The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  And gifts! He would shower her with gifts, as he had done with all his wives. Just to see her eyes light up when she was presented with some trinket would give him great joy. Jane had always received his gifts with child-like glee; he imagined Anne doing the same, and perhaps giving him a shy kiss of thanks.

  Oh, it was good to be in love again!

  But just as it had seemed within reach, the idyll had almost been snatched away from him.

  The delegation from Cleves had arrived sooner than anyone could have hoped for; Cromwell had indeed exceeded his mandate, and Henry wondered what would have happened if he had found neither of the girls attractive and had elected instead to continue his search for a bride. But, happily, such was not the case, and Henry had lavished a royal welcome on the embassy of Duke William that they would not soon forget.

  But after the jubilation died down and they got down to cases, Henry was surprised to find that the duke’s emissaries were not as eager to part with their princess as he had been led to believe. The Count of Buren, a relative of Duke William, presented the king of England with a list of items upon which their duke must be satisfied before he would agree to part with his sister.

  Anne was humble, gentle, shy and unsophisticated; she had been raised strictly in a court that was known for its virtue. How would she fare at the English court, known for its licentiousness? Henry bristled; this was a covert reference to the fact that Anne Boleyn had been a queen, his queen, accused of adultery and executed for it. He unobtrusively felt at the breast of his doublet; he imagined the little miniature and the prize that would be his for the price of brooking a few veiled insults.

  He put on his best sad face and replied, “Shall a man be condemned for the sins of others?”

  When this rejoinder was met with silence, Henry realized that they were speaking of his own peccadilloes. The hypocrites! What man worth his salt, leave alone a king, did not have a few mistresses? Was the duke so pious? Or did he just hide instead of flaunt his lapses?

  The Earl of Egmont, another of the duke’s kinsmen, bowed in his peculiar German manner and said, “Dere iss anudder matter ass vell. You vill forgiff me. Vot of der vyfe who vass difforced, der vyfe who vass kilt, und der vyfe who died in der…” he turned to the Count of Leerdam, another of the duke’s many cousins and asked, “Hoe kan je zeggen? Ah! Kinderbed…childtbedt?”

  Count Buren added, “Yes, another point. Will our princess be secure and happy here, Your Grace?”

  At this Henry almost laughed. Had they been speaking with the Duchess Christina, she of the two heads? Well, after all, Jacob had toiled far longer and harder for Rachel… “My lords,” replied Henry, “you need have no fear. The Duchess Anne will be loved and cherished by all.”

  At this the catechism seemed to end for the day; the ducal embassy bowed and took their leave, no doubt to weigh the king’s answers.

  The following day Henry sat on his throne in the throne room, the richly appointed royal canopy over his head and the arms of England at his back. Perhaps this regal showing would serve to give the Cleves delegation pause, as the more intimate setting of his privy chamber the day before had somehow failed to do. And today he would keep them standing!

  However, if they noticed the slight, they gave no indication of it; instead, Count Buren pulled a square of paper from his doublet, turned it right wise, and held it at arm’s length. They might never have concluded yesterday’s session; the count began without preamble and said, “His Highness the duke wishes that the King of England know that the Lady Anne speaks only German and High Dutch. She has no English.”

  Henry sighed. This was an easy one. “My lords,” he said patiently, “My first…” He paused; his contention had always been that he had never been married to Katharine. But what mattered such details now? What mattered now was getting past these… these… guard dogs, and getting Anne to England. A brief image of Cerberus flitted through his mind, the mythical three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to Hades; only instead of the faces of dogs he imagined the creature with the heads of Count Buren, Count Leerdam, and the Earl of Egmont. He stifled a guffaw with a cough. “The Princess Katharine of Aragon also spoke no English when she arrived,” he said. “We will teach the Lady Anne. I have heard that Her Highness is very intelligent, no? I have great confidence that she will learn our tongue very quickly.”

  “Harumph,” exclaimed Count Buren. “As you say, Your Grace. But the duke also wishes awareness that the Duchess has few accomplishments. She neither sings, dances, nor plays a musical instrument. Such is not considered seemly in our land. Will Her Highness not then be at a disadvantage as queen of a court where such pastimes are commonly practiced?”

  Henry already knew all that; he decided to launch an offensive of his own. “If that is the case, Count Buren, you vill pleess forgiff me,” he said mockingly, “then what can the lady do? It seems unfair to me that her own kinsmen hark so boldly upon her perceived shortcomings and offer nothing in the way of accolades to recommend her.”

  The three men, who all bore an uncanny resemblance to each other for men that were cousins rather than brothers, murmured amongst themselves for a few moments, and then the Count of Leerdam replied, “Your Majesty, the Duchess Anne is an expert needlewoman.”

  Henry’s lip curled. Shades of Katharine! He would tell Cromwell to ensure that the lady sewed him no shirts. She should confine her expertise to altar cloths and such. Suddenly he stood up to his full height and said, “Enough!” Nothing so fired his blood as a refusal; he meant to have Anne and have her he would.

  A commotion outside the presence chamber caught the king’s attention. He signaled to Cromwell, who had been standing nervously by, listening to the exchange, to see what was afoot.

  When Cromwell returned he was as white as chalk and held a document in front of him. It might have been a trick of the light slanting through the tall windows of the presence chamber, but it seemed as if Cromwell held the parchment by its edges so that he might touch it as little as possible.

  When Cromwell had walked the length of the room, which seemed to take forever, Henry said, “Well? What is it?”

  Cromwell seemed pole-axed and did not reply, but his lips worked as if he were trying to speak.

  Henry, losing patience, bellowed, “Oh, give over, man!” By this time Cromwell had mounted the platform on which the elaborate throne was situated; he handed the document to the king as if it were on fire.

  Henry scanned the missive, and as he did so, his eyes grew larger and larger. Finally he looked up and roared, “This is iniquitous! Did you know of this?”

  The three noblemen of Cleves seemed to shrink back; they had had no idea that whatever the document contained had anything to do with them. To have the wrath of this truly frightening personage turned on them was almost more than they could bear.

  The Count of Buren, as the leader of the delegation, stepped forward, only slightly, and replied, “A thousand pardons, Your Grace, but what does the document say?”

  Henry narrowed his eyes and thrust the parchment out for the Count to take. He cautiously approached the platform and took the proffered document.

  The Count quickly eyed the document and turned as white as Cromwell. “I swear to Your Majesty, our embassy knew nothing of this. We have been treating in good faith, Your Majesty.”

  Henry had expected the Cleves delegation to arrive with a draft of the marriage pact in hand, and the offer of a dowry; he had been much annoyed to discover that this was not the case. And instead, he had been subjected to this…cross examination! And now he had received a letter from the Duke of Cleves informing the King of England that a pre-contract had been discovered where Anne was concerned. Apparently, his father, Duke John, the erstwhile duke who had recently passed away, had, unbeknownst to his son, engaged in discussions with the Duke of Lorraine for a marriage between his son, the Marquess of Pont-a-Mousson, and the Duchess Anne. It was altogether too much. The miniature portrait seemed to burn a h
ole in Henry’s chest. So it was not to be after all!

  The men of the Cleves delegation quickly made their excuses and departed.

  # # #

  For weeks afterwards, Henry had been in turn downcast, sorrowful, taciturn, then philosophical; all was to do again. He would then sigh, and shout, Where the devil was Holbein? What other lady should he be sent to paint?

  Cromwell had done his best to persuade Henry that the Duchess Amalia, who was still available, was a viable alternative, but Henry waved him away. His heart was set on Anne. And he was not altogether convinced that this sudden discovery of a pre-contract was not some sort of ploy. And what had all that mummery about Anne’s happiness and suitability to be queen of England really been about?

  And then suddenly a courier had arrived with splendid news. The delegation had been met on the road on their way back to Cleves by a swift messenger from Duke William. The issue had been investigated as rapidly as possible, and it had been confirmed by all that although the possibility of a marriage between Anne and the Marquess had indeed been mooted, no decision had been reached and there was no pre-contract after all. The Duchess Anne was free to marry. The delegation had promptly turned around and headed back to England. And best of all, this time they carried a signed offer of marriage from the Duke of Cleves that needed only Henry’s signature to ratify it.

  From the depths of despair, Henry was once again lifted to the pinnacle of joy. Now he spent his days clutching the miniature in his hand instead of hiding it in his doublet. The tranquil, passive face, the serene eyes, looked out at him as if in assurance that all would yet be well.

  When the delegation next stood before the king of England, they held the precious document, from which the seals bobbed merrily. Eagerly Henry awaited the moment when they would hand it over, and Cromwell, with his lawyer’s eye, would scrutinize it to be certain that all was in order, and then Henry would sign and his little love would be all but on her way.

  Henry was roused from his daydream by a discreet cough. “Well?” he said.

  The Count of Buren bowed and said, “There is one further matter, Your Grace.”

  God, give me patience, thought Henry. He arched his thin, red brows in question.

  “It is the matter of the dowry, Your Majesty,” said Count Buren.

  Henry sighed. “What of the dowry, sir?”

  The Count swallowed and took a deep breath. “The Duke regrets, Your Grace, that he cannot afford to offer a dowry for the Duchess Anne.”

  And then Henry did the least expected thing, he laughed. The men of the delegation looked at each other and, uncertain how to respond to this strange reaction, tittered along with the king’s hearty guffaws. Cromwell, whose color had not returned since the king had berated him long and hard for not knowing about the pre-contract, and who still bore the bruises where Henry had pummeled him in his anger, stood as still as a statue. The king’s secretary, Sir Brian Tuke, was taking the minutes of the meeting; he was afraid that Cromwell might collapse where he stood, and made ready to rise to break the Chancellor’s fall.

  By this time tears of laughter were rolling down Henry’s face. He pulled a linen square from his sleeve, wiped his eyes, and said, “F-forgive me. It strikes me as humorous that a man known as William the Rich cannot afford a dowry with which to marry off his sister to a king!”

  There was a moment’s shocked silence, and then all the men burst out laughing. It was absurd.

  “Oh, God’s eyeballs, man, England will not insist on a dowry!” Henry waved an expansive hand at the opulent throne room, with its colorful banners hanging from the rich, wooden beams of the ceiling, the elaborate carvings around the dozen tall windows, at the gilded throne upon which he sat, and at the jewels sewn onto every inch of his clothing. “Does it appear to you that England needs the few coins that the Duke would send to marry off his sister?” The laughter faded from his face and it was replaced by a look of sheer malevolence. Henry slammed a meaty fist onto the sturdy arm of the throne. “Enough of this posturing!” bellowed the king. “Send the wench and have done!”

  With that he strode from the hall and left the Cleves delegation in stunned silence, but glad that they had gotten off with nothing worse than a tongue lashing.

  When next they met, it was for the official leave-taking that was the hallmark of any departing foreign delegation. Sir Brian noticed that some of Cromwell’s color had returned, but he still looked very pasty and puffy, and small red veins netted his cheeks. Perhaps that was where the color seemed to be. But all in all, he was looking better than he had during the days of the king’s livid anger over the pre-contract.

  The members of the Cleves delegation bowed. The precious scroll that was the marriage pact, signed and sealed, lay snugly under Count Buren’s arm. The king, by now heartily sick of them, was ready to wave them away when Count Buren said, “Your Grace, there is just one more matter.”

  Sir Brain noticed what little color there was drain from Cromwell’s face.

  Henry eyed the creamy scroll, its red seals dangling. What could they ask now? The pact was signed and sealed. Again he put his hand to his heart, where he imagined Anne’s face looking out at him serenely. Jacob and Rachel came to mind again.

  “What is it now?” he said wearily.

  The Count stepped forward, his hands clasped to his chest as if in prayer and his face a study in supplication, and said, “Only this, Your Grace. The pleading of a loving mother for the welfare of her daughter’s soul. The Duchess Maria humbly begs that her child be allowed to hear mass once she is Queen of England.”

  For a moment no one moved or spoke; the silence in the room was almost deafening. Sir Brian observed Cromwell go from white to green and then to red. He feared a stroke, and made ready to rise once again to break the Chancellor’s fall if need be.

  Norfolk, who as first peer of the realm was present for the diplomatic leave-taking, looked as if he had been pole-axed, and then a smug smile began to creep across his face.

  Henry was the first to recover his composure. Very quietly he said, “But, Your Excellencies, I was given to understand that Cleves was a duchy that is Erasmian in outlook?” Protestant, but not Lutheran…that was what Cromwell had said in the days when he was trying to convince the king to send feelers out to Duke John.

  “Indeed,” said Count Buren. “Indeed, that is the case, it is true. Our former duke, Duke John of blessed memory, sought to steer Cleves through the turbulent waters of these changes in religious outlook. Our new duke, Duke William, strives to do the same. But the Duchess is Catholic, and has never wavered from her faith. She raised her children as Catholics, and only Duke William strayed from that faith, much to her disappointment. But the princesses…they are under the iron hand of their mother, and she would not allow them to stray. They are Catholic and hear mass daily. The duchess begs only that her daughter not be forced from her faith to the peril of her immortal soul.”

  Sir Brian laid down his pen.

  Cromwell’s face was like a death mask.

  Norfolk strove to hide the triumphant look on his face.

  Henry, for once, was speechless. After a few moments of silence, he finally said, “Say you so, then? Forsooth, you may assure the good duchess that her daughter shall be allowed to hear as many masses as she likes!” The last of the discomforts about marriage to a Protestant, Erasmian or not, dissolved and disappeared. Instead of the painful course of conversion, which as far as he was concerned, was such a prerequisite to the marriage that it need not even be mentioned, now all he had before him was the much less onerous task of convincing his bride to accept him as Supreme Head of the Church of England. As queen, this she would have to do. It seemed that Cleves, along with many others on the Continent, had mistaken his breach with Rome for an avowal of Protestantism.

  His gaze drifted to where Cromwell still stood, his face ashen and gray. Henry was aware of Cromwell’s penchant for the reformed faith. But no king had ever had a better servant, and
for this reason he pretended to ignore Cromwell’s religious views. What Cromwell was doing in the name of Protestantism, Henry applauded and took full advantage of. But as long as its king lived and breathed, England would remain a Catholic country.

  The thought that he had brokered a marriage for his king with a woman that he had believed to be Protestant and had turned out to be Catholic must be a terrific blow to Cromwell. Ah, thought Henry, we all have to learn to put up with and bear these little disappointments. When Anne was crowned, he would bestow a new title upon his chief minister. That should serve to make what must be a very bitter pill go down more easily.

  # # #

  Henry touched the little miniature with a beefy finger that all but obscured the delicate little face, then tucked the portrait back into his doublet. Now that his own future was settled, he must look to Mary’s. He had his little Edward, who was thriving; at two years old he was walking boldly and speaking, his little vocabulary of words growing daily, if Lady Bryan was to be believed.

  The truth was, as long as Mary was married to a Protestant, he need no longer keep her in England. Marriage to a Catholic prince who might invade England in her name and that of the pope was unthinkable. But marriage to a Protestant lord was the perfect solution. Cromwell had convinced him of that much, brave man; to imagine, let alone speak of, the king’s death, was treason. Still, Cromwell had risked the king’s dreadful anger by daring to convince him that upon his death, there would be many, Norfolk among them, who might rise up on English soil to set Edward aside and put Mary on the throne. Viewed in that manner, she was a threat. He sighed. What to do?

  And then the perfect solution had fallen right into his hands, a seeming gift from God.