The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Henry strolled to the rear of the cabin and looked out. It was a bright, balmy day, perfect for a sea cruise on his favorite ship, the Mary Rose. In addition to his forays on land to review England’s defenses, he wanted to assess them from the sea, to observe them with an eye as to how an invading force would see them. He liked what he saw. Should the threats of the pope, the emperor, or the kings of France and Scotland become reality, England was ready.

  The others were up on deck enjoying the fine weather, so unusual for December. The White Cliffs were visible, glimmering so brightly that it almost hurt his eyes to look at them. He felt a sudden desire to feel the wind in his hair, to taste the salt in the sea breeze.

  Up on deck the wind was just cool enough to feel refreshing. He stood at the ship’s rail and regarded the land from a distance. His island. His country. His people. His England. No one was going to tell him how to rule. He intended to leave Edward a strong England with a full treasury, as his father had done for him, and he would allow no one and nothing, neither sentiment nor ties of blood, to stand in his way.

  Brussels, January 1539

  Most gardens went to wrack and ruin in the wintertime. But this garden was neat and tidy. All of the weeds of the previous summer had been removed, the sprawling branches of shrubs had been pruned back, dead plants had been uprooted and the soil smoothed over, to await a new tenant in the spring; the grass, although a tawny color, was precisely edged; in fact, this garden lacked only green leaves and flowers to render it complete, but even without them, it pleased the eye. Charles paused for a moment, and his thoughts did something they rarely did; they took a flight of fancy. It occurred to him that his sister’s garden pleased the mind as well as the eye; its very orderliness seemed to promise one something, to remind one of the coming of spring. The mind needed such a promise in the dead of winter.

  His sister’s arm on his felt bony and sharp, and it was hot to the touch. He stole a glance at her. She seemed healthy enough. Charles did not love anybody in the accepted sense of the word; he had loved only once and that love had been dead these past six years. He loved his son, he supposed, but Philip was not a very lovable child; so serious and reserved, even at the age of twelve. If he were honest, he did not so much love Philip as he appreciated him. For he hoped one day to abdicate his position as Holy Roman Emperor, as King, as Archduke, as Duke, as Count; twenty-one titles in all, but he would give it all up and gladly for a little peace and quiet before he left this earth. As soon as Philip was old enough, and there was no doubt even at this early stage that he would be fit to reign, he would lay the burdens of rule on his son’s capable shoulders and walk away.

  His mind went full circle back to the question of love. He felt great affection for his sister, certainly, but what overpowered even that frail reed was the fact that he desperately needed her to continue in her role as Governess of the Netherlands. It was ironic, actually, how the wheel of fortune had dealt two generations of his family the same hand. Their father, Philip the Handsome, had died young. Their mother, Queen Joanna of Castile, whom many suspected of being mad, had demonstrated a certainty of it after his father’s death. He and his brother and sisters had been sent to live at the court of their aunt, Margaret of Austria. She had raised them as her own, all the while governing the Netherlands with an iron hand in a velvet glove. A widow, she had had, so rumor said, many lovers.

  Now his own sister, Marie, was Governess of the Netherlands, and she had in her turn raised their sister Isabella’s children, Dorothea and Christina of Denmark. His sister was indeed an excellent ruler, just as their aunt before her had been; although, like him, she loathed the job. But there the similarity between his sister and their aunt ended. Whereas their flamboyant Aunt Margaret had always been sumptuously attired and bejeweled, and had possessed an undeniable, inexplicable charm, Marie had inherited the unfortunate Hapsburg jaw and protruding lips. Married at ten, widowed at twenty-one, and childless, she had evinced no desire to marry again; neither had she a vocation, despite the fact that she dressed like a nun. And so Charles had promptly set her to work in his Dutch provinces, always a troublesome part of his vast empire. And there she had stayed.

  Marie looked up at him and smiled, shading her eyes with a ringless hand. “The out of doors is pleasant today, is it not, brother?” she asked.

  Pleasant! The wind blew sharply from the north and smelt of damp. Brussels was such a swamp! “The wind is coming off the water,” he remarked “It will snow soon, perhaps tomorrow.”

  Marie laughed her tinkling laugh, so incongruous with her otherwise dour character. “Humph. You always were weather-wise.” They strolled the garden path in silence for a few moments and then she said, “What is troubling you, brother?”

  “The pope has sent Reginald Pole to me to beg me for a crusade,” Charles replied. “He asks that I mount an invasion of England, now that he has finally excommunicated its king.”

  Marie nodded. “His Holiness is determined to teach Henry of England a lesson.”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed, giving him a sly look. “If His Holiness believes that I will expend men and money on an invasion of England to place Reginald Pole on the throne, then he has learned little of me over the years. There is no benefit in such an enterprise to the Hapsburg Empire.”

  Marie knew a moment of sympathy for her dead aunt, Katharine of Aragon, and for her cousin, the Princess Mary of England. Her own husband had been much her elder and kindly, almost more like a father than a husband at times. They had been unusually happy for an arranged match. But from what she had heard of Henry of England, he was both a bad husband and a bad father. And if Charles had never had any intention of helping either his aunt or his cousin, even when they had labored under the threat of harm and the danger of death, he certainly would not do so now.

  “It also makes me wroth that Cardinal Pole would consider giving up his cardinalate to marry,” said Charles.

  Marie offered her clumsy smile. She could not picture her brother wroth; he so seldom let anyone know what he was thinking. She had known him angry often enough, but she had seldom seen him show it, even to her. She nibbled a cuticle, frowning in thought. “The king ought to get Mary married, but I see his dilemma; he cannot. Had he allowed the match with Portugal, the pope might very well have had his crusade after all. But I do not believe that Cardinal Pole’s fingers itch for a crown. In fact, I am convinced in myself that marrying Mary and ruling England would be naught but the greatest sacrifice on his part, and explains much of why he even considers doing it.”

  Charles’ brows arched in astonishment. His sister was constantly astounding him with her keen ability to read others, such an essential asset in a ruler. “A shrewd observation, sister,” he said. “Even so, Henry is a strong king. Such a venture, in addition to being inappropriate for many reasons, would be a great risk, and its goal would not be easily achieved.”

  Had the situation been different, an invasion of England might have been feasible. But it was not. In the final analysis, no one wanted a female on the throne. If she ever did come to the throne, Mary’s husband, whoever he turned out to be, would rule for her. Reginald Pole would have been acceptable to the English people because he was English, and a Plantagenet. But it was not to be. But if it should come to pass in the future that Mary did take the throne, why not Philip? That was food for thought! Indeed, why spend men and money on an invasion now, when the same outcome might be gained by peaceful means? Still, he had little desire to add England to his sprawling empire. The only possible advantage of doing so was that it might ease the difficulties of trade with his Dutch provinces, trade that was vital to his coffers.

  Marie could see her brother’s mind working and thought she could guess where his thoughts had taken him. “What of the new accord with the French king?”

  “Humph,” said Charles. “These accords mean little. The relationship is already deteriorating, and the ink is not yet dry on the parchment. Still, it will suffice for now.�
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  “Perhaps we should not have allowed Christina to refuse the English king’s proposal of marriage.”

  Charles then did another thing that he rarely did; he laughed. “It was well worth it to me to be able to imagine the look of astonishment on Henry’s face when he received her answer,” he said, recalling to mind his niece’s cutting remark about having two heads. How that must have galled his uncle-by-marriage! He ran a distracted hand through his thinning hair. Once the laughter started, it was hard to stop it; then the laughter turned into a coughing fit. He always suffered from rheum whenever he visited Brussels. He pounded his chest with his fist, and waved a hand to his sister, who had also begun to titter, to indicate that he would soon recover.

  “It was all the p-poor wench could do not to laugh in the English envoy’s f-face,” she spluttered. “Only her dignity prevented it. Oh, it was rich! There he stood, the duchess looking down upon him haughtily whilst he assured her that King Henry was fully prepared to promulgate the dispensation that would be required to allow him to marry his first wife’s great-niece!” She wiped the tears away that were streaming from her eyes with a plain linen square devoid of even the slightest decoration. “Have you ever heard of anything so absurd? Henry of England truly believes that he has the powers of the pope. Why, such a dispensation would not be worth the paper it was written on.”

  Charles, who had recovered his composure, replied, “You have never met him, sister, but I have. I trow he is the proudest, most self-delusional man you could ever hope to meet. Yes, he is still smarting from Christina’s refusal, I doubt not. Unfortunately, it has sent him rebounding to Cleves. An English alliance with Cleves, or any other Protestant alliance, poses a threat to us here in the Netherlands.”

  Marie was thoughtful. “I am not so sure,” she said. “After all, the English king is as dependent upon our weavers as we are upon his wool staple. I think we need not fear such an alliance.”

  “That would most certainly be true, sister, if Henry of England was not the sort of man who cuts off his nose to spite his face.”

  Marie shrugged. No monarch could possibly be so stupid.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Charles. “Still, it is clear that the king of England no longer desires an imperial alliance. I am certain that Mary was forced to write that unpleasant letter about the match with the duke of Beja; Chapuys has said as much. The Tudor is simply using his daughter as his cat’s paw to tweak my nose a bit, as I tweaked his by reaching the accord with the French king. He knows as well as I that all this posturing is meaningless.”

  Suddenly Marie burst out laughing again. “I have just thought of the perfect means of retaliation,” she said.

  Charles stopped walking, crossed his arms and said, “Oh? Such a suggestion would be most welcome!”

  She smiled slyly. “Duke John of Cleves has approached me to ask that I support his desire to force the duchess Christina to accept the king of England’s suit. Knowing your mind on the matter, I have simply ignored his request. I have not deigned to respond to him.”

  Charles’ eyes narrowed. “For what reason does the duke of Cleves wish Christina to marry into England?”

  “His brother-in-law believes that Henry of England could be persuaded to support Dorothea’s claim to the throne of Denmark if he were married to her sister.”

  “But I have it on good authority that Henry has put feelers out to marry one of the daughters of the House of Cleves.”

  Marie smiled smugly. “Exactly.”

  Charles’ lips curled in a very slight smile. “Yes,” he said. “You may answer the duke. Let us play a little game with Henry of England. For whilst Cleves thinks that they might snare Henry for Christina, they will not entertain his suit for their own daughters.” He would amuse himself at Henry’s expense until it pleased him to stop.

  Syon Monastery, April 1539

  Frances experienced an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu as she followed Mary, Margaret, and their young cousin, the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, down the passageway to the stillroom. The passage was on the south side of the cloister, but was open to the breeze, and it was chilly for April. She gathered her cloak about her and tried to walk faster to warm her blood.

  It was Maundy Thursday, the Thursday before Easter, and the royal cousins had accompanied Mary on her mission to distribute alms in the form of coins especially minted for the occasion. This royal obligation should have been carried out by the queen, but they had none; so the king had asked Mary to do it, a signal honour, and one that Mary did not take lightly. The coins would normally have borne the image of the queen, but instead, it was Henry’s face that looked out from every silver penny.

  The venue for the distribution of the alms had been left up to Mary, and she had chosen Syon. At the door of the abbey church after mass, she had patiently placed a coin into each eager hand, smiling and wishing each person well. The response of the parishioners had been as balm to Mary’s spirit; every one had called her Your Grace, and blessed her for her generosity. From the church door they had proceeded to the infirmary, where Mary had repeated her performance. Syon took in all in need of succor save lepers, and some of the infirmary inhabitants were extremely poor; it had brought tears even to Frances’ jaded eyes when an old crone, bedridden and too weak to rise, had clutched her coin and declared that she would never spend it, as it was too precious to her, having come from the hands of Her Grace. The infirmarian, a cherubic monk, stood by with his hands tucked into his sleeves, smiling benignly. Finally, everyone had received their penny.

  “Well,” said Mary. “That’s done. Now we can visit with Dame Agnes.” They gathered up their skirts and cut across the abbey garth, giggling like little girls at the infraction of the rules; no one was supposed to walk on the grass. The wall of the south passage was lined with daffodils; they paused for a moment to admire their frilly golden cups as the bright yellow flowers nodded in the breeze.

  The stillroom was small and smelt of dried herbs. There they found Dame Agnes, her head covered with a snowy white cloth, her sleeves pushed up to the elbows. She was supervising four harassed-looking young novices in the making of lavender oil. One was carefully measuring oil into a row of beakers, while another covered a set of identical containers with precisely cut squares of fine muslin cloth. The others were mixing tiny buds of lavender into the oil and straining the concoction through the muslin. When the dame looked up and saw the royal ladies, she cried, “Ah, just what I need, more hands! Your Graces, you are timely.” Lady Elizabeth, who had never met the dame, regarded her with wide eyes. She had never seen a woman with quite such an imposing presence. “Come, child,” said Dame Agnes. “Those long, delicate fingers are perfect for separating the lavender buds from their stalks. You must be careful not to bruise them. Here then, here are your stalks, and here is a bowl.” The Lady Elizabeth thus occupied, Dame Agnes cocked her head to the door. “Let us take the air for a few moments,” she said, rolling down her sleeves.

  Frances and Mary exchanged looks, and Dame Agnes understood at once. She turned to Lady Margaret and said, “Your Grace, I have remembered me…Sister Clare would be so disappointed if you left without visiting her. Here, child, take my prayer book.” Sister Clare was the abbey’s oldest inhabitant; none knew quite how old she was, the date of her birth having been left unrecorded. But that she was ancient none who beheld her could deny. Her eyesight having failed her, she enjoyed being read to, and this had been one of Margaret’s duties during her previous stay at the abbey.

  As soon as Margaret was out of earshot, Dame Agnes said, “Now tell me, my dears, what is amiss?”

  Again Frances and Mary exchanged looks. Mary was the eldest and higher in rank, if one disregarded the king’s denial of her position, and this Frances, in her heart of hearts, had always done. It was for Mary to speak.

  Mary did not believe in mincing words, especially with someone she trusted as she trusted Dame Agnes. “The Lady Margaret is conducting what she thinks i
s a secret amour with Sir Charles Howard.”

  “Chris on the cross!” declared the dame, and then she quickly glanced skyward and crossed herself. As far as she was concerned, a little swearing never hurt anyone, but if the lightning bolt struck, she did not want it to annihilate any but herself. “What ails the girl? First she dallies with Sir Thomas and disgraces herself, and now that he is dead, God rest his soul,” again she crossed herself, “she behaves in like manner with the man’s own nephew? Is she daft?”

  Frances smirked. “I begin to think so. Mere stupidity does not account for such rash behavior. But that is not the half of it, good dame.”

  “Not…?” cried Dame Agnes, fearing the worst. Margaret was flighty, but heaven forfend that she… “What mean you?”

  Frances waited until a group of nuns hurried past on some errand, their stiffly starched habits whispering as they made their way down the corridor. “The earl of Surrey has conceived a passion for our Irish cousin.” Frances nodded in the direction of the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald.

  Dame Agnes turned to look at the girl, who was concentrating diligently on separating the lavender buds. Already the bowl Dame Agnes had given her was nearly full to the brim. Dame Agnes noticed that the girl’s eyes were the color of the buds, and her flaxen hair streamed about her shoulders to her waist, the only adornment on it a netting of fine gold studded with tiny gems that winked in the candlelight of the dimly lit stillroom. The child was exquisite, there was no denying it. Her great-grandmother was Queen Elizabeth Woodville, that great beauty, and for whom she was named. But for all that, she was still a child.