The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  “Is that for me?” he asked, with the crooked smile that so fascinated Katherine.

  Wordlessly, she drew the cap off of her head and tossed it to him. She waited a moment for him to retrieve it from the bed and look it over, and then she could wait no longer. She ran to the bed and threw herself into his arms.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “Indeed, yes,” Thomas replied. “How came you by such a thing?”

  “Oh,” replied Katherine, waving a dismissive hand, “I commissioned the cap from my tailor, and Mistress Restwold acquired the brooch for me whilst we were in Lincoln.”

  It was possible that her servants suspected nothing and believed the obvious, that is, that such a thing as a man’s cap could only be meant as a gift for the king. In any case, he dare not wear it. He would wait a month or two and then sell it. Katherine seemed to have a short memory; she lived in the moment. Once bestowed, she rarely remembered anything she gave him, or if she did, she never asked about the gifts afterwards.

  “I need your advice on another matter,” Katherine said.

  Her conversation bored him and his eyes were growing heavy from the heat and the nearness of her naked body. He began to fondle a creamy breast, and his interest shifted to their nether regions. “Indeed?” he murmured absently.

  “Aye,” she said, as she explored his growing interest. “My cousin Dereham presented himself here today with a recommendation from my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, to be given a post as my private secretary.”

  And why, he wondered, should that interest him? “Mm,” he replied, now ready for all conversation to cease.

  “The post is a bribe,” she said. “To buy his silence.”

  Immediately Culpeper’s focus shifted to the political, Katherine’s body forgotten for the moment. He sat up, his yellow eyes boring into hers. “A bribe? To remain silent on what matter?”

  Katherine related the tale of how Dereham had shared her bed at Lambeth House, how possessive he had become, and how he had insisted that she plight her troth with him; and how relived she had been when he finally went away.

  Ye Gods, he thought, women! They ought to be kept in cages like animals and only brought out to assuage a man’s desire. Dangerous creatures!

  Katherine had sat up in bed when he did, and now sat with legs akimbo, leaning back on her hands. In any other circumstances he would not have been able to stop himself. But this was serious. “Listen to me,” he said. “You are never to admit to anyone, for any reason, that you were troth-plighted. Not under any circumstances. Do you understand me?” He grasped one of her arms, throwing her off-balance, and pulled her forward until their faces were almost touching.

  Katherine frowned. “You are hurting me,” she said. “I never did plight my troth with him. I never shall. Even though he now says that I must grant him a post and must allow him the same liberties he was wont to take before, when he pretended to be my husband in very truth.”

  Damn and blast! Just when everything seemed fair fit to succeed, this had to happen! How many more secrets did the bitch have, he wondered? “I will speak with him,” he said. “In the meantime, grant him the post, but keep your distance as much as possible.”

  Katherine snorted. “That will not be easy,” she replied. “As private secretary…”

  “Do as I say!” he said shortly. “I will handle Master Dereham. You just remember what I have said. Under no circumstances are you ever to admit that there was a plight-troth.” To do so would nullify Katherine’s marriage to the king; it would mean that she was not, and never had been, queen.

  In his fury he picked her up by both arms, flung her towards the head of the bed and took his anger out the best way he knew how. But Katherine’s reaction was quite different from the park-keeper’s wife; she actually seemed to be enjoying herself.

  Jane could not resist just one look. She wasn’t certain why she enjoyed watching such things. She never analyzed her personal desires; she simply indulged them without question. She wanted to watch and so she did. From her dark vantage point, the room seemed very bright, with the light of four candelabra. Thomas’ eyes glowed yellow and his mouth was set in a grim line. All that could be heard was a persistent slapping sound as Thomas worked at the queen, and Katherine’s satisfied grunts. That was what the scene reminded her of; rutting animals. She knew a brief urge to strip off her own garments and join them. She knew about Katherine’s orgies at Lambeth House; many of the women now in the queen’s service had been with her there, and were in fact only in the posts they were in to buy their silence. That was a bothersome thought; she must remember to discuss that with Thomas. Some of those women ought to be paid off and got rid of. The net was spreading too wide for her comfort.

  Suddenly the slapping noise stopped and Thomas threw himself down by Katherine’s side. Both their bodies glistened with sweat and the room smelled overwhelmingly of lovemaking. Again Jane felt an urge to throw off her clothes and demand that Thomas…someone was knocking at the door. Katherine lifted her hazy head and squinted her eyes at the light. Thomas was on his feet in an instant, searching vainly for his scattered clothing. The knocking turned from a tapping into a persistent rapping, and finally a banging.

  Lady Rochford bolted into the room, helped Thomas find his clothes and shoes, and bundled him out the door. Katherine sat in the bed as if pole-axed, her eyes wide and her mouth a round “O” of astonishment.

  Lady Rochford quickly soaked in the ewer the nearest piece of cloth she could find, which happened to be the gauze shift that Katherine had been wearing when she and Culpeper first entered the room. Without ceremony, she pushed Katherine down in the bed, spread her legs, and swabbed her out. She then thrust the sodden shift under the bed, tidied the bedclothes, and ran to the queen’s dressing table. All the while the banging continued and now voices could be heard outside the door. Jane rubbed the queen’s arms with scent, brushed the locks of her hair that showed, and ran to the door. The candles! She darted about the room blowing out candles and waving away their smoke until one was left in one of the candelabra. The room was now quite dim.

  She ran to the door and, opening it a crack, she said, “Your Grace,” curtseyed deeply and then opened the door wide. Katherine rubbed her eyes as if she had been awakened from a deep sleep; it was indeed very late by this time. Stifling a yawn, she said, “We beg Your Grace’s pardon; the queen was asleep in the bed d I in the chair. I hope you did not have to wait long?”

  Henry looked about him and seemed satisfied. He began removing his robe. He waved off his escort, who promptly disappeared as if they had been made of marsh mist, and without even looking at Lady Jane, he said, “You may withdraw.”

  As Jane made to depart, she stole a glance at the arras that covered the secret door to the back stairs. It was still.

  Suffolk Place, London, October 1541

  The brightness of the room bothered John Lassell’s eyes and he rose, walked to a chair with its back to the window, and reseated himself. While he waited for the archbishop, he surveyed his surroundings. The room, if one could call it that, had very high ceilings, and windows on three sides. It was much larger than any traditional solar he had ever seen. He had been in the service of the nobility for years, part of which time he had briefly served the king himself. The king was a great builder, having personally overseen the construction of Nonsuch Palace in Surrey, now substantially complete. But with all his royal and noble service, Lassells had never seen such a richly appointed room, almost oriental in its luxury. He recalled that Suffolk Place had been built by the duke of Suffolk for the king’s sister, Mary, a queen in her own right. Ah well, one must fight for one cause at a time. Church reform was vital, it was primary; other types of reform would have to wait. Such things were in God’s hands, he mused; the rest of us only His tools.

  The tall, intricately carved wooden doors opened slowly and a page bowed, received his blessing from the archbishop, and withdrew, closing the doors quietly be
hind him. Lassells rose from his chair and nodded to the archbishop.

  Archbishop Cranmer was a man of short stature, somewhat stocky, with wary brown eyes. The two men knew each other well; both were Reformers and had admired Cromwell.

  “Ah, John,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, extending his hand. “It does my heart good to see you. How have you been faring?”

  Lassells abhorred all forms of popish ritual and so kept his distance from Cranmer, from whom he felt he needed no blessing.

  Cranmer understood and let the thing pass. Lassells could afford to indulge his Reformist leanings to their limit; he no longer served an ardently Catholic king. All Reformers must needs bide their time in their own way.

  “I have been wrestling with a sore conscience,” replied Lassells, ever one to get straight to the point.

  Archbishop Cranmer raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed?” he said. “Upon what point does your conscience trouble you?” And what can I possibly do about it, was the unspoken question.

  Lassells shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His glance strayed momentarily to the sideboard, where the wine jug stood.

  “Oh, do forgive me,” said Cranmer. He rose, walked to the sideboard, poured wine into two elaborate Venetian glass goblets, and handed one to Lassells. “A health unto you,” he said, raising his glass.

  Lassells regarded the delicate goblet as though it were a snake; he was one of the Reformers who, in Cranmer’s opinion, went too far the other way, wanting everything to be as plain and as uninteresting as possible. Personally, he did not see the point in that; why had God put beauty on the earth if not for man to appreciate and enjoy? He realized that although he respected Lassells as a fellow Reformer, he disliked the man personally for an awful prig.

  Cranmer sipped his wine and waited.

  “I have had me a most disturbing conversation with my sister,” Lassells said uncertainly.

  Still Cranmer sipped his wine and waited. For a man who prided himself on his forthrightness, Lassells was certainly taking his time at this juncture.

  Lassells downed the remainder of his wine in one swift gulp, set the glass down next to his chair and blurted out, “I have evidence that the queen is a wanton bawd and a base harlot.”

  Cranmer’s heart seemed to drop in his chest, then skipped a beat. His breath grew short, he nearly choked on his wine, and his hands began to shake uncontrollably. He was not at all certain that he had heard aright. But before he could say anything in reply, the floodgates that had been so damned up burst forth and Lassells seemed unable to stop talking.

  “I asked my sister, I said to her, I said, ‘Mary, wherefore dost not seek a position at court with the queen, in the royal household? Surely Her Grace, in mind of your previous excellent service, would be so inclined?’ But my sister, my sister Mary, that is, replied that she had had quite enough of service to the queen when Her Grace was biding at Lambeth House simply as Mistress Howard. And then she proceeded to enlighten me, did my sister, Mary, that is, as to her meaning in saying such a thing. ‘Marry!’ quoth she, ‘because she,’ meaning Her Grace, you understand, ‘is light in both conditions and living.’ And after this assertion she related these extraordinary words, which I will now relate to Your Eminence, and at which I was proper taken aback, I can well assure you. She, that is, my sister, Mary, proceeded to describe how Her Grace, being but then only Mistress Howard, you understand, had indulged nightly her carnal lust with all comers; male and female, kith and kin, gentleman and churl alike. And this wanton behavior having gone on for many a day, a year and more, so says my sister, Mary, whom I have named; and she did then relate another shocking tale. One day the queen’s cousin did come to Lambeth House, a Master Dereham. The queen, that is, Mistress Katherine Howard as she then was, took a marvelous fancy to him and he to her; they proceeded to plight their troth and consummate their marriage. So said my sister, Mary, and that all this they did without benefit of clergy, sir, if you take my meaning. Night after night, for time untold, they did couple, with many a groan and sigh, so that there might be no doubt as to what transpireth in the bed. Now, Mistress Katherine’s bed was shared by many a damsel during her time in the care of the Dowager Duchess, Lady Agnes Tilney, as was, but who is now, as all know, the Lady Howard, having been the true and lawful wife of the second duke. But the point is, Your Eminence, all heard the same unmistakable doings in the bed, and some even joined in the frolicking. But there were those who would not join in, my sister, Mary, among them. During this time, Master Dereham would brook no disdain of his plight-troth to Her Grace, that is, Mistress Katherine as was. Called her his wife, he did, and kissed her heartily before all, on many an occasion; with Her Grace, that is, Mistress Katherine, doing the same, that is to say, calling Master Dereham husband. Now all of this, as Your Eminence will fully appreciate, has weighed sore on my conscience this week and many another since my sister, Mary, whom I have named previously, didst relate all this abominable account to me. And that, sir, is why I have a troubled conscience; and that is why I have chosen to unburden my conscience to you, being the premier prelate in the land.”

  Cranmer could hardly drink in the words they had flowed so quickly, but their meaning was stamped indelibly on his brain; there could be no denying that the tale made uncomfortable hearing. He would have died a thousand deaths at that moment rather than have heard such a thing of the queen, for, having heard it, he must now act. Not to do so would be the gravest crime, as grave as the crimes of which Mary Lassells now accused the queen.

  Lassells watched as the thoughts that flew across Cranmer’s mind at his words made their appearance in the expressions on his face. “Yes,” he said. “You can see, I am sure, the dilemma. Ever since my sister, Mary, that is, told me of this, I have been in sorry case. But two things have driven me unto Your Eminence, to unburden myself of this dreadful knowledge, as it were. Now, my sister, Mary, of whom I have spoken, is but a woman, ignorant of the law. But I have studied the law, sir, and I know that ever since mine ears were pierced by the awful sound of these words, and the doings they represent, I have been walking in fear that I am in danger of being accused of misprision of treason.”

  At this understatement Cranmer snorted. And now that his own ears had been so pierced with the unwelcome words, and the shocking knowledge that they conveyed, he was in like case, thank you very much!

  “And the second,” continued Lassells, “is that I would rather die telling you this truth, since it so nearly touches the King’s Grace, than to keep such awful knowledge to myself.”

  Cranmer silently regarded Lassells with half-closed eyes and with his chin resting on steepled fingers. Ever since the rise of the Howards on the back of their latest Jezebel, he had been seeking a way to discredit them and oust the Catholic faction that they represented. And now here was Master Lassells with a tale that seemed as if it were a gift from God. Cranmer knew himself for a coward, a secret that he tried very hard to conceal. None knew of it, at least, he believed that none did. He fully appreciated Lassell’s oblique statement that he would rather die telling the truth of this appalling tale than to keep it to himself. But woe unto the person who had to tell the king of this! Anyone who did so would be treading on dangerous ground indeed.

  It was ironic, in a way. The king himself had actively sought just such calumnies with which to implicate Queen Anne Boleyn, a faultless, spotless personage in Cranmer’s estimation; a better, more pious lady he had never known. But His Grace had wanted to be rid of that lady; what on earth would his reaction be when he was confronted with such accusations as these against the current queen? It appeared that his rose had a few thorns after all! It might be safer simply to do nothing, say nothing, and if it were up to him, that is what he would have done. But it was not up to him; all of this must be told to the Council. Let them decide what was to be done with such inflammatory stuff!

  He hadn’t much time. The king and queen were due back any day from the Royal Progress, and the king h
ad ordered a mass of Thanksgiving to be said for their safe return, and for vouchsafing His Grace such a precious jewel of womanhood as his present consort. That was rich! If even half of what Lassells had just related to him were true, that public declaration of the king’s must never be made. The king must be told, and quickly.

  Hampton Court Palace, November 1541

  Cranmer felt slightly nauseated watching the king eating his noon-piece, which today was congers in a milk-and-butter sauce. The brownish-grey lumps bobbed up and down as the king stabbed chunk after chunk with his knife. After the first few pieces, the butter sauce began dripping down the king’s chin and into his beard. Cranmer’s stomach gave a dangerous heave and he had to look away. He could not abide eels, no matter how they were cooked. He had always thought them disgusting creatures to begin with. But once he had been in the palace kitchens seeking a bread poultice for a chest cold, and whilst he waited for the cook to prepare his plaster, he had witnessed one of the kitchen sluts chasing the eels around the tub in which they were kept, for they were kept alive until they were ready to be eaten; she had thrown the poor creature to the stone floor and smashed its brains out with a rock. No part of the eel was wasted; the body had been cut into collops and thrown into a pot of boiling water, after which the girl had scooped its smashed brains into the pan where the milk-and-butter sauce simmered.

  The king downed another chunk and Cranmer shivered.

  He had done as his conscience bade him and related to the Council every last detail of his conversation…if one could call it that…with Lassells. The Reformers were smug, but tried to hide their delight; the Catholics were dismayed and made no effort to conceal it. The only puzzling reaction was Norfolk’s. One would have expected the duke to be the most concerned, he having been the one to launch his erring niece into the king’s orbit. But instead of the fear of his own skin that one would have expected, he had surprised everyone with his righteous indignation. Unfortunately, his deep concern for the king’s welfare, which were the terms in which he couched his unexpected reaction, did not extend itself into a willingness to inform the king of the situation. No; to a man the Council had decided that the only person suited to that job was the Archbishop of Canterbury.