church! His father had always wanted to make a prelate of him; ironic.

  As he entered the room, Mary arose from her chair where she had been waiting for him. She was to be displayed to the French ambassador as a possible match for one of the sons of the French king. It meant nothing. The players in the presence chamber would all act their parts, herself included. She would declare herself in perfect health when asked the perfunctory polite question, and she would declare herself most desirous of a French match. Chapuys would be standing by but would remain silent, and would duly report the event to her cousin Charles, the Holy Roman Emperor. Charles had already offered the hand of Dom Luis, brother to the king of Portugal, another distant cousin. She was to be a pawn in the political wranglings of that unholy trinity, the king of England, the king of France, and the Holy Roman Emperor.

  Her stature on the European marriage market had risen since her rehabilitation, but none of it meant anything. She was convinced that her father would never let her marry out of the realm, where she could be used as a tool against him. Her life was in a curious limbo. She wanted a husband, a child, but such was at odds with her burning desire to be queen and to justify her mother’s struggle. If it were God’s will, it would be done. But she had no way of knowing. She felt as if she were a leaf on the wind, blown this way and that by the whims of others.

  Henry regarded his daughter with hooded lids and sought to view her from the aspect of one who had never seen her before. He saw a diminutive woman, slender and well-proportioned. She had a fine, beautiful skin, very white, with just a hint of rose on the cream of a well-formed cheek. Her eyes were a true Trastamara blue, dark and penetrating, inherited from her Spanish mother. Only her small mouth, its lips tightly pressed together over a firm, determined chin, gave the lie to an otherwise docile character. Her hair was Henry’s red-gold, perhaps a shade deeper than his own, but where his hair tended to be wiry, hers was very fine. The only surprising characteristic about Mary, and one not available to the eye, was her deep, gruff voice, very unusual in one so delicate-seeming. A fit prize for any prince, whether she was legitimate or not. She was still a king’s daughter. The deep blue eyes met his without flinching.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Quite ready, Father,” she nodded. It was a signal honor to be at the king’s side for a public audience. It was to be her first public appearance with the king in years.

  He looked around the room. “Where is the queen?”

  “Due momentarily, Your Grace,” Mary replied, and at that moment Jane appeared with a handful of her ladies. She looked distant, dignified, calm and serene.

  Henry regarded his wife and daughter. They were not very far apart in age, and yet for some reason, Jane seemed much older. Both women had a slightly hunted look. Nothing one could point to and say, “There!” It was an impression, an intangible thing, like the shadow of a bird’s wing. He grunted at this flight of fancy and said, “Let us to work, then,” and led them from the room. All would be in readiness for them in the Presence Chamber.

  As Henry entered the Presence Chamber, flanked on either side by wife and daughter, he felt his spirits rise for the first time in days. He and Jane were still disappointed of the hope of a son, but he had learnt patience. Jane blossomed when she was happy and wilted when she was not, and he knew which Jane he would rather pass the time with. In Katharine’s day, he had led the merry-making, always bursting into her rooms with his men, dressed up in some outrageous manner, as Turks, or gypsies, and such. All Katharine had to do was to smile, laugh, and clap her hands together, which she never failed to do, even long after the novelty of being queen had worn off.

  With Anne, she had always been the one devising some pastime to divert him, at least until towards the end when they no longer held any allure for each other. Jane was frankly at sea in her new role in that regard, and was content to adapt herself to his moods so well that sometimes he thought she was able to anticipate them.

  The clarion call of the trumpets called his attention back to the presence chamber, which was lined with people, petitioners, courtiers, lawyers, and some just the curious. It was a public audience and all were welcome. It was also the forum in which the foreign ambassadors addressed the king; at least, they spoke of that which they wanted all to hear and know. That which was reserved for the king’s ear alone was divulged in private.

  The French ambassador, Gilles de la Pommeraie, was just approaching the dais, having been called first by Somerset Herald, when a great clamour was heard in the outer room. With a heavy, floor-shaking tramp and the strangely melodious jingling of spurs, Brandon entered the chamber, mired to the eyes.

  Henry waved Pommeraie off with an imperious hand, and the diplomat conceded his place to Brandon with an elegant bow. “What news?” asked Henry.

  “Sire,” said Brandon, “I come to tell you that the men of Hull have joined the men of York and their numbers are overwhelming. My men were already weary from their efforts at Lincoln when we were called to York.”

  “How many are they now?” asked the king.

  Suffolk looked uneasy. “With the men of Hull, at least thirty thousand men…perhaps as many as forty thousand, Your Grace. And the number grows daily.”

  Norfolk had been at court long enough to realize the benefit of forestalling an order and making a seemingly magnanimous offer. Before Henry could say a word, he said, “Your Grace, I had anticipated that there might be further trouble in the north. I have two thousand men ready to ride at your call.”

  “Send them, then!” Henry arose and stood at his full height. This, with the additional advantage that the dais gave him, made him seem a giant. “Lead them to York, and take word of the king’s anger to these whoresons! How dare these rude, ignorant, common people dictate what shall be and what shan’t to their king?” Standing there with his red face and his flashing eyes, he looked truly terrifying, and everyone in the room spared a thought for the hapless men of Hull and York. “And take Shrewsbury with you!” he roared. “He can account for another thousand, I trow. We will show these ungrateful, unnatural wretches who rules this realm! And who is head of the English church! Their demands are an insult! Was it not enough for them that so many have been hanged for their offense? We sha
ll hang a few a more before this is ended. And let us call them what they are! They are not pilgrims, they are traitors! And we all know how traitors die!” The indignant king’s eyes bulged and his chest heaved in his indignation.

  Jane’s eyes smoldered. What good was it being queen if she could not be seen to influence the king? Even Queen Katharine had, as daughter of the Spanish king, her father, exerted a certain amount of influence over the young, untried king, in the early days of their marriage.

  Jane had little in the way of diplomatic interest, but she was genuinely distressed by what was happening to the church. No words had passed between her and her father, but it was tacitly understood that she was not to write to him because he could not answer her letters, being unable to speak his true mind in such a missive, for fear of it falling into the wrong hands. But her mother had visited and delivered a verbal message that if she was going to go through with this folly, at least she might try to use the king’s affection to deflect his attention from his ravaging of the church.

  The first thought that crossed her mind was that her father must be out of his senses. He knew how she was placed. The king was generous and gave her what he wanted to give her when he wanted to give it. Otherwise, he had no difficulty in saying no. A sudden thought flashed through her mind. It was easy to say no in the privacy of the royal chambers. But surely he would not deny her in public?

  She stood abruptly and swayed a little, dizzy either with fear or the blood rushing to her head. Clarencieux Herald was closest to her and held out a hand, but Jane had collapsed to her knees before the king. For a moment it seemed as if she had simply stood up too fast and swooned, but then those closest perceived that she was speaking.

  “My most gracious lord, I beg you…please have pity on the poor people of the north. They but ask for the consolation of their souls. Surely God is allowing this rising as a sign of his displeasure at the closure and dismantling of so many religious houses, and the casting out of so many of his priests. Of your mercy, please stop the closure of God’s mansions and restore them to their rightful place.”