The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Cranmer had intended to do his duty and do his best for the king, but in the end, he simply could not face the ordeal of informing the king directly of the allegations made against the queen. Instead, he had written a most eloquent note, and had left the note on the altar in the king’s private chapel. On the front he had written an admonition that the king should read the missive when he was alone. Cranmer had then put as much distance as possible between himself and the chapel and still remain in the palace grounds. What he had hoped to accomplish by doing that was a mystery; if the king called for him he would have to respond.

  And call His Grace had done. But it was not until dinnertime that Cranmer received that summons, long after the king must have found the note and read it. In fact, if the king were executing his normal routine, which nowadays included a ride in the mornings as it used to do, it was not until many hours later that the king had thought to send for his Archbishop of Canterbury to explain himself.

  So here Cranmer sat, watching the king eat his meal, which had now progressed to the stage where the eels were consumed and all that was left on the table was a bowl of strawberries. Henry plucked one of the ruby orbs from its nest of lettuces by its leafy green crown, dipped it into a silver bowl chased with gold and filled with thick yellow cream, after which he then dabbled the concoction into a bowl of pounded sugar. He then popped the confection into his mouth. Dribbles of cream joined the butter sauce from the eels in his beard.

  The king chewed, swallowed and began the process with a second strawberry; Cranmer, lost in thought, jumped when Henry said, “Well? And what have you to say for yourself?”

  The Archbishop’s stomach seemed to drop to his feet and his blood ran cold. He knew his king; he was about to be sacrificed on the altar of the king’s anger. It was so unfair; he was, after all, only the messenger.

  Cranmer had first come to the notice of the king in the years when His Grace had sought to rid himself of his aging queen, that he might remarry and beget a son. He had then been under the aegis of the Boleyn family; his first duty was to them as his patrons. It was then that he had conceived the brilliant idea of canvassing the universities of Europe to gain their opinions on the legality of the king’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon. Henry had at first been intrigued by the notion, then excited by it; he funded the project and gained many opinions in his favor, by which he stubbornly stood. Later, when William Warham, the sitting Archbishop of Canterbury, had died in the midst of the controversy, Henry had submitted Cranmer, at best an obscure cleric, for that high position, knowing that he would then be obligated (if he valued his life!) to declare the king’s marriage to the Spanish princess null and void that His Grace might marry Anne Boleyn.

  He had at first been all at sea in such a lofty position, but he had grown accustomed to it over time. What he had never, and probably never would, become accustomed to, was the king’s dreadful and unpredictable temper and his brusque manner.

  To be faced now with the task of explaining how he had come to present the king with a note containing information that he must be bound to find unpleasant, to say the least, frightened him almost out of his wits.

  The king quietly moved the empty bowl, which held now only the leafy green tops of the fruit, out of his way. He wiped his mouth (missing his beard, alas!) and leaned forward on the table. “Well?”

  “Cranmer tried to swallow; his mouth was completely dry. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, and his lips worked like a beached fish, but no sound would come out. The only thing his bewildered mind was able to grasp at that moment of crisis was that the king seemed so very calm.

  Henry smiled indulgently. “Let me speak for you, then,” he said. “You have been listening to servants’ gossip. There are always those who, with an envious bent, are more than willing to heap calumnies upon those in high places, hoping to effect their fall. Remember you not that the very same bedeviled Queen Anne, in those days past when she was raised so high above her station?” He could afford to be generous to her now! “Even Queen Jane, as blameless as she was, suffered the same sort of malicious utterings.”

  Cranmer’s throat was still stuck; the best he could do was to croak, “I…”

  Henry leaned over and patted the archbishop’s hand. “Let us have a full investigation. Now that such allegations have been made, of course we must take steps to ensure that they are indeed false. As I know them to be. I have every confidence that the queen’s name will be cleared.” Henry took a long pull from his wine cup. ‘Now,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his great hand, upon which the curly hairs glinted red and gold. “Is all in hand for the service of Thanksgiving? I will proceed with my public declaration of giving thanks to God for such a virtuous queen. That will tweak the noses of those who seem determined to besmirch her name!

  Cranmer recognized the tone of dismissal. He had his orders; he knew what he must do, and he knew what he would find. But all he cared about at that moment was that he had escaped the always shattering demonstration of Tudor temper that he had expected to have to endure, along with the tongue-lashing he had prepared himself to bear. He had weathered the storm admirably; he would make certain that others now bore the brunt of the king’s wrath once the proofs of the queen’s guilt were presented to the king. As he knew they would be.

  Chapter 20

  “Item - Given unto a pore woman to paye fore hir rente, 10 shillings.”

  – Frederic March, “Privy Purse Expenses of the Princess Mary”

  Oatlands, Surrey, November 1541

  A watery sun played through the billowing grey and yellow clouds as Henry rode alone across the rolling hills. Down below him the river wound its way through the countryside as if it were a blue ribbon. A ribbon from Katherine’s hair…he shuddered and squared his shoulders. Such thoughts would not do.

  A few of the trees along the riverbank still held onto their red and yellow leaves. It was the only color in the bleak November landscape, where all was leaden skies and bare trees with reaching branches that looked as if they were dead.

  As he crested the ridge, he looked behind him, back the way he had come. The men of his escort were mere dots on the horizon. He had warned them to keep their distance, and that was one order with which they complied with alacrity. And could anyone wonder at that? His temper, never very reliable and terrible when it manifested itself, was formidable. No one wished to expose himself to a royal tantrum at any time, but even less so while the king’s nerves were so much on the raw.

  He had decided that if Katherine was not with child by the time they reached York that he would have to find some means to rid himself of her. Every day that passed made him even more desperate to observe the swift passage of time at this end of his life; he simply did not have time to wait. Then he had bargained with himself that if she was not with child by the time the Royal Progress ended, then he must rid himself of her. Always there was some excuse to wait. And why? He was not a sensual man, but Katherine had awakened a side of him that he had hardly known existed. She was like the black poppy syrup that his sister Mary had become addicted to in her final painful extremity; just one more time, then I won’t take anymore…but he always did. He was enthralled with her.

  Now he knew why! To discover that his little queen, his beloved wife, his rose without a thorn, was nothing more than a common strumpet who had betrayed him was enough to send him mad with rage. He wanted to be rid of her and had been racking his brain to find a way to free himself from yet another unsatisfactory wife. But he had no wish to be a laughing stock; it would have to be done in such a way that he won the sympathy of all. But how? And then he had received Cranmer’s note, on his private altar, no less… it was as if God Himself had spoken directly to the Supreme Head of the Church of England.

  At first it had seemed as if it were a gift from God. There was a pre-contract; they had never been married. And this was not a pre-contract that anyone could accuse him of concocting. As with Anne of Cleves, it was r
eal, or could be made to seem so. Or so he had thought! It had turned out to be all hearsay; the queen vehemently denied that there had been any such pre-contract. There was no written proof to be had. In the end, there was only the word of Master Dereham himself. The man who had known Katherine’s charms before him! Every time he thought about it…!

  The past alone was grounds enough upon which to base an annulment. The conduct of his wife before their marriage was not a crime, but it was completely unseemly behavior in a queen. She could not be trusted; the marriage must be annulled. Nothing to do with him; she was a slut and unfit to occupy the royal station to which he had raised her. Thank God he had never crowned her!

  If it had stopped there, an annulment was all he could have hoped to obtain. But once the ball started rolling down the hill, it had gathered enough momentum to send Katherine and a score of others to the block. First it was discovered that two of the people with whom Katherine had been overly familiar, without benefit of marriage, were currently in her employ. Damning evidence, to say the least! He mulled their names in his mind; Henry Mannox, Francis Dereham.

  And then had come the coup de grace, the killing blow. It was bruited that not only had the queen conducted herself in an entirely unseemly manner before her marriage, but that she had indulged her carnal lust in an illicit affair after it. Treason! And he a cuckold! He had had to get himself as far away from her as possible, lest he tear her limb from limb with his bare hands. As much as he had once loved Katherine was the measure now of how much he loathed her. Hate was, after all, the Janus face of love…

  But it had broken his heart that her accused lover was none other than Thomas Culpeper; he truly loved Thomas. His droll wit, his beauty, his charm…all now to be destroyed because another Howard whore had deceived the king of England! It was too much to be borne.

  He had raged; he had cried; he had torn his hair and his clothes. But it was not for love of the queen, as all assumed, it was with the fury of a caged animal. It intrigued him that the hotter his rage burned outwardly, the cooler he became inside, until he finally reached a state where his wrath was at a quiet, white heat. And then a curious calm descended over him and a serene voice inside his head asked, if she had had so many lovers over such a long period of time, why had she never conceived a child? He knew why…it was because she was not capable of doing so. And if she were not, then she must go. He had at first been content to have their marriage annulled on the grounds of Katherine’s sordid past, but now that the present had come to light in all its ugliness, death was too good for her. She would die and he would marry a new queen and have sons. He would blot her out of his life as if she had never been.

  A smudge on the horizon separated itself and seemed to be growing larger. Someone was riding towards him.

  # # #

  Many things were failing him these days, his legs foremost among them; but his eyesight in the out-of-doors was still as sharp as ever. As the horseman drew nearer, Henry recognized his friend, Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk. He had been expecting the duke; he had given him several tasks to perform with regard to the crisis involving the queen, and he was expecting a report. He sighed as he remembered the days when he and Brandon, who was the only man at court to come near him in size and prowess on the tiltyard, had been likened to Hector and Achilles. When they had faced each other, lances couched and shields at the ready, thundering down the length of the bar on their great warhorses, the very ground shook as if with an earthquake. And to think that they were both old men now, and Brandon the elder by seven years! Henry put that thought away; he did not want to think about growing old.

  Brandon had loved Henry all his life, ever since he had been attached to the young prince’s household when Henry was just a boy. At that time Henry had been only second in line to the throne of England. But it seemed that he had never been just a boy…even then Henry had been big for his age, completely overshadowing his elder brother, Arthur. Everyone who beheld the strapping, golden youth had shaken their head with regret that it was Arthur, and not Henry, who was destined to be king. To send such a one as he into the church! It was such a terrible waste…

  Still, it was deemed only fitting that Henry should be taught the finer points of manhood by one who excelled at outdoor pursuits such as the joust, archery, and sword play. Brandon did not come from a noble family; his father had been plain Sir William Brandon, Knight. But it was Sir William who had stood astride and protected the unhorsed Henry Tudor, he who had won the Wars of the Roses and become Henry the Seventh. Sir William had defended the fallen would-be king against all foes that fateful day, protecting his standard from being captured against King Richard himself. Although Sir William had been killed while performing this brave service, his son, Charles, was not forgotten, and was brought to court by King Henry to be a companion to the young prince.

  And then the unthinkable happened. Prince Arthur died of a fever and suddenly Charles Brandon found himself the best friend and boon companion of the heir to the throne. The only time this friendship had truly been tested was when Brandon married the king’s sister, Mary, without permission from the king. Or so it was claimed; Mary swore that Henry had promised her that if she wed the aging king of France, Louis the Twelfth, and became free of him through his death, she would be allowed to marry a second time where she pleased. Mary naively believed this promise, but the new king of France, François Premier, soon disabused her of this notion, convincing the distraught queen of France that no king would ever keep such a promise, not even to a beloved sister. And so Mary had beleaguered Brandon with all manner of dire threats if he did not agree to marry her before escorting her back onto English soil. Brandon succumbed to Mary’s tears and pleadings, and in doing so had nearly lost his head. Brandon had not doubted at the time that friend or no, Henry the Eighth would indeed have had his head had it not been for the intercession of Cardinal Wolsey, and Mary’s frantic importuning. Henry soon realized how bleak his life would be without his favorite sister and his best friend, and had magnanimously relented.

  Despite that unsettling episode, Henry could do no wrong in his devoted friend’s eyes. Brandon knew that without Henry, he would probably have remained nothing more than a poor, obscure knight for all his days. Instead, he had enjoyed marriage with a beautiful princess who loved him, and had lived at the pinnacle of power for most of his life.

  As he approached Henry, who sat on his horse on a hill high above the valley, it was hard for Brandon to believe that they were the same people who had lived through all that, so long ago. He had not seen much of the king lately, or even for a long while, if the truth be told; and much to his regret. Cromwell had been jealous of Brandon’s influence with the king and had constantly sent him away on one diplomatic mission or another, almost always on the Continent. And ever since Mary’s death nigh on eight years ago, he and the king had gradually grown apart. Brandon had remarried almost right away after Mary’s death, and it complicated things somewhat that Henry seemed to find his new duchess, Lady Catherine, very attractive. It was better that they were not often at court, but he had missed Henry. Brandon was grieved to hear of yet another matrimonial debacle concerning the king, and had ridden forthwith to offer his services in the aftermath of the scandal.

  “Hah, Brandon!” cried Henry jovially. “You are a sight for sore eyes!”

  “And you, Your Grace,” replied Brandon, as he slowed his horse and circled Henry’s. “It has been a long time.”

  Henry’s eyes welled with tears, tears that came all too easily to him these days. “Yes,” he said. “Too long.” How many more years did he have left to him, that he could afford to dispense with the company of a friend he held so dear? He knew what Cromwell’s game had been; his minister had made sure he kept both of England’s only dukes from the king’s side as much as possible. In the case of Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, that had worked Henry no hardship; but he had sorely missed Brandon. To see the silver hairs at his friend’s temples
and the wrinkles fanning his eyes as he squinted against the glare tugged at Henry’s heart. He would never let Brandon…loyal friend! …stray from his side again. If time was beginning to tell on him regarding the getting of a second son as heir to the throne, how much more so was it telling on a man Brandon’s age?

  “Come,” said Henry. “Let us ride down to the river.” They walked their horses slowly down the slope through the stubby brown grass of autumn. A copse of beeches, whose leaves would not fall until the spring, glowed salmon pink on the opposite side of the riverbank.

  The day was not cold, but Brandon shuddered at the task he must now perform. There was no one so well-placed as he to impart bad news to the king. He must shoulder the burden. But he would wait as long as possible before doing so.

  Henry reined in at the river’s edge and watched the water flowing by. Up close it looked more gray than blue. Apropos of nothing he remarked, “The tide is flooding.”

  Brandon observed the rushing water and replied, “So it is.”

  Henry sighed, still looking up and down the river. “Is all in hand, then?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Henry turned to look at his friend. “There is none here but us, Charles. No need for formality.”

  Brandon nodded his head. “I have received the queen’s jewels from Sir Thomas Seymour and secured them in the Tower.”