The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  To his annoyance, it was Henry who shifted in his seat and rubbed a nervous chin. As soon as he became aware of the gesture, he hastily withdrew his hand and sought to cover the shift in his seat by rearranging his leg. Damn his leg! If hadn’t been for the state of his leg, he would have ridden forth himself and given the men of York what for, and a pounding they would not soon forget.

  With the sudden change in the weather the first week in December, Norfolk had had no choice but to parley with the blackguards. The Duke had been outnumbered and had no hope of putting down the rebellion. Norfolk was many things, but he was neither liar nor coward. When he sent to the king to tell him that there was no option but to give in, Henry believed him without demur.

  Henry narrowed his eyes. “You captured my castle of Pontefract and refused to allow my herald to read a royal proclamation.” He said the words calmly, matter-of-factly, in a normal voice, as if he were remarking upon the weather.

  Aske was not discomfited, or if he was, he did not show it. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before he spoke. Finally, he drew a breath and said. “Your Grace, no disrespect was meant either to yourself or to your herald. We in the north are good Catholics and fear for our immortal souls, and our actions are in that regard, nothing more and nothing less.”

  Henry longed to shout and rage, stamp and threaten, but he did not. Both his father and Wolsey had taught him the value of dissembling when needs be. This was no time for a display of the royal temper. This was a game he wanted to win, indeed, had already won, but he needed time. Aske had accepted the offer of a royal pardon for everyone north of Doncaster who had risen before December. Bringing Aske to court for the Christmas revels served a dual function; it convinced the rebels that their pardon was genuine, and with every tick of the clock, it separated Aske’s followers from their purpose. Once disbanded, it would be a very difficult task, especially in winter, to reform their little army.

  Henry reluctantly admired Aske’s courage in coming south even on a royal safe conduct. Norfolk had snorted and called him gullible. Perhaps he was, but there was still some indefinable quality about the man that gave the king pause.

  While Henry studied Aske, Aske studied the Princess Mary, as unobtrusively as possible. He had not yet been introduced to her, but he knew her, even though he had never laid eyes on her before. She was the spit of Henry, fine and regal; the price paid by the men of Lincoln to have her legitimized and reinstated in the succession had been worth it. The princess was known to be a good Catholic, very devout, and on her mother’s side, she came of the greatest blood in Christendom. As to the argument that England had never before had a queen regnant, Mary’s redoubtable grandmother, Isabella, stood answer to that. A greater queen had never ruled in her own right.

  Henry followed Aske’s eyes to where Mary sat, playing at draughts with Frances. Frances had just taken a succession of Mary’s pieces, and she had cried out in mock dismay, throwing her fine, white hands up to the sides of her face. Henry turned back to find Aske regarding him steadily.

  “She is marvelously beloved by all the people,” remarked Aske, nodding towards the place where Mary sat. He hoped that the king did not notice that he had not referred to her as the Lady Mary. To Aske, and to all good Catholics, she was Princess Mary and to address her in any other manner was an insult.

  Henry generously let pass what he regarded as a slip by one not used to being at court. There were more important issues. “So,” he said. “Let us discuss your list of items. What were they again?”

  Aske regarded Henry cautiously. The king knew very well what the issues were, and unless Aske missed his guess, they were burned into his brain and had caused him many a sleepless night. As their eyes met, they stared at each other wordlessly for what seemed like an eternity of time. It was a moment of raw challenge and both men knew it. But if the king desired a catechism, he was willing to comply.

  “I have this to say, Your Grace, on behalf of all the pilgrims. We, your loyal subjects of the North, simply want a return to the old faith. It is our firm belief that Cranmer’s religious doctrine of Ten Articles touches things about God and Holy Church that should not even be called into question. We simply ask leave to practice our faith as did our fathers, and their fathers before them.” Aske paused, and receiving no comment, continued. “Sire, the Church is a part of our lives and we want not the changes that have been wrought. And lastly, Your Grace, the dismantling of God’s houses must stop, and all must be put as it was before.”

  Henry’s face was a study in nonchalance. “Go on,” he said.

  Aske paused. There was no way around the issue of proper address if he was to answer his sovereign’s question, and that he must do. He suppressed a sigh. Perhaps there was a compromise. “As touches the Lady Mary’s grace, we heartily desire that she be made legitimate, and placed in the order of succession.” As a good Catholic, he dared not be any more explicit; in his estimation, and in the opinions of the north men, the king’s marriage to Queen Jane was not valid, having been celebrated outside the tenets of the holy Catholic Church and without the blessing of the pope. Aske did not deny that Jane Seymour was queen of England by English law, but he did not believe that any issue from her marriage to the king should be first in the succession. But to say so would be fatal to their cause. One could only do so much. If their pilgrimage could be successful in reinstating the princess to the succession, they would have to be content with that, unless help was forthcoming from some other source.

  Henry regarded Aske with cold blue eyes. “Reginald Pole is in Flanders at the pope’s behest and has been given legatine powers,” he said. “Had you carried out your threat to march on London and take over the government, he would have sailed for England and there would have been civil war. Sir Cardinal was simply waiting to see which way the cat jumped.” He had already dispatched several secret cabals, each from a different port, to find and bring his despicable kinsman back to England in chains. And if he should not survive the journey…well, there was no worse traitor than one which was of one’s own blood. Henry fought to keep his face a study in interested concern.

  Aske maintained an outwardly placid demeanor, but inside he was taken aback. How did the king know about Pole? As God’s anointed, did he perhaps have second sight? And then good sense prevailed; of course, the king had spies in Flanders, and was well aware of the possible source of assistance that Aske had been thinking of just a few moments before. Another man might have been expected to deny such treasonous actions. He knew that others in the north, among them the Lords Hussey, Darcy and Dacre, had been plotting with the emperor and his ambassador for some time past. But that was nothing to do with him. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but our pilgrimage had no political objective. We never sought to displace Your Grace or to take over the governance of the realm.”

  Henry leaned forward and said, in almost a whisper, “Then you and your followers are naïve in the extreme. Think you that Rome would not take advantage of such a situation to regain that which it had lost? All those revenues, going no longer into the coffers of the See of Rome, but into those of the king?”

  For the first time since it all began, Aske began to feel out of his depth. It seemed that no matter what he said, the king was sure to place his own interpretation on his words, even on his motives. But God was on his side; he must be brave, and remember all those who had died for their cause. If he had been fooled, if he was to die here in London, then so be it. He had been warned; his wife, his family, had begged him not to go south, fearing that once the king had him in his power he would never release him, would put him in the dreaded Tower, where he would be tortured and eventually executed. Aske was not blind to the terrible risk he had taken in accepting the king’s invitation. But what choice had he had, really? Was it in fact an invitation, or was it a command? What if he had declined, refused? Would he have been dragged to London in chains, instead of being feted at court?

  “We are but simple men, Your G
race,” said Aske, his candid blue eyes looking straight into the king’s without flinching. “We know naught of politics or plots. We just want our religion restored to us.”

  “For men with no political aims, it surpasses my understanding, then, why you would have established military outposts from Newcastle to Hull. And placed cannon at Hull,” said Henry, regarding Aske with a gimlet eye.

  “I am only one man, Sire,” Aske replied. “Others felt that such was needed. To support our cause.”

  Henry considered the order in which Aske had presented his issues. God first, then country. Interesting. “Your cause,” he said, placing a slight emphasis on the word, “seems to me to be many-faceted.”

  Aske surprised Henry by laughing. “I agree with you!” he said, with a smile, and he ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “It is not easy once men gather and then begin to list their grievances. I confess that even I grew weary of hearing the phrase, ‘and another thing!’ But once it started, it was difficult to stop it. And I must truthfully say that I agree with all that our pilgrims have asked for.”

  An honest man, if a foolish one, thought Henry. “Go on, then,” he said.

  Encouraged by the king’s seeming willingness to listen to all of the grievances of the pilgrims, Aske warmed to his subject. “We believe, Your Grace, that the country has been undermined by the employment of base persons to advise the governance of the realm, that is, men who favor the south and southerners over us north men. We believe that only men of stature, of great lineage, should be advising the governing of this realm. At least so we think, Sire.”

  “Ha!” said Henry, with a guffaw. “Most likely that was the only point upon which you and my lord of Norfolk agreed!” The nerve of these men, he thought. Did they not realize the absurdity of the complaint, coming as it were from the same manner of base-born churls as they were themselves? “Continue,” he said pleasantly.

  “Lastly, Sire, we believe the Statute of Uses to be a hopeless quagmire of tax law that even the best minds have difficulty understanding, let alone enforcing.”

  This was ingenuous, even for Aske. The man was a lawyer; surely he knew that he stood to gain by a law that was complicated and beyond the understanding of most men, even the landed men who were most affected by it. Henry was quite pleased with himself over the statute; he had conceived it himself as another way to divert money into the royal coffers. The ancient and his in his estimation, outmoded, English property laws operated outside the requirements of royal tax revenue. The Statute of Uses rectified this, much to his own benefit. It had been the Devil’s own task getting Parliament to pass the statute, but pass it they did, for they knew if they did not, they would stand in the king’s displeasure. And as many had discovered over the past two years, that was neither a comfortable nor a safe place to be. As a body Parliament had taken its stand; as individual men afraid for their heads, they had voted to pass the law. And as a result, all transfers of land were now taxed. He had no intention of reversing such a brilliant scheme to satisfy his recalcitrant northern constituency.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed, he drew his lips back across his teeth in something that could not be called a smile, and said very quietly, “Is that all?”

  Mary and Jane had been casting uneasy glances at the two men as they conversed quietly in the enclosure. Each knew well the warning signs evident in the king’s expressions. The two women’s eyes met and they exchanged an anxious look. Mary observed that her father’s eyes were so narrowed that they were mere slits, a sure sign of the royal anger. Jane observed that the king’s face was pale and that two red patches burned above each cheekbone. They feared the worst for the unsuspecting Aske, but both were powerless to intervene. Although they had never exchanged a single word between them on the matter of the Pilgrimage of Grace, both women were ardent Catholics and secretly agreed with Aske and his followers.

  Aske placed his hands on his knees, pursed his lips in earnest thought and said innocently, “Yes, Your Grace, that is all.”

  Henry was silent for a few moments and then he said, “Well, then.” He rose abruptly, and Aske scrambled to his feet. “Jane!” bellowed the king.

  Startled, and looking very much like a deer who knows it has been spotted, the queen replied, “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I believe that we have finally resolved the problem of your elusive coronation. Mr. Aske,” he said, turning suddenly to face Aske, who had gone as pale as the tallow in a rush dip.

  Aske’s mouth moved but no sound came out, and he had all but destroyed his cap between nervous, kneading fingers.

  “We will have us a progress in the spring,” said Henry, who by now had commanded the attention of all in the room. He slapped Aske on the back so hard that the man stumbled, and had to grasp the nearest chair to steady himself.

  “Yes, we will have ourselves a royal progress to the north, and we will celebrate the queen’s coronation in York Minster. What say you to that, Mr. Aske?” Henry stood, his great legs planted apart, hands on hips, in an attitude that suggested that he was very pleased with himself.

  Mary, whose insides had turned to water at her father’s raised voice, suddenly went weak with relief. The man before her was Bluff Hal, instead of the vengeful king that she had expected. Fortunate Mr. Aske!

  Aske, still struck dumb at the king’s sudden declaration, uttered a few incoherent sounds.

  Henry placed his great arm around Aske’s shoulder and Mary could have sworn she heard the fragile man’s bones grate.

  “Yes, and we will have us a new parliament there, as well. These men of the north have opened my eyes. Why, we might even…Cromwell!” he roared.

  “Here, Sire,” replied Cromwell, materializing as if out of the woodwork.

  “Send to my sister and my nephew, the Scots king, and tell them we accept their invitation to meet. Tell them that we fancy a meeting after all, but in York. We might as well have two birds down with the same stone, eh?” Henry strode to where Lady Margaret stood and said, “How would you fancy seeing your mother again, lass?”

  Henry’s eyes scanned the room to assess the effect of his words, and presently they came to rest on Thomas Seymour. He was standing next to the Lady Mary Howard, and gazing at her assessingly. Henry had noticed the same bald-faced look of appraisal earlier, aimed at Lady Margaret. The man may be his brother-in-law, but he was an unabashed fortune hunter. Henry made a mental note to ensure that Seymour was not allowed to be in too close proximity with any of the king’s nieces, nor with his widowed daughter-in-law. After Margaret’s recent folly, he had begun drafting a new law that he intended to present to Parliament; that no one in the line of succession was free to marry without both their consent, and the consent of the king. That would salt Seymour’s wine, to be sure!

  The fire glowed brightly, and Mary began to play on the virginals.

  “And now, young Miss!” cried Henry, as he once again swooped Elizabeth up into his arms, pretending to dance with her to the lively music Mary was making. The room seemed to slip back into its former gaiety, but there was an undercurrent of something indefinable that had not been there before.

  Beaulieu Manor, January 1537

  The day was fine, but very cold, and was lit by a pale yellow, somewhat watery sun. The wind blew in bracing gusts, causing Lady Margaret Pole to raise a cautious hand now and then to her headdress, and Mary to clutch the fur of her cloak closer about her throat, but the weather rarely prevented Mary from taking a walk after dinner. The two trod the grassy lane arm in arm, Mary trying hard to match her own brisk pace to Lady Margaret’s more sedate one. Lady Margaret smiled; Mary reminded her much of a frisky colt on a frosty morning.

  Mary stopped every few steps to turn around and gaze back at her manor house of Beaulieu. Each time, she had the absurd urge to pinch her arm to assure herself that what she saw was real. She had never thought to possess her beloved New Hall, as Beaulieu was sometimes called, again.

  She recalled the day, a day very much li
ke this one, when the Duke of Norfolk had come to take her away from Beaulieu to Hatfield to be handmaiden to Elizabeth. The manor had then been unceremoniously taken away from her without so much as a by-your-leave, and given over to George Boleyn.

  Ah well, she thought, the Earl of Rochford was dead now, rotting in his grave at St. Peter Ad Vincula in the Tower. He had no further need of such a fine house!

  Suddenly Mary threw her head back and laughed, but it was an exultant, not a jubilant sound, and so loud that a flock of birds that had been roosting in a nearby copse of trees took swift and hasty flight in one great black mass. They fled, crying out with the deafening sound of a hundred startled birds as they took to the sky. Their wings whistled as they flew away. She had been thinking her bitter thoughts about all that she had lost, and could not keep from crying out in triumph at the idea that this, at least, was one thing that she had back again. She had lost her mother, her rank, her place in the succession, all things seemingly lost and irretrievable, but this she had regained. She sighed. She would have to be careful, she thought, lest she become resentful and spiteful. She did not want to become those things; and yet there was something about her laughter that had frightened the birds.

  She turned, put her arm through Lady Margaret’s once more, and walked on.

  “Mother Pole, what will become of Reginald?” asked Mary, apropos of nothing.

  Lady Margaret had known Mary all of her life, and knew her better than anyone, perhaps save Chapuys. She knew that Mary wanted no false assurances; she wanted the truth. “Your Grace, I know not, but I am afraid for him. The king is bitter in his hatred. If his agents find my son, they are sure to do him an injury and perhaps even do him to death. We can only hope that he has made his way back to Rome by now.” Lady Margaret sighed. “I despair of ever laying eyes on him again.”