The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  “And there is something else,” said the Marchioness of Exeter. All eyes in the room shifted and became riveted upon Lady Gertrude. “Forget not that the Bishop of Tarbes has already once questioned Her Grace’s legitimacy. In fact, it was his suspicions about the dispensation allowing Queen Katharine to marry the king that first put the idea into the king’s head that his marriage was illegal, and therefore, cursed. Chapuys himself told me that the French king refused absolutely to either acknowledge the princess as a bastard with no claim to the throne, or to uphold the king’s assertion that his marriage to Queen Katharine was illegal, despite the qualms of the Bishop of Tarbes. To have done so in 1518 would have required that he deny the infallibility of a dead pope, and to do so now would mean condoning the break with Rome and the king’s marriage to the Concubine in addition to that. And that he will never do. The king may indeed have no intention of securing any match for Her Grace with a Catholic prince, but even if he did so intend, the French king will never agree to a match for her with the Duc d’Orleans.”

  “So unless the princess is made legitimate and restored to the succession, there will be no French match, neither for the king, nor for any member of his family,” said Lord Henry. “This we know. But what of a Hapsburg match?”

  Lady Margaret took a dainty sip of wine, set her cup down, and steepled her fingers. “One has to wonder. The king has certainly made an effort to drive a wedge between the emperor and the king of France ever since they reached their new accord. But I do not think that is all there is to it. Master Holbein’s portrait of the Duchess Christina has His Grace’s blood racing, as did the prospect of getting his hands on her Duchy of Milan. But I think that the Emperor Charles will not agree to that provision; he wants no interference from England in the Milanese. Nor do I think that he will agree to the king’s requirement that the emperor concede that his aunt’s marriage was illegal and his cousin a bastard with no right to the English throne. The king, likewise, is inflexible on these points. It is a good thing, really, because the Duke of Beja is just the right age,” she cast a glance at Gertrude, who conceded the point with a shrug and a nod, “…is a good Catholic and would agree to reside in England. Should they reach an agreement regarding a match with Dom Luis, that would dash our plans for Reginald to…to…”

  Lord Henry reached across the corner of the table where he sat on the Countess’s right and patted her hand. “It is all right to speak it, my lady,” he said.

  “Yes…I suppose one must at some point say the words,” she replied. “…become the king of England.” She smiled, and her eyes took on a far away look. “Reginald was always Queen Katharine’s first choice of husband for Her Grace. After the emperor, of course, he being her nephew. But Reginald is a much better choice.” Lady Margaret spared a fleeting thought for why Katharine had so favored Reginald; it was because she felt guilty that Lady Margaret’s brother had been put to death as a condition of the Catholic Kings for Katharine’s entry into the Tudor match.

  “So we are agreed, then,” said Lady Margaret. “Lord Henry, you must work with Sir Edward Neville, and Geoffrey here,” she patted her son’s hand, “and the others to raise the west. And it must be soon.” Her eyes strayed to the banner of the Five Wounds of Christ. It could not be too soon for her. Her dear friend Queen Katharine avenged and her beloved princess, whom Katharine had committed into her hands to care for and protect, saved from marriage with a heretic and set upon the throne with her own dear Reginald! The happiness was almost too much to contemplate. But there was much that needed to be done, she knew, before she would see that glad day.

  Suddenly Sir Geoffrey’s stomach gave an audible rumble, and he sat up in his chair. “What is that I smell?” he asked.

  Lord Montague, who had nothing but contempt for his younger brother, said, “I should think it is the aroma of baking meats.”

  Sir Geoffrey’s eyes widened, and he turned to his mother. “But I thought you said…”

  Lady Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “Well, I could hardly dismiss everyone, could I? The kitchen is here, as usual. But my dear,” she said, “they are on the other side of the castle. No danger there.”

  Sir Geoffrey felt once again that urge to run to the door, but this time to yank it open and see who was there, listening at the keyhole.

  As if Lord Montague had read his brother’s thoughts he said, “Forsooth, Geoffrey. The door is inches thick and we have not exactly been shouting. Mother…” He turned with an exasperated expression to Lady Margaret.

  “It is all right, Geoffrey,” she said.

  Geoffrey was anything but convinced; he had broken out into a sweat and his insides felt as if they were being washed down with water cold from the well. He tingled with fear down to his fingertips. When he was a small boy, his father had taken him to see an execution at the Tower, thinking such an experience would toughen his somewhat weak-minded son. But it had only served to make the child even more fearful, and that, combined with his deathly fear of their cruel and mercurial king, made him frantic at the thought of ever running afoul of the Tudors. Even now he could hear the deadly ring of the axe and see the severed head dropping onto the straw, the staring eyes, the blood spurting from the empty neck, bathing the crowd of curious onlookers in a shower of red. Only now when he recalled his father holding his head firmly so that he must look, he imagined that it was his own head that he saw rolling onto the bloody straw.

  Gravesend, Kent, August 1538

  The royal barge floated smoothly down the river, to the delicate sounds of gittern, rebec, shawm and lute. There was a warm, gentle breeze blowing, and the sound of the music must have been carried upon it, for the banks were lined with well-wishers, all shouting “Long live the king!” The colorful banners fluttered, whilst the oarsmen, no less colorful in their scarlet and gold costumes enlivened by the green and white of their badges in Tudor livery, rowed in a smooth, silent unison. They might have been gliding on glass.

  The king smiled and waved at the crowds gathered at the water’s edge, and when the river bank was empty of well-wishers to acknowledge, kept time to the music on the little gilt table at his side with his beefy, beringed fingers. He absently hummed along with the tune being played, one of his own. All seemed well with the world, but the peacefulness of the scene was deceptive. England was close to war and danger threatened from many quarters that uneasy summer.

  The king was always at his happiest when he was on the water, and he was a good sailor. His trip east on the river had a dual purpose, both of which were reasons dear to his heart. He was to stop first at Gravesend to survey the site for a new fortification he planned to build there; building was one of his great passions and the thought of it always lifted his spirits. To be able to build for a purpose that satisfied both the people and his Chancellor of the Exchequer was a bonus. Even if the reason was the threat of war, that still did not diminish his delight in the project.

  When he had concluded his business at Gravesend, he would continue overland to Canterbury to look in on the inventorying of the shrine of St. Thomas Becket. There was chest upon chest of glittering treasure, golden chains and caskets of jewels. Some of the gems that had hitherto adorned the saint’s shrine were rumored to be as big as a man’s thumbnail. And all wasted on the shrine of a priest who had defied his king and been sanctified for it! It was iniquitous. And whom did he have to thank for the clever schemes that had infused such wealth untold into his coffers? He smiled across at Cromwell, that self-same Chancellor of the Exchequer of whom he had been thinking just moments before.

  Cromwell had known the king for many years, and had been on the Privy Council since 1531, just after the fall of his mentor, the great Cardinal Wolsey. Like Wolsey, he had no illusions about his sovereign, and had learnt to choose his moments wisely. This was one such moment. Not only was the king in good spirits as they sailed, but his leg always bothered him less when he made a journey on the water instead of on horseback. The timing could not have bee
n more propitious. It was an added bonus that they were, for all intents and purposes, in public. Should the conversation he was about to initiate anger the king, it was less likely that he would slap or beat Cromwell, or even raise his voice. For the king often beat him when he was wroth, something he would not have dared to do to his noblemen or to churchmen. The nobles certainly would not have stood for such. The king verbally abused everyone; it was expected and most of the men close to him had learnt to endure it. But none would have countenanced being slapped about.

  But what was a mere beating against the privilege of counseling a king? There were many who felt that Cromwell, as a base-born commoner, had no right to advise royalty, even though he had been created Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon, had attained the position of Lord Privy Seal, and was the king’s principal secretary. Wolsey had been base-born as well, but had had his cardinal’s hat to give him license; Cromwell had only his shrewd mind, his thick skin, his guts and his patience to fall back upon.

  To people as lofty as the Poles and the Courtenays he was, despite his titles and preferments, still as dirt under their feet. To the Exeters he was that and more, he was a political rival. By virtue of their blood and high birth, they believed that they should have been the ones to counsel the king. The only thing that kept Lord Henry Courtenay from being the king’s first counselor was the personal animosity between him and his royal cousin. But even so, the truth was that the king feared and hated his Plantagenet relatives and, Cromwell believed, secretly sought to destroy them. But Henry was famous for destroying his enemies and laying the blame for his deeds upon others. Cromwell knew that he would have to tread carefully if he meant to accomplish his purpose and emerge successful, with his head still on his shoulders.

  But Cromwell, for all his failings in the eyes of others, had one virtue that Wolsey had lacked. He cared little for personal wealth or aggrandizement. His passion was to rid England of superstition and the yoke of Rome. He and Cranmer had first put their faith in Anne Boleyn, that good lady, who with her charm and finesse had almost succeeded in helping them accomplish their purpose. Although the king did not know it, Cromwell had been just as disappointed as he was in Anne’s seeming inability to provide England with a male heir. Had she been able to perform that simple duty, the country would now be worlds closer to the religious enlightenment that Cromwell envisioned. However, there was no use harking back. That effort had failed, and he must now look forward and make a new plan.

  But he must remember at all times what the bible said; the bible that he was able to read because it had been translated into English. Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. What he did, he did not in the service of the king, but of God. It was a lesson that Wolsey had learnt too late.

  It was fortunate that the king’s coffers had been as bare as a tinker’s cupboard; the king’s need for money, and the greed with which His Grace eyed the wealth of the Church in England, provided the impetus that would eventually drive England to a permanent breach with the Catholic Church. And about time! Why should England continue, ad infinitum, sending her pounds and pence to Rome? What purpose did it serve, except to make even richer an establishment that served no purpose?

  Cromwell’s plan was two-fold, and to succeed, both elements of it must be brought to fruition. The dangers from both within and without must be crushed. The Pilgrimage of Grace had proved that the country was ripe for internal insurrection; he had been certain that it would not be long before another Catholic uprising, and now he had proof. A second such rebellion must be stopped at all costs. And he knew exactly how to do that. The accord between France and the Holy Roman Empire, instigated and brokered by Pope Paul III, isolated England and made her vulnerable to her enemies. Therefore, a firm European alliance was needed. For this he also had a plan.

  But all hinged on this unpredictable, intractable king, who had an uncertain, vicious temper and a mind of his own. But the time was now. If he, Cromwell, were to fulfill his hopes for England, he must act.

  “Ah,” said the king. Henry put his hand to his chin, tapped his lips with an index finger as big as a Sunday sausage, and narrowed his eyes. “Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.”

  Cromwell, who had given no thought whatsoever to the music being played for the king’s enjoyment, indeed, was a man who didn’t care two pins for music, smiled, inclined his head and said, “That is a brilliant observation, Your Grace.”

  Henry frowned. It was at times such as this that he truly missed Wolsey. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “It is. I was quoting Plato.” Wolsey would have known that. But he had to admit, Cromwell had other talents…abilities that mattered far more than a knowledge of such arcane things as Plato’s ruminations on the arts.

  “Your Grace,” said Cromwell. “May I speak frankly?”

  Henry drained the golden goblet of wine he had been absently sipping and motioned to the steward for more. “Of course. I should be offended if you did not. You have given me nothing but good advice these years past. Say on.”

  Well, thought Cromwell, that was an auspicious start. And then suddenly brilliant inspiration struck him. The best way to convince the king to agree to his schemes was to hit him in his most vulnerable place: the prince. Now that the king had his son and heir, he would countenance no obstacle to the boy’s ascension. All precautions to guard the prince’s health were being taken; indeed, they were excessive in Cromwell’s opinion. But there were other dangers besides childhood ailments.

  “Your Grace,” he said carefully. “As you are aware, the safety and security of this realm is ever my primary concern.”

  “As it is mine,” Henry replied. He took a swig from his wine cup and set it on the table beside him.

  Cromwell lowered his voice so that even the steward and the closest oarsmen could not have heard him. “I am afraid for the prince, Sire.”

  Henry sputtered and coughed. “Why?” he gasped. “Wh-what mean you?”

  Cromwell let him cough; he waited until the fit subsided.

  “Sire,” he said, “the people rejoice in the prince and love him as they love Your Grace. Of this there can be no doubt. But few would wish to see a baby on the throne.”

  Henry’s face flushed red; Cromwell recognized the warning signs of imminent temper and hurried on. “Your Grace’s recent illness caused great consternation among certain factions.”

  “That was proved to be nothing,” Henry replied. “Except for my leg, I am in splendid health.”

  “Indeed, and glad we all are, Your Grace,” Cromwell replied. Nothing! For ten days in the spring the king had been very ill indeed. Dr. Butts believed that a humor from the king’s festering leg had dislodged itself and traveled elsewhere in his body, a condition which resulted in the king having difficulty breathing for several nerve-racking days.

  Henry shifted uneasily in his chair. He simply did not fit as well as he had always done, neither into his clothing nor his furniture. New clothes had been in the making for months, and as each new outfit was completed, entered the king’s wardrobe. Master Holbein, whose forte was art rather than fashion, had nevertheless been moved to suggest that the king’s robes be widened and sewn with padding, then draped in such a manner as to hide his growing bulk. The style had become so popular that many courtiers were adopting it, and the king was so pleased with it that he had ordered a new portrait wearing it. But the royal furniture was a different matter, and one that the bulkier king, in his bulkier clothing, was becoming aware was a problem that needed seeing to. Cromwell observed the king’s discomfort and made a mental note to have new pieces made.

  “What I mean, Sire,” said Cromwell, “is that there are those who, should the prince be in a position to ascend the throne while he is still a child, might seek to make other arrangements.” Really, thought Cromwell, one had to tread most carefully; it was treason to imagine the king’s death. But he had been given leave to speak freely,
and speak he would.

  Henry narrowed his eyes. “I understand,” he said. “What evil is afoot, then?”

  Cromwell heaved an inner sigh of relief. The king would hear him out. “It is this, Your Grace. I have received certain information that leads me to believe that plans are being made to usurp the throne and set aside the prince should the need arise.”

  “Who?” Henry’s voice was barely a whisper; a good sign. There was no better way to get the king to act than to threaten his son.

  A direct question begged a direct answer; always the best way. Cromwell blessed his good fortune. “The Courtenays and the Poles.”

  Henry slapped the arm of the already unsteady chair. “I might have known!” he shouted. Then lowering his voice he asked, “How?”

  “I believe that your relatives plan to instigate a religious uprising in the west, Sire. One that they will not allow to be led by inexperienced men, and that will not be purported to be peaceful. Its aim will be to depose Your Grace, set aside the prince, and place one of their own on the throne.”

  Once more that deadly quiet. “Who?”

  Cromwell shrugged. “That,” he replied, “would depend upon whom you were to ask, My Liege. Your cousin of Exeter; or mayhap Reginald Pole.”

  Henry sneered. He had never liked his arrogant, self-important cousin Courtenay, the Marquis of Exeter, with his Plantagenet blood; he especially hated his cousin Reginald, who had supported Katharine’s claims so stoutly, and who had written such vicious things about him. Unforgivable. “What proof have you?”

  Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Cromwell could see the far-off spires of the church at Gravesend; they were nearing their destination. Dozens of seagulls cried mournfully as they wheeled overhead, riding the caressing sea breeze. The sun sparkled and danced a million diamonds on the water, which had picked up a chop as they neared the river’s end and the open sea. The tang of salt infused the air. What he was about to say was certain to end in death for a great many people, himself included, if he were not very, very careful.