The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  So here they were, at the banquet table where the king’s behavior so disgusted Mary, and where, despite herself, her heart gave a little jealous twist every time Katherine turned the beacon of her radiant smile upon Elizabeth. It was a startling fact that there was not all that much disparity in their ages. Katharine was young for her years and had a natural vivacity that Elizabeth could not help but be enchanted by. Katherine sparkled with life, and Elizabeth was drawn to her after the staid dullness of life away from court with Mary.

  Suddenly Mary arose from the table, and with a curt nod to the king, excused herself. Lady Frances observed this imprudent behavior and sought to cover it. Placing her hand over her stomach, she said, just loud enough for the king to hear, “Cousin, you have read my very thoughts. I shall go with you.” And taking Mary by the elbow, she steered her back through the curtained archway behind the king’s table, in the direction of the privies that were reserved only for the use of members of the royal party.

  # # #

  “That was most unwise, Cousin,” said Lady Frances, as she and Mary made their way down a dim corridor lit at intervals with cresset lamps. Frances wrinkled her nose at the smell of the pitch used as their fuel.

  Mary, now practically in tears, said, “I cannot countenance it, Frances. The lecherous goat! Must he display his lust for the wench for all and sundry to see?”

  They reached the garderobe and Frances opened the door and peered in. Woking was a small establishment, and the room was equally small. No one else was there. There were three privies, three chairs, and a table bearing a ewer and basin, piled high with fresh linen squares for drying the hands. Frances soaked one of the linens and sitting down with a plop in one of the chairs, wiped her face with it.

  “Mary, you must learn to guard your emotions,” said Frances, shaking her head. “One cannot control one’s thoughts, but you must learn not to display them on your face for all to see. Doing so only tips your hand and is far more dangerous to you than the king’s unseemly display of lust for his wife. You must learn to dissemble, girl!”

  Mary’s face contorted with pain and frustration. “Does not holy writ tell us that lying is a sin?”

  Frances snorted with disgust. “God’s death, Mary, do not spout scripture at me! You are a princess who might someday ascend the throne of this realm. You simply must learn to be more politic. And even if that never happens, you cannot survive at court going on as you do.”

  The room was dim, lit only with three candles in a candelabrum. The room was windowless, but a cold wind whistled in through chinks in the mortar, causing the uncertain light to waver. Frances’s face took on a stern and earnest expression.

  “In the name of a great right, Mary, one must sometimes do a small wrong.”

  “Humph!” Mary replied. “Perhaps you are right. Mayhap such is what convinced Bishop Gardiner to pander to the king’s unseemly desire for Katherine Howard! Oh, I heard all about it,” she said. She began to pace the small room, one elbow in each hand. “Tongues began to wag before the annulment came through, about my father’s numerous visits to Lambeth. So Gardiner put the Bishop’s Palace in Southwark at the king’s disposal for his unseemly courtship! Oh, Frances!” she said on a sob, dashing the tears from her eyes, “Should Gardiner be forgiven his indiscretions in the matter, when he acted for the greater good of the Catholic Church? For I know that Cromwell’s death and this marriage have helped to slow the tide of the Reformists, and right dismayed they are, too! But it also has meant that the Howards are once again ascendant at court, and how can that ever be a good thing? Has the king not learned anything? Can he not see? Are there no other decent Catholic women to be had?”

  Frances shifted in her chair and sighed. “Surrey is back at court, and he has brought Sir Charles Howard with him. As the queen’s brother, Sir Charles has been appointed to the king’s privy chamber.”

  “Christ on the Cross, Frances!” wailed Mary. “What is to be become of poor Margaret?”

  “Well you might ask,” said Frances dryly. “I fear for her virtue daily, but I am not at all certain which to fear most; that she shall disgrace herself or that the king shall discover their amour. But that is not the only worry right now. I fear me that I have more bad news.”

  “What more bad news could there possibly be?”

  “The queen has demanded suitable punishment for your delay in coming to court to abase yourself before her. I should wager that Norfolk is behind it; but your household is to be reduced.”

  Mary stopped in her tracks and stared off into space for a moment. Dear Frances! She was warning Mary at considerable risk to herself of the queen’s pending retribution, so that when she heard the news from her father, most likely in front of Katherine herself, she would not be blindsided and lose her composure, or worse, her temper, which was more on the raw than was her wont these days. Frances was a friend indeed. This was the same aid that she herself had lent to Anne of Cleves, allowing her to be calm and composed when the king’s delegation arrived to inform her of the end of her marriage and her loss of the title and position of Queen of England.

  Mary walked to where France sat and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, cousin. Thank you.” She squared her shoulders and prepared for the worst. “Do you know whom am I to lose?”

  Frances nodded. The little room was deathly cold; she turned and held her hands to the candle flames to warm them. “Lady Fitzgerald and Lady Kempe.”

  Mary nibbled a cuticle. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, dear. I am right sorry to hear about Lady Kempe, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald! Our little cousin! Say you that Surrey is back at court?”

  “He is,” said Frances. “Do not worry, Cousin. I shall be diligent. And the lady herself hates him as a cat hates water. Keeping them apart should not be too difficult.”

  “Well,” sighed Mary. “Do your best to protect her.” It was a blow; she had made her obeisance to the queen, at great cost to her pride, and yet she was still to be punished. It wasn’t fair.

  “Think on what I said about dissembling.”

  “I shall,” said Mary. “But with a father and king who is Supreme Head of the Church, would he not somehow know?” She smiled wryly.

  “God’s eyeballs, Mary!” cried Frances. “Must I caution you to guard your tongue as well as your countenance?” She arose and slipped her arm into Mary’s. She smiled. “Come, Cousin. We should be getting back.”

  Oatlands, Surrey, December 1540

  A sudden nudge to his ribcage jolted Thomas awake. He had dozed off at mass, an infraction punishable by the most severe penances. He shook the cobwebs out of his head, stifled a yawn and began murmuring responses along with the rest of the king’s men. The mass was soon over and they all filed out into the cold of the passageway that led from the royal chapel to the stables. As they walked, the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the pink of the bricks of the palace walls in a smooth, golden light. The light looked warm, but was deceptive; the bricks were as cold as the wind that blew over the hills on which they would soon be riding.

  “Thank you, Cousin,” said Thomas. “I fear me that this New Rule of the king’s is not agreeing with me at all.”

  “If you would sleep at night instead of drinking and wenching, Culpeper,” replied Paston, “you would be able to stay awake in the daytime.”

  Thomas Culpeper feigned horror at Paston’s words. “Sleeping is for either the very young or the very old,” he replied. “I sleep only when it is convenient to do so.”

  Thomas Paston ran a hand through his blond curls and laughed. “Like at mass! Cousin, you are incorrigible.”

  Culpeper smiled, shading his eyes from the now brilliant sun. “I do not attempt to deny that it is so,” he said. “Still, I am not at all certain how much longer His Grace will be able to keep up this pace. If he wants to be up at five, hear mass at six, and then ride like the devil until ten, why does he have to drag the rest of us along in his wake? It is not as if he craves our company.”
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  Paston snorted his derision. “I do not think it is a question of how long His Grace can hold the pace, Cousin, but how long you will be able to do so. You are beginning to look like death.”

  Culpeper grinned. “Mark my words,” he said. “This will not go on much longer. It cannot. His Grace is an old man. He exercises like a madman, eats like a pig at a trough, and then spends his substance sporting half the night with that pretty piece we are now pleased to call the queen of England. He will give out before I do, I trow.”

  Paston paled and looked furtively around them to see if anyone was within earshot. “Thomas, dear Cousin, you must learn to guard your tongue, or someday you may lose it! Your words are treason.”

  “Fie! It takes more than that to be treason,” retorted Culpeper. Their horses were kept at the far end of the stables; yawning grooms helped them to mount and then they walked their horses out at the far end, riding around to catch the others. “If I am to commit treason, it will not be for imagining the king’s death. Which I do not, by the by; I merely state fact. His Grace is old and lame, and makes nightly deposits into the now royal womb of our little cousin. The strain will begin to tell, and these early morning rigors will cease. That is all I meant.”

  Paston patted his horse’s neck and the mare nickered, snorting twin streams of steaming breath into the frigid air. “Is that all, indeed? I have observed the queen’s behavior towards you. And if I have noticed that she flirts with you unabashedly, it is likely that others have noticed.”

  “Yes,” said Culpeper. “She is a pretty piece, and apt to set the blood of any man racing. Do you deny that she flirts with you as well?” The king rode at the head of the party of ten or so men, and had strengthened the pace to a hand gallop. The two Thomases hung back in order to be able to continue their conversation unheard.

  “That she does, and I am well aware of it,” Paston replied. “I have done my best to discourage her, and you ought to do the same.”

  Culpeper shrugged. “Our little Katherine is a hot coal, Cousin. She burns at white heat, and it is evident that the king satisfies no one but himself. I begin to believe that he views the act solely as a means to get sons. At least, he has been bleating so long about it that perhaps he cannot view it in any other wise. His Grace had been meant for the church in his youth; perhaps he is a cool lover. If so, he cannot satisfy such a hot-blooded wench as the queen, not by a long mark. Have you observed the roundness of the breast she bares to us?”

  The pace slowed as they crested a rise. The sun was now high in the sky, the birds were singing, and the wind did not feel as sharp as it had. The two cousins were silent for a spell. The muted thud of the horses’ hooves on the turf and the jingling of harness and spur mingled pleasantly with the birdsong.

  Paston shook his head. “Cousin, I fear for you,” he said. And with that he spurred his horse and galloped closer to the head of the party.

  Culpeper smiled to himself as he watched his cousin ride off, his horse’s hooves sending up clods of turf and brown grass. The trouble with Paston, he mused, was that he had no imagination. He, on the other hand, could see endless possibilities in Katherine’s situation.

  It was obvious to him that Katherine was incapable of circumspection when it came to men. She was lovely and she knew it; she accepted, no, that was the wrong word; she expected the adoration of all those about her. Her attention flitted like a butterfly from man to man. But he knew, he was certain in himself, that it was he whom she wanted. He had had too many women not to recognize that sultry look of promise and longing. She practically licked her lips every time she laid eyes on him. She was utterly and irretrievably infatuated with him. There was little vanity in the thought; women of all sorts threw themselves at his head with startling regularity. If they were comely, he obliged them, until he tired of them.

  He knew what his little cousin wanted from him, his little queen; and he was willing to bestow his incomparable charms upon her. But he was not going to just give it away; she would have to pay for it. Not in cash, that was for frustrated widows, of whom he had satisfied many. No, the coin he had in mind in which to make his little cousin pay was quite different.

  # # #

  As he beheld Katherine’s nakedness, Henry marveled anew at his incredible good fortune. A fleeting memory of the utterly disgusting sight that the naked Anne of Cleves had made on their wedding night, with her floppy breasts, her flabby stomach, her fat arse and her thundering thighs, made itself known and he flicked it away. This girl was a miracle. She was a goddess who, with her enigmatic elixir of life, had restored his vigor.

  He had never known anyone, let alone a female, who was so completely comfortable in their own skin. He lay on the tousled bed in the Queen’s Chamber, propped on one elbow, leaning back against the elaborate headboard. Katherine sat cross-legged on the damask coverlet, stark naked, gnawing on a chicken leg. After they made love, he was always spent and ready to sleep; he was having trouble staying awake at that moment, but he was loath to relinquish the sight of her. After making love, she was always hungry, so he had taken to ensuring that a tray of cold meats, fruit and cheese was placed in whichever chamber they retired into for the night.

  Suddenly she frowned, thrust the chicken leg out to him in a delicate white hand, all the Howard women had incredibly beautiful hands, and said, “Take this! I have a splinter! I knew it!” And with that she proceeded to lift her foot until it was close to her face, searching for the offending wooden spike. She tilted her head in concentration and her auburn hair spilled like a flaming waterfall down her side to rest in thick coils on the coverlet. The view afforded him by this display of acrobatics revealed a part of her anatomy that he had not yet fully explored, so intent had he been on his own pleasure. Even the thought of progeny had taken second place to the sheer enjoyment that she gave him. He reached out a thick hand and touched her.

  Her head flew around and she gazed at him for a moment, almost as if she were a deer caught drinking at a stream by a wolf. And then that familiar hooding of the eyes occurred. The splinter forgotten, she lunged with the easy grace of a cat into his arms, her fingers clutching his wrist with an iron grip to ensure that he did not move his hand away from its target. She literally writhed in rhythm to his movements and before long, she let out a deep, satisfied…there was no other word for it…growl.

  This was no diffident Spanish princess, no prim thirty-year-old virgin…this was more like his first Anne who, educated at the French court, had developed an unexpectedly voluptuous side once she had finally surrendered to him. It was that which had convinced him of her adultery. But Katherine knew nothing of the pleasures of the flesh save what he had taught her lately; she was far too young and innocent to know aught of such things. Her reaction to his touch had been primal; he was sure of it. She was young, his little queen, but she was as old as Eve. Her excitement had rekindled his own, and before long, they lay side by side once again, both spent.

  All of a sudden he sat up and said excitedly, “But I have remembered me! Sweetheart, I have a surprise for you!” And how she deserved his bounty! He was a changed man. Best of all, he was in love. This was the love that he had expected to find with Anne of Cleves and of which he had been so bitterly disappointed.

  Katherine sat up, pushed her hair back from her face and said, “Oh! What is it?”

  Henry bounded up from the bed and went in search of his discarded robe. He found it lying in a heap by the sideboard and from its pocket he withdrew a blue velvet pouch with a thick golden drawstring.

  Katherine’s eyes lit up; another jewel! He had been showering her with them constantly since they first met. She once had had only a silk flower as ornament for her bodice; she now owned heaps of priceless jewels. But she never grew tired of receiving them.

  Henry eyed her still naked form and walked to the hearth. He added a log and stoked the flames. If she felt warm enough, perhaps she would delay putting on her night dress. He bounced back down onto the bed a
nd tossed the pouch to her.

  She pounced on it like a cat and drew the strings. A single gold coin fell out into her eager hand. A brief look of disappointment flashed across her features. He remembered that she couldn’t read very well, and took the coin from her.

  “It is a very special coin,” he said. “I have had it struck in commemoration of our marriage. Look, here is your side.” The coin gleamed around its edges with true lovers’ knots entwined with Tudor roses. In the center was a rose crowned, and encircling the emblem were struck the words Rutilans rosa sine spina. Henry traced a beefy finger over the Latin words. “That is you, my love,” he said. “You are my ‘Rose Without a Thorn’.” He knew a moment of his own disappointment. His first Katharine would have appreciated the beauty of the thing for itself; his first Anne would have appreciated the poetry of it. But he must forgive her; this Katherine was so young, and new to the earth. He kept forgetting that.

  Suddenly she smiled and said, “May I keep it?”

  Henry burst out laughing. “May you keep it! Yes, that and many more like it, I trow!” At her puzzled expression he took her hands in his, pressed them to his lips and said, “I shall tell the Chancellor of the Exchequer to see to it that all your revenues are paid to you in your own coin!”

  Katherine laughed along with the king at this, even though she was not at all certain what the joke was. But if it meant that she would have lots of the gold coins instead of just the one, well, that was all right, then.

  Henry had settled a jointure upon her in addition to the small holding that he had bestowed upon her the day she had given herself to him for the first time. By all accounts, she was the richest of his queens yet. In addition to settling on her many of the lands and revenues that had belonged to Jane, he had recently added to that most of the lands and monies that had belonged to Cromwell. That was poetic justice! Had Anne of Cleves possessed even an ounce of the allure that Katherine held for him, Cromwell might still have his head on his shoulders.