The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  “And I,” sighed Mary. “And I.”

  She loved her cousin Reginald, and a marriage between them had been mooted more than once. He had been Katharine’s choice for her once Charles had married their cousin Isabella, instead of honoring his betrothal to her. She understood; Charles needed an heir and the age difference between them was too great for him to wait for her to grow up. But there was the same difference between her and Reginald. And Reginald, even though he had been created a cardinal of the church, still had taken only deacon’s orders. He was free to marry, and the logical choice. Her father despaired of ever having a son, even with Jane, and had been humbled to the point of accepting a grandson as heir to the throne if need be. And now, because of his support of the Pilgrimage of Grace, Reginald had forever alienated his kinsman, the king of England, and marriage between him, with his Plantagenet blood, and Mary, was now not likely to happen. But there was more to fear than that.

  “Are you not afraid, Mother Pole?” asked Mary.

  “Afraid? For myself, you mean?” asked Lady Margaret. “Yes indeed, every day of my life. But it has always been so. Life can never be free from fear for those of our blood. The red rose of the Tudors has supplanted the white rose of the Plantagenets, and we can never be free from fear again.”

  Mary nodded. Lady Margaret was the daughter of George, Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry’s grandfather, King Edward the Fourth. Her father had been murdered in the Tower; her brother had been murdered by Henry’s father, King Henry VII. She and her family were too close to the crown and had, indeed, much to fear.

  “I fear also for poor Mr. Aske,” said Mary. “I am certain that my father was watching and waiting for me to ask for an introduction to him, or to seek in some other manner his company whilst he was at court.” She smiled. “I fear me I may have offended Mr. Aske by avoiding him so sedulously!”

  “Lest the king suspect that you were complicit in the uprising, yes,” said Lady Margaret. “But do not be concerned. I feel sure that Mr. Aske was well aware of the reasons why you avoided making his closer acquaintance. Besides, if you were complicit, avoiding him would have been expected.”

  Mary shook her head. “Your logic makes my head ache, Mother Pole,” she laughed. “I am afraid that I have not the mind for such subtle tactics!”

  Lady Margaret was silent for a few moments, and then she said, “It were better, my child, if you required Chapuys to help you cultivate such a skill. You will need it should you ever come to the throne.”

  Mary snorted inelegantly, drawing a brief frown from her lady governess. “Come to the throne? Have you been wine-bibbing? That is an unlikely occurrence!”

  Lady Margaret stopped and turned to face Mary. The sun was full in her face, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. Looking directly into Mary’s eyes she said, “Not as unlikely as you may think.” With that, she dropped her hand, smiled, entwined her arm through Mary’s once more, and they continued their walk in silence.

  An icy finger seemed to touch Mary’s spine at Lady Margaret’s words. She shuddered, but attributed it to the sharp wind, which had shifted to the east and was now damp and very cold indeed. It reminded her of the icy wind and bitter cold of the day that the Christmas court, then at Westminster, had wended their way through the streets of London to St. Paul’s Cathedral for the celebratory mass that marked the beginning of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

  Cheering people had lined the streets, and many of the cries had been for God to bless the Princess Mary. She had stolen a look at the king every time she heard her name called from the jubilant crowd, but he seemed, or pretended, not to hear. She heard no cries of blessing upon Elizabeth; it recalled to her mind the stories she had heard of the almost eerie quiet that had prevailed on the day of the poor child’s mother’s coronation. If what she had heard was true, there had been more jeers than cheers, and every cheer had likely been paid for with minted coin.

  Once she had turned to look back and had seen Mr. Aske looking at her with his wistful smile. She smiled back, but had made no attempt to meet or speak with him. It was better that way, although she would have liked to talk with him. Instead, she had put her arm around Elizabeth in the litter and said, “Are you cold, Sister?” Mary had made certain that Elizabeth had started the journey with a hot brick at her back and one beneath her tiny slippered feet, but it was the Devil’s own task to get the child to sit still.

  Elizabeth, who was oblivious to the startled stares of the people who saw her and recognized her as Anne’s daughter, replied, “No, Sister, I am warm,” and went on gazing wide-eyed at all the bustle that was going on about her. She was fascinated by all the decorations, for the streets were hung with Christmas greenery, and rich arras, tapestries and bunting in cloth of silver and gold hung from every window. Priests from every church in London wore their richest copes and swung intricate golden censers of heady, pungent Frankincense. Its mysterious scent, mingled with that of woodsmoke, filled the air. The bishop of London processed before the royal party in his purple and gold robes, his tall miter glinting in the sun, jewels flashing and sparkling from his crosier and from the mighty silver crosses carried by his acolytes. The royal trumpets sounded almost continuously, vying with the music being played in every lane as the royal progress made its way down Fleet Street. Everywhere was the sound of shawme and rebec, waite and dulcimer, flute, harp, and hautboy. The mayor of London met them at the steps of the cathedral, along with all the aldermen of the city. On the steps the choir of St. Paul’s sang carols to greet them, and followed the royal party into the great church.

  When the service was over, the royal party braved the icy weather once more. The weather had been so cold for so many days that the Thames was frozen solid, an unusual occurrence that prevented the traditional ceremonial procession of boats from Westminster to Greenwich Palace, where the Twelve Days was to be celebrated. Abandoning the river journey in the sumptuous royal barge, the assembly made its slow way on horseback and litter across London Bridge. The bridge was ancient and upon it had been built, over the centuries, myriad dwellings, shops, and pubs. In the spaces between them the poor had built lean-to shelters, covered with anything that came to hand to block out the cold, and as need arose, the wet.

  The horses’ shoes made a strange ringing sound on the cold stone of the cobbles, and sometimes one could see sparks flying from them. Mary had given up admonishing Elizabeth to refrain from peering over the side of the litter in hopes of catching sight of this phenomenon; Elizabeth was so excited that she refused absolutely to stay huddled in her furs in the litter.

  Mary rode alongside on her mare, her hands dipping into her purse every few seconds. Mary threw alms as they clopped along, the people cheering as the silver pennies she threw hit the stone of the bridge. The children were so ragged and their little fingers were blue with cold, but their smiles and the sound of their laughter as they ran to and fro retrieving the coins lightened Mary’s heart immeasurably. She cast a fond eye on Elizabeth, who was after all just a child herself; she was so engaging that people forgot for a time that she was Nan Bullen’s spawn and cheered her most heartily as she waved her little gloved hand.

  “Oh, look, Sister!” cried Elizabeth. They were almost across to the Surrey side, approaching the gatehouse that led off the bridge and out into Southwark, and the sun was setting fast. Against the indigo sky a dozen or more pikes bristled, each one topped with its grisly prize.

  “Do not point, Sister,” said Mary, as the coins flew from her hands.

  “I will not if you will look!” she begged.

  Reluctantly, Mary raised her eyes to the gruesome sight. Each head was in a slightly different stage of decay; none had its eyes. All were unrecognizable. Her stomach, never very reliable, gave a dangerous heave. Suddenly she was seized with an absurd urge to laugh; the sight, taken all together, looked like so many pins in a pincushion. Mary quickly averted her eyes as the thought struck her that had Anne not been who she was, it might have
been her skull that Elizabeth gazed upon with the relish of a child for the ghoulish. Mary was glad when the bridge with its horrible sight was behind them. The stars were winking in an apple-green sky, and the wind was rising. She closed her eyes and tried to think of other things.

  “Mary?”

  “Oh, Mother Pole, I am sorry,” Mary said sheepishly, coming out of her reverie. “I am afraid my thoughts have wandered, just as we are doing.” They had turned a bend in the road and the house was no longer visible.

  “I was asking about Mistress Champernown,” said Lady Margaret. “What sort of woman is she? And what of Lady Bryan?”

  Mary sighed. “The king will need Lady Bryan should Jane prove herself capable of a son. He has not given up hope yet. And Elizabeth needs a better tutor than I. Mistress Champernown has proved herself to be quite erudite.”

  Elizabeth had enjoyed her Christmas at court, and had seemed sad when the festivities were over. But when Mary escorted the child back to Hatfield, it was evident that she had been homesick and was glad to be back at what she regarded as her home. As soon as the warm red brick and crenellated towers of the manor house came into view, Elizabeth’s eyes had filled with tears of emotion, and she had run up the stairs and into Lady Bryan’s arms. The second kiss had been for Mistress Champernown, who had already found a way into Elizabeth’s motherless heart, even in the short time she had been in her service.

  Suddenly Mary lifted her head and shifted her eyes.

  “What is it?” asked Lady Margaret.

  “Horse’s hooves,” replied Mary, drawing Lady Margaret off the path and onto the verge.

  At that moment, a rider appeared, galloping hell-for-leather towards them around the bend.

  Mary shaded her eyes and peered. “I think it is Master Dodd.” She said.

  The rider spotted the two women, but could not stop in time and overshot their position by several yards. Finally he slowed his horse, wheeled around and came trotting back, sending up a spray of gravel as he drew up just short of them. He was as breathless as his mount, and both were puffing clouds of steam in the cold, wintry air.

  “It is all right, Master Dodd, take your time,” said Mary.

  Finally he got his breath and said, “Your Grace, the North has risen again. His Excellency has sent a courier with the news. He awaits you at the manor.”

  “God’s teeth!” expostulated Mary. “Is he certain? But Mr. Aske...”

  Still panting, Dodd shook his head. He had dismounted and was bent over to try to relive the stitch in his side from the hard ride. “It is not Mr. Aske,” he said. “It is Sir Francis Bigod.”

  “Bigod?” said Lady Salisbury. “But he is a Reformer, is he not?” she asked, addressing Mary.

  Mary stood with a startled hand over her mouth, which she withdrew as she began to pace back and forth, a sure sign of agitation. “Yes, I believe him to be so,” she replied. “Master Dodd, are you sure that is what the courier said?”

  Now recovered, Dodd, hat in hand replied, “Yes, Your Grace, quite certain.”

  “This makes no sense,” said Mary. “I must speak with him. She stalked to where Dodd’s horse stood chewing grass at the verge. “Hand me up, if you please, Master Dodd.”

  Dodd obeyed immediately and in a flash Mary was mounted and racing towards the house. Mary gave the restive horse his head, now recovered from its first brief dash. She was soon out of sight around the bend in the road, leaving only the dust of her headlong gallop hanging in the air.

  Lambeth Palace, February 1537

  It would be hard to imagine, thought Mary, a more dreary sight than approaching dusk on the Thames in February. The day had been cloudy with a brooding gloom, reminiscent of snow, but it was not quite cold enough to produce even the slightest flurry. The river had thawed and was now murky and turgid. Water travel was possible again; she much preferred it to horseback or litter when the landscape was so depressing to look at, and the weather so achingly damp and raw.

  As Mary watched the miles go by from the deck of the barge, it seemed that the gray sky melded with the gray water until the horizon was all but lost. The unchanging scenery was as dismal as the sky, a monotonous procession of the outlines of desolate, leafless trees and disheartened river reeds.

  She had wasted no time once she had heard all that Chapuys’ messenger had to say. Despite the winter weather, she had left immediately for London. It was ironic, she thought, that in the desolate time when she had been out of favor, she would not have been allowed anywhere near either the coast or the river, leave alone on her own. It was vital that her father be given no reason to believe now that she was involved in any sort of conspiracy. So even though it made her heart ache to leave Beaulieu after so short a stay, she knew that she must get to London as soon as possible. There must be no cause for the king to question her loyalty.

  Poor Dodd; he was getting too old for the sort of headlong gallop on which she had sent him, hard on the heels of the Imperial ambassador’s courier, but there was no help for it. She must send an outrider to assure her father of her fidelity and to inform him of her intent to place her person completely at his disposal as soon as it was humanly possible for her get there. She was on the last leg of her journey now and hoped to reach Lambeth before dark, where she would stop overnight in the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury before continuing on to Greenwich.

  She knew from Chapuys’ frequent letters that Aske had warned her father upon his arrival back in the north that there was still much unrest there, and that the Midlands was now also in a state of turmoil. That a known reformer such as Sir Francis Bigod should take up arms against the king was a shock to all, none more so than to the king who had knighted him.

  Bigod had been in Wolsey’s household and was known to Cromwell as well. He was known to support the break with Rome. At first it had been a puzzling mystery as to what had happened, and then reports began to trickle in about Bigod’s divided loyalties. He was a reformer, not a Catholic, but he firmly believed that the king could not be Supreme Head of the church; he believed monastic reform was needed, but was set against the dissolution of the monasteries, demanding that they instead be restructured and reorganized, and their revenues diverted to the same religious causes as previously.

  What power on earth or in heaven, wondered Mary, had possessed the man? It was a dangerous splitting of hairs and had left him with few supporters. Even she knew that her father had no intention of reversing his position as Supreme Head of the Church in England, and Cromwell had no intention of allowing monastic wealth to go anywhere but into the royal treasury. Cromwell worried that should there be war, the treasury would bankrupt very quickly. The vast monastic state, with all of its wealth, was being sacrificed to the needs of the state. While there were some who believed and supported his position, there were others who resented the fact that many already rich, landed men were profiting from the sale of church lands. And it was hard to defend the fact that Cromwell himself, as well as his nephew, had received into their own hands twelve abbeys each.

  Bigod’s rebellion had fizzled out almost as soon as it started, leaving him dangerously exposed, but it had had one, much more perilous result; it had left the door open for the king to renege on all his promises to Aske and to group all those who had risen up into one traitorous faction. Bigod was captured and arrested, and his rebellion used as an excuse to betray Aske and all those whom the king had pardoned.

  Mary was becoming much more adept at reading between the lines; she deduced from Chapuys’ carefully worded despatches that it was likely that her father had only brought Aske to court in order to get him to betray what he knew about the rising and those involved in it.

  Just then the towers and spires of Lambeth Palace rose stark against the darkening sky. To the east the sky was a brilliant sapphire blue with just a hint of green at the horizon; behind her to the west the sun momentarily escaped a bank of gray clouds and a brief flash of golden light lit up the dusk, shedding an eeri
e glow on the deep red brick of the gatehouse. For a brief instant, it seemed as if the whole palace was ablaze. Then the sun dipped below the horizon and all was in darkness.

  Torches lit the water steps and had been placed at intervals all the way along the grassy pathway to the palace. But two of them seemed to be moving. As Mary stepped off the barge, an enormous figure resolved itself into the semblance of the king.

  “Well, Daughter,” he said. The planes of his face shifted in a peculiar manner in the flickering firelight of the torches. It was hard to tell whether he was pleased to see her or not.

  Mary sank into a deep curtsey. “My Lord,” she said. “I was not expecting you to greet me here at Lambeth.”

  Henry handed her up and they started along the path to the palace. “It is but a short ride from Greenwich and I was restless. Besides, I want to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Mary gave an involuntary shudder and her hands began to shake. So perhaps he suspected her after all? But if he had, would he have waited for her arrival? Would he not have sent men to detain her?

  Henry did not respond to Mary’s query, but said instead, “Here we are. I have ordered refreshments. I will await you in my chambers.”

  A silent nun with bowed head, and arms tucked deep into her habit, escorted Mary to her rooms, where she bathed her face and hands. If only Chapuys were here! But then, and she hated to admit it, it was Chapuys who had placed her in this awkward position. She had refused to sanction any premature effort to place her on the throne. The time was not right. But Chapuys and her cousin Charles had incited the North anyway, with so far as she could see, disastrous results. The religious strife that her father had fomented was getting worse. On one hand the uprisings had placed many in harm’s way, including, perhaps, herself, even though she was blameless; and on the other hand, the Reformers were gaining ground every day. Why could Chapuys and the lords of the North not see that now was not the time to try to depose a strong king and replace him with an untried girl? For one must be true to oneself; she knew that that was what she was. She was not ready for such a burden, and had it been thrust upon her at this moment, she feared that she would not have been able to rise to the challenge. There was only one way that she would ever consent to be queen and that was in the proper order of succession. Unless and until her father died, she would never be queen. After that, who knew?