The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  “How dare you,” he hissed. “How dare you speak of that of which you know nothing? Yea, less than nothing! At least that fair lady brought to her husband as dower nothing less than the duchy of Brittany! And she bore him no less than three lusty sons! What does Anne of Cleves bring, bar the smell of sausages and the promise of a mercenary or two?” He dismissed Cromwell’s words with an impatient wave of his hand.

  But Cromwell was not to be deterred. “An annulment requires grounds, Your Grace,” he said, as though Henry had not spoken at all. Indeed, in Cromwell’s opinion, Henry’s words meant little. They did nothing to address the issue at hand.

  “Grounds!” roared the king. “I will give you grounds! I have toiled for Rachel and been given Leah! I see nothing in this woman, I tell you, as men reported of her, and I marvel much that wise men would make such report of her as they did! I am no lawyer,” he spat the words at Cromwell, “but even I can see wherein the facts of this case lie!” Henry rose once more, and raised his hand, counting on each finger as he spoke. “Cleves has never produced the promised dispensation for the pre-contract with Lorraine; I was forced against my will into this marriage, protesting up to the very altar, as many here and elsewhere can attest; and the marriage has not been consummated, which can be put to the test by my doctors and by the sworn testimony of the lady herself! There! There are your grounds! Now get to work, gentlemen, and do not approach me again until the deed is done!”

  And with that the angry king strode from the council chamber, to the relief of all present.

  Lambeth Palace, London, April 1540

  It was a short ride down the river in the royal barge from Westminster to Lambeth. Lady Agnes, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, had an estate on the Lambeth Road. There she kept her sprawling household when she was in London. But only one of that household interested the king. She had caught his eye on that day at Blackheath when Anne’s English ladies had sworn their fealty to their new queen. Well, Anne of Cleves would be queen for not very much longer. His council knew his mind and if they wished to keep position and place, not to mention their heads on their shoulders, they would find a way to extricate him from this disaster of a marriage. He had no doubt that they would. But he had every reason now to want them to hurry, hurry, hurry…

  The river had begun to smell almost as badly as his bride. The weather was warm for April, lovely month! The riverbank was awash with yellow gorse. Its heady perfume vied with the stench of the river. The river would win, but right now, it was just possible to ignore the underlying odor of the river and drink in the fragrance of the shrubs that ran riot in a carpet of yellow all along the riverbank.

  The evening was about to set in and the sky was an artist’s palette of color, painted in waves and furrows with red, orange and pink clouds, just touched with deep purple, glowing gold at the edges, and scudding swiftly across a sky that was apple-green at the horizon, fading into azure that blended into a deeper midnight blue if one looked east.

  The barge approached the water steps and looking up, he saw her standing there, waiting for him. The low sun was behind her, making her hair blaze even redder than it was, and it blew in clouds all about her shoulders down to her waist, wild and free…just like her. He smiled and waved, impatient for the barge to dock that he might rush up the steps into her waiting arms. If only he had not had to hobble up on his blasted stick! But she understood… she understood everything.

  What was it about these Howard women, he wondered? They had always held a fascination for him. There had even been a time when, as young man, he had been much enamoured of Elizabeth Howard, Anne Boleyn’s mother. She was nine years his senior, but he had been a precocious lad; he had never let on to anyone about his secret admiration for her. He had often wondered if the roots of his attraction to both Anne and Mary Boleyn had its origin in his boyhood desire for their mother. And then he had again been enthralled by a Howard woman, this time Mary Howard, his own son Fitzroy’s wife. After his son’s death he had tried to make her his mistress, and when that failed, had made overtures to the duke about making her his wife and queen. But the lady herself had not been willing, and even though all knew that his son had never consummated their marriage, the idea of the king dallying with his dead son’s widow just did not sit well. He had abandoned his intentions, but his lust for the wench had remained and still flared from time to time.

  And now, from the vast store of Howard women had come this nymph, whom he had not even known existed until Norfolk had requested a place for her in the New Queen’s household. She was the daughter of Norfolk’s younger brother, now deceased; she had been in the country all this time. All this time! She was still a child by some standards. But she was all woman, as she had already proved to him.

  Katherine Howard was an enigma to him; she had Katharine of Aragon’s auburn hair, Jane Seymour’s gray eyes, and she was Anne Boleyn’s first cousin, so she reminded him of Anne without actually being Anne. She had that Howard aura about her that was such a mystery…he only knew that she was perfect. And he meant to have her.

  Richmond Palace, June 1540

  Anne sat surrounded by a cloud of white silk. She was embroidering the edges of an entire bolt of the precious stuff with red roses, blue forget-me-nots, and yellow pansies. The pattern repeated itself endless times as she worked her way around the bolt, each flower with its own leaves, correct in every detail of shape and color, all encased in a border of darker green ivy.

  This exquisite treasure was to have been backed with velvet and stuffed with goose down, and should have adorned her marriage bed. The needle stabbed in and out, in and out, as she thought her hurtful thoughts. The boast that the Cleves delegation had made to the king that Anne was an expert needlewoman was not an empty one; even when her eyes welled with frustrated, angry tears, she sewed on. Her mother had once jokingly remarked that had she been blind, Anne could still have sewn a straight seam in less time than it took Amalia to thread her needle.

  A slow tear made its way down her cheek, that cheek that she now knew had so shocked and appalled the king. What had he expected? A fairytale princess? She was just an ordinary girl, born into a noble family, and therefore high enough in rank to contemplate marriage with a king. She had never claimed to be beautiful or clever; only well-born. But as far as her husband was concerned, she was not even good enough to meet her step-children. She had never been humiliated before. It cut her to the very core of her being. But because she was noble and well-born, she would not allow anyone to witness her mortification at being shunted aside, so soon after her wedding, for one of her own serving women. The hurtful thoughts came so fast and furious that she hardly knew which one to dwell upon first!

  Only Mother Lowe and her two Dutch ladies, Gertrude and Katrin, had been made privy to her heartbreak. She came of stoic stock; she made no show of her chagrin even to her ladies. But they knew that she was embarrassed, mortified, and very, very disappointed. The brilliant vision of being queen of England had been shattered on her wedding night, and the shards of her dream had each been driven into her heart, one by one, every night for four miserable months ever since.

  For it had been left, finally, to Lady Jane, the Viscountess Rochford, to explain to her that in order to conceive a son, the only possible way to win the king’s affection, was for him to perform an act that he had decided not to perform with her, ever, because he found her disgusting, revolting, repulsive, sickening…

  The tear finally made its slow way to the bottom of her chin and threatened to fall onto the silk. That she could not allow. She ceased her stitching, retrieved her linen handkerchief from her sleeve, and blew her nose into it with a resounding honk. Then she wiped her eyes, straightened her back, and sewed on. The coverlet would make a nice wedding gift for Amalia, if they ever found a husband for her. As if that were likely, after her sister had been rejected by the King of England! The tears welled again. Without even looking, she reached out and plucked from her sewing basket a skein of coral
-coloured silk for the contrast on the left side of the red roses. It was this contrast that would make the flowers seem as if they were alive, as if they had bloomed right on the silk and had been captured there, to live forever.

  Again she thought of little Elizabeth, she who her father had made a bastard because he did not like her mother. That was indeed a paradox, because when the princess had asked to come to court to meet the new queen, her new stepmother, the child had been cruelly rebuffed by her father and told that her own mother had been such that she should revere her memory and not seek to cleave to the new queen. She was not clever, not smart, she was not even well-educated, but even she knew that one could not have it both ways; if the former queen but one had been so well-revered by the king, then why had he chopped her head off, yah? And as for Elizabeth, the poor mite had been reduced to writing a very sweet letter to her new mother, which Anne had answered without even asking the king’s permission to do so.

  She had made the acquaintance of her other stepdaughter, the Lady Mary, shortly after her nuptials, and they had become instant friends. They were the same age, Anne having been born the year before Mary; they were, in point of fact, only six months apart in age. Mary visited her often, and was helping her with her English, and to learn English ways, which despite all, Anne was still keen to do. She had discussed Elizabeth with Mary, and had shown her Elizabeth’s letter. Mary had smiled indulgently; she obviously loved the little girl. It came out that Mary did her best to take care of her little sister, buying her clothes, which they both loved, and keeping her in pocket money; but Mary would never be a mother to the child, she would always be a sister. But Anne was her stepmother whether the king liked it or not, and Anne felt she should have been allowed to show Elizabeth the affection that she longed to bestow upon her new stepchildren.

  But no. The king would not treat her as a wife and would not allow her to fulfill even the dubious role of stepmother. It was all so unfair. The needle flew like a silver fish swimming up a stream, and the colors of the embroidery silk blended into a rainbow in her tearful eyes. Suddenly she became aware that Mother Lowe was standing before her.

  Mother Lowe bowed and said, “Der Prinses Mary iss hier om je te zein, liefste.”

  Anne nodded and Mother Lowe retreated to show Mary into the vast solar.

  “Ach, Marie!” exclaimed Anne, who quickly used the balls of her hands to wipe her eyes. She smiled, and was about to rise, when Mary waved a dismissive hand.

  “No, no,” said Mary. “You will surely lose your place, Your Grace. Please, continue on with your sewing.” The gesture of wiping the tears away had not been lost on Mary, and her heart went out to Anne.

  Anne gathered up all the colorful little skeins of embroidery thread that dotted the ocean of white silk and placed them back into a basket that looked as if a rainbow had fallen into it. Anne folded the end of the silk she was working on and laid it aside.

  Suddenly Anne’s face crumpled and she covered her face with her hands. She sobbed brokenly, gasping in great gulps of ragged breath. Mary, who had been sitting across from her, arose and went to sit beside her on the settle. Moving the mountain of soft white silk aside, she took Anne in her arms and gently rocked her until the sobs subsided. After a while, Anne hiccoughed a few times and then drew back and looked at Mary, the tears streaming down her face.

  “Vy?” she cried brokenly. “For vy he duss diss to me? Vat haff I done?”

  Mary was at a loss to answer such questions, and wished that she had not come bearing even more bad news. But it was better that Anne should hear the latest catastrophe from herself, and not from other, less gentle persons. But before she could begin, Anne began to wail again.

  “He hass taken up viss der Howardt, didt you know dat? Mijn own vaitink voman, he…vat is vort? Preferss. Preferss to me. I am hearing dat diss happen again, yah? No,” said Anne, wiping her red-rimmed eyes and running an inelegant hand under her nose all the way from wrist to elbow. “No, iss wronk vort. Happenss before. Your moeder, Qveen Katarin, he pushedt avay for her maidt, der Anna Bollina. Yah, see, I findt out. Und den diss Qveen Anna, she pushedt avay for der Yane Simmer. Again viss der vaitink voman, yah? Perhaps I shouldt be vaitink voman!” With that, Anne ceased her diatribe and blew her nose into her now sodden handkerchief with another booming honk.

  “Your Grace,” said Mary, laying a gentle hand on Anne’s arm. “I…”

  “No needt of to call me dat,” said Anne vehemently. “You are more of Your Grace den I am, yah? You are bornedt daughter off der kink, yah? I am bornedt der daughter off only und duke, yah? Der kink, he do same to you ass he do to Elizabet, yah? He don’t like your moeder, yah?...so he push her avay. She iss havink great goot fortune, yah? At least he duss not to kill her, ass viss der oder Anna!” She made a chopping gesture with her hand.

  Mary was bewildered at the spate of words; Anne was nearly hysterical, but perhaps it was best to let her get it all out. Mary remarked to herself that Anne was far too trusting; she was her father’s daughter, and how could Anne be sure whether or not Mary might rush back to the king and repeat every word? Of course, she would not; but she must warn Anne to be careful, so careful, of what she said and did. There were Clevian diplomats at court, but none of them seemed to be taking steps to assist Anne in the difficult times that must surely lie ahead of her. What strange people these Germans were!

  “Anne,” said Mary, hoping the familiarity would calm her, “I have grave news. You must brace yourself.”

  Anne had resumed her periodic hiccoughing and stared at Mary with round, owlish eyes. She said nothing.

  “Anne,” began Mary again, and this time she took both of Anne’s hands into her own. She drew a ragged breath and said, “Cromwell has been arrested and taken to the Tower.”

  Mary was not certain what she had expected, but Anne’s reaction took her completely by surprise.

  Anne jumped up, overturning her sewing basket, the colorful silk skeins flying in all directions like so many frightened birds.

  “Ahhhk!” screamed Anne, her hands clinging to each side of her head. “Ahhhk! He vill to kill me! I am in der vay! He vant to be ridt off me! He vill chop my headt, ass viss der oder Anna! Ahhhk! Ahhhk! Ahhhk!”

  Anne’s screaming was so loud that Mary was nonplussed; she ran to her and said, “Anne, no! No! Please! You must calm yourself!” She took Anne into her arms; gradually the screaming stopped and turned back into broken-hearted sobs. Mary was certain that her father meant Anne no harm, but it was worrisome to contemplate her position. Katharine of Aragon had had the might of the pope, Catholic Europe, and the Holy Roman Empire behind her recalcitrance and stubborn refusal to cooperate with the king’s demands. Anne had only Cleves. Not the same thing at all.

  “Anne,” she said softly. “Anne, listen to me. Anne, look at me.” Mary was much shorter than Anne and strained her neck to look up at her.

  Anne became very quiet and allowed Mary to lead her to the settle and sit her down as if she were a doll.

  “I am affraidt,” whispered Anne. “I have been…vat is vort? Defiant. I have quarreled viss der kink. Diss iss vy he hass sendt me avay, here to Richmondt. Dere is no plague. He sendt me here because vee quarrel.”

  “I know,” said Mary. “I know that you quarreled, and I know that you are afraid. Anne, I am here to help you. Will you let me? Will you listen to me, and do what I say?”

  Anne nodded, her eyes as round as saucers.

  The Tower of London, July 1540

  The weather was blisteringly hot and dry. It had not rained since early June. By a stroke of seemingly incredible bad luck, Cromwell’s cell in the Tower faced south, so it received the maximum of sunlight every day. Not a breath of air stirred, his only window was too high up for him to see out of it, and even the walls of his prison were warm to the touch. The only relief came, unexpectedly, from the floor.

  The floor was grimy with the dirt and offal of many years of neglect. What little straw there was reeked
abominably and he had used a slat from his cot to sweep it as best he could into a corner. He had discovered, quite by accident, that the floor was in fact cool to the touch. Many days previously he had found that if he stripped himself bare and lay on its surface, it actually afforded a bit of a chill, and relieved the stifling effect of the extreme heat and airlessness. He smiled to himself as he realized that all things considered, he would have been better off in the dungeon.

  It didn’t bother him at all to be naked. No one came to visit. Even his food was simply pushed through a small opening at the bottom of the door, where it was a race to retrieve it before the rats got it. He had few friends; he had been too successful to have done more than engender jealousy amongst those of his own rank, and the enmity of those who felt they were his betters. It was true he had been ruthless in his rise to power and riches, and the corollary to that was that he had accumulated very little goodwill. Even the king, whom he had served so well and so faithfully for so long, had ignored his letters pleading for mercy. There would be none.

  And so he spent his days lying supine on the floor, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed to enhance the false sense of coolness that darkness seemed to engender, and gave himself up to his thoughts. The Book of Job seemed to occupy his waking hours more and more as he waited for death. “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return.” How very appropriate, he thought wryly, as he shifted his body to a cooler spot on the stones. He found that if he lay in the same place too long, the stones became as hot as his body and no longer afforded any relief. Sometimes he wondered if he was fevered; and it gave him a ray of hope to think that he might die in the Tower and never have to face death in public, in front of all those smug, sneering faces. He began to tremble at the thought of what he must soon face and sought to divert his mind.