The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Still Henry looked out over the expanse. “And the queen?”

  “She is queen no more, Your…Henry. Parliament has stripped her of her title and indicted her for treason.”

  Henry pursed his lips. High above, a vulture soared in a monotonous circle, probably waiting for some unfortunate creature to breathe its last. He knew the feeling. “Where is she now?”

  “At Syon.”

  Syon Monastery…another mistake! He should have allowed more of the religious houses to stand. It was too late now for Syon. “And my niece?”

  “The Lady Margaret Douglas has been released from house arrest and has gone with Lady Richmond to Kenninghall.”

  Henry thought often of his widowed daughter-in-law, the Lady Mary Howard, who had been married to his bastard son, the duke of Richmond. He should have done as Brandon had, and married her before she had become his daughter-in-law! Brandon had married his son’s betrothed, a captivating wench too beautiful to be wasted on his puny son. Merciful God in Heaven, what was it about these Howard women that fascinated him so? He had made overtures about marrying Lady Mary after his son died, but no one was willing to stomach a man marrying his dead son’s wife. He sighed again.

  “So,” he said. “Mistress Howard is at Syon. That is well.”

  “She raised a mighty uproar when she was arrested,” said Brandon. “I have never…” he stopped.

  “Never what?” asked Henry.

  Brandon ran a sheepish hand through his hair and grinned. His hair, even though it was peppered with silver, was still very thick and plentiful. Henry knew a moment of envy for his own balding head. “I was going to say that I have never seen a woman more hysterical, or in such a frenzy, but I realized that such is not the case.”

  Henry had heard accounts of the tirade that his sister Mary had subjected Brandon to in France, and how she had finally browbeat him into marrying her, despite his fears for his head. What was poor Brandon to do, between the Scylla of Mary’s Tudor temper, and the Charybdis of the king’s mighty ire? He had succumbed and prayed that the king, his friend, being a Tudor himself, would understand and forgive him.

  Thoughts of Mary suddenly made Brandon think of the news he must impart to the king, and his face lost all expression. His eyes took on a faraway look.

  Henry eyed him keenly. “What is it?” he asked.

  Brandon turned to face the king. “I am very sorry,” he said in a whisper. “We have just received the news. The Queen Mother of Scotland is dead.”

  For a moment Henry was unable to move or respond. Margaret, dead! He could barely credit it! He had never been over-fond of his elder sister, they had never gotten along as he and Mary had. But he could not imagine her dead. She had been so fiery, so alive, such a vibrant personality. When the Scottish contingent had begged off meeting him at York, he had been livid with anger at his nephew; but as a king himself, he understood that James had good reasons for not keeping his promise. And he had known a brief moment of disappointment when he realized that it meant he would not see his sister after all, after so many years. And now he would never see her again. His parents, and now all of his siblings, gone! What other conclusion could he draw, except that he was next? But not yet, please God, not yet…Edward was too young to rule. Not yet!

  Brandon cleared his throat discreetly. “There is something else…” he said.

  Elsynge Palace, December 1541

  The room was icy cold and the light had a strange gray quality. It was just dusk, but Mary was loath to light the candles. Edward’s fever burned so hot that they were afraid to light any sort of fire in the room. But soon the chills would set in, and then all would be a frantic rush to wrap the child in blankets to ease his poor, shivering form. He had alternated between hot fever and racking chills for two days, and had been able to take neither sup nor crumb. If the fever did not break soon…

  Mary placed her hand on her brother’s brow and choked back a sob. “Oh, Frances,” she cried. “He is so very hot. Might we not try to cool him down again with ice?” Of all the people in the world to have with her in a crisis, her choice would have fallen upon good, practical Frances. Frances always knew what to do, or at least she had firm opinions.

  But now Frances clasped her hands tightly under her chin and her face was a study in agonized indecision. “I don’t know,” she said. She worked her clasped hands up and down. “I am not sure. Lady Bryan!”

  The old governess started, her eyes flew open and she stood up abruptly, swaying a little and holding onto her chair for support. “I was not sleeping,” she lied.

  “Good God, woman, it matters not if you were. None of us have slept more than two hours together since this began. Go and fetch Dr. Butts.”

  Mary had always had complete faith in Dr. Butts, but even he was stymied by this persistent fever of Edward’s. None of the usual remedies or palliatives had worked.

  Elizabeth was not allowed in the sickroom, but she was frantic with worry about her brother. She had stationed herself outside the door and refused to budge. When Lady Bryan came bustling out, she almost tripped over the girl.

  “Oh, my lady, I do beg your pardon,” she cried.

  Elizabeth, who was dozing on the floor in front of the door, was awake in an instant. “How is he? Has his fever broken?”

  Lady Bryan, who had not stopped and was talking as she walked, replied, “No, my lady, I am afraid not. I am to fetch Dr. Butts.”

  Elizabeth put her hand on Lady Bryan’s arm and pulled her back. “I will go,” she said. “My legs are younger than yours. I need such an occupation or I shall go mad.” And without waiting for acknowledgement, she flew off in the direction of the stillroom, where the doctor had been concocting potions when last she saw him. Lady Bryan stared after her thankfully, and limped back into the sickroom.

  As Elizabeth turned the corner and took the stairs two at a time down to the great hall, a thing she loved but was never allowed to do, she heard a great clatter in the courtyard. The stillroom was on the other side of the palace; she would get there more quickly if she cut across the courtyard. She ran to the great doors just as they were being opened by the halberdiers.

  Henry, who had just dismounted his horse with the aid of several grooms and ostlers, beheld his younger daughter just as the last rays of the sun, which was poised level on the horizon and sinking fast, bathed her in its brilliant light. Her long hair lifted on the breeze, glowing red-gold. Those who whispered behind malicious hands that she was Mark Smeaton’s whelp must never have seen her. She was the spit of him not just in coloring and visage, but in her regal bearing.

  “What news?” he gasped. “Does the boy yet live?”

  Elizabeth was panting from her headlong dash across the palace; the sickroom faced north as it was believed that a hot fever needed a cold room. She doubled over to try to get her breath. “He does,” she gasped. “I am to fetch Dr. Butts from the stillroom.”

  “Is he worse, then?” cried Henry, as he realized that he was now addressing his daughter’s back.

  She turned, bobbed a curtsey and said, “I know not, Your Grace. The sick room is there, and to the back of the great hall.” She turned, pointed and then ran, leaving Henry and Brandon staring after her.

  # # #

  Henry stood facing the great oaken door but was afraid to open it. Brandon placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. He knew what the king was feeling; he had lost his own son by the king’s sister when he was still a child.

  Henry let out a great sigh, steeled himself, and opened the door. What he saw appalled him. Frances was lifting Edward’s naked body out of a tub of water. The boy was as pale as death and shook with ague. Mary quickly wrapped him in a blanket and was drying his face with a cloth when she looked up and saw her father. Their eyes met, and Mary nodded, but she went on with her ministrations.

  Frances greeted her father, and Brandon embraced her and kissed her on both cheeks. His eyes conveyed a message; was it as bad as
it looked? Frances nodded and went back to stand with Mary at the prince’s bedside.

  Mary dried her hands, looked at her father and said, “Your Grace.”

  Henry was too overcome with emotion to respond; he walked slowly to Edward’s bedside.

  Lady Bryan knelt before the king and and bowed her head. She had never lost a royal charge that had been in her care long enough for it to be construed as a failing on her part. She wept openly.

  Henry stood looking down at the little form, his face still glistening with water from the cold bath. He looked like an angel with his tousled golden curls; his cheeks were red from being scrubbed and dried. His eyes were closed and his golden lashes made little semi-circular shadows on his face. His starfish hands clutched the covers at his chin.

  Children died; it was a fact that must be faced. But surely God knew how precious this child was! The thoughts flashed like moving pictures in front of his eyes as Henry beheld his only son. Katharine’s tears the day he told her that their marriage was no marriage and he must remarry to have the son that she could never give him; his sister Mary’s tears and the anger in her voice at their last meeting, the harsh words that he had never been able to tell her he was sorry for; Anne’s tears when her sons died; his daughter’s tears when he had denied her the title of royal princess so that he might stand on a principle and remarry; Jane’s tears when he had shouted at her in the privacy of their rooms because she had not conceived as quickly as he had hoped. And then his own tears of joy the day a son, his legitimate son, had finally been born to him. A slow, difficult tear now made its way down his face. He raised his hand to wipe it away.

  “Why are you crying, Your Grace?” said a small, sleepy voice.

  Mary jumped up from her chair where she had almost been asleep, Frances turned with wide eyes, and Lady Bryan rose up from her knees with a strangled cry; she had been sobbing on the arm of a chair.

  Mary ran to Edward’s side. He was sweating. “The fever has broken!” she cried. She ran her hand across his forehead; it was not wet with water from the bath, as Henry had thought; it was wet with perspiration, a sure sign that the fever had at last gone away.

  Edward tried to rise, but Henry said, “No, you must rest.” He dashed more tears away with an impatient hand.

  “I have missed Your Grace,” said the rasping little voice. “May I have some water, please?”

  Suddenly everyone laughed. “Indeed, you may,” said Lady Bryan, back in her element and taking charge. As she held the cup to Edwards’s rosebud lips, the door opened and Dr. Butts stepped in holding a nostrum vial, a bread poultice, and a bleeding bowl. When he beheld the prince propped up against his pillows and sipping water thirstily, the relief on his face was patent.

  “Well,” he said with a smile. “His Grace will not be needing these now, I trow!”

  Frances held out her hands and said, “Give them to me. After all this, I think I shall need them!”

  Lady Bryan clucked about like a hen with its chick and said, “All of you, out now, if you please. The child…the prince…His Grace…needs to rest.”

  # # #

  The fire crackled in the hearth as Mary held the poker deep in the flames. Henry sat in a chair close by, for the night was cold. He strummed idly on Mary’s lute, thinking how long it had been since he had played any music, or even tried to make a new song. Mary stole a glance at her father and remarked to herself how much weight he had gained. It seemed the harder he tried to lose weight after his marriage to Katherine, the more weight he had regained once the marriage was over. He had virtually no lap at this point, making it hard to pick out the tune he was trying.

  Mary was watching for the moment when the tip of the poker turned white; this was the optimal moment to plunge it into the mugs. She had prepared two mugs, one for each of them, with sweet Hippocras, honey, zest, sticks of precious cinnamon, cloves, and her own special touch, a dash of cider. She mulled each cup expertly, and handed Henry’s to him, still a-bubble from the poker.

  He blew on the concoction, and then took a long slurp. “Ah!” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Daughter, it is a pity that we cannot find you a husband! Where did you learn such tricks as this? I have never tasted a better mulled wine.”

  A number of thoughts flew through Mary’s brain; but she dared utter none of them. She recalled briefly the time just after Elizabeth’s birth when New Hall had been taken from her and given to George Boleyn. She had been forced to live at Hatfield under Lady Shelton’s unkind rule, and had had to learn many things that she would not otherwise have known, the mulling of her own wine in her cupboard of a room the least of them. And who had allowed that to happen! She dared not look at her father lest he read her thoughts.

  And as far as finding a husband for her…! She had reconciled herself to the knowledge that she would never be allowed to marry, but to pretend that the fault lay with her was cruel. The marriage negotiations with François Premier were still in play, but the whole thing was a farce, and she knew it. When the financial terms had been mooted, her father had insisted that her marriage portion include the entire arrears of the French pensions promised to England when her Aunt Mary had gone to France to marry King Louis the Twelfth in 1514. Nothing could have been better calculated to confound progress. Chapuys had been right, of course; the whole thing was a political ploy to maintain a balance between the Empire, France and England. On one hand the Duc d’Orleans was openly declaring his undying love for her, whom he had never even laid eyes on; and on the other the French, she knew through her cousin the Emperor Charles, were negotiating a Portuguese match for the duc.

  Mary had become adept at holding quite bitter internal dialogs whilst smiling and saying the right things. “I am glad Your Grace is enjoying it; the flavor is enhanced by a splash of fresh cider. Can you tell?”

  Henry slapped his enormous thigh; the one with the ulcer was, as always, propped on a stool. “So that’s what it is! Very clever. And very tasty.”

  The door opened a crack and Frances’ head peeked in. “How now! Who is mulling wine? What a pleasant smell!”

  “Come in, Niece, and sit on my knee,” said Henry jovially. Frances, with her spunk and practical nature, had always been his favorite niece.

  Frances smiled and replied, “I thank Your Grace most heartily, but my days of sitting on men’s knees are long past, uncle or no. Besides, I have come to fetch Mary; the prince has refused to go to sleep until she kisses him goodnight.”

  Mary stood, thankful for the opportunity to escape her father’s presence. She handed her half-full mug to Frances, who downed it in one gulp. “I will come and gladly,” said Mary. “Father, have I your leave…?” She bobbed a curtsey.

  “Of a certainty,” he said. “Kiss the prince for me and tell him I shall wait upon him on the morrow.” The relief at Edward’s recovery was so profound that Henry had not been able to bring himself to leave Elsynge, where he had been now for many days. “Niece, has your lord father returned from London?”

  “Yes, Sire,” replied Frances. “Some time since, but he did not wish to appear before you mired to the eyes, for the rain has not stopped. He will be bathing and changing.”

  “Ah, well, when he is ready, fetch him to me.”

  “An unnecessary task,” said a deep, booming voice.

  “Hah, Brandon! Timely, as always.” Henry twisted in his chair. “Come, sit by the fire, man, and taste some of my daughter’s excellent mulled wine. That shall warm your bones, I trow!”

  Mary had been holding the poker in the flames once again, and deftly mulled two more mugs. She handed one each to the king and to Brandon, curtseyed to both, and departed with Frances.

  Henry waited for the door to close softly behind the two girls, and then he turned to Brandon, who was warming his hands on his mug. “Is it done, then?”

  Brandon shifted in his chair and drew a deep breath. “It is, Your Grace, but to no avail, I fear me. Dereham is adamant that there wa
s a pre-contract and cannot be dissuaded from it. But admit to adultery he will not.”

  Henry pursed his lips. “And Culpeper?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  “God’s blood, man!” shouted Henry. Then leaning forward and lowering his voice to barely a whisper he said, “Even on the rack they refused to admit to adultery?”

  Brandon considered his words carefully. “I am inclined, Your Grace, to believe Dereham. I am convinced in myself after…well, after watching the proceedings, that he was in the queen’s, begging Your Grace’s pardon, allowed into Mistress Howard’s employ, only for the purpose of keeping a still tongue in his head. And, as unbelievable as it may seem, I am inclined to believe that he hoped, should there be an annulment, to marry the lady himself.”

  Henry had been sipping his mug at that moment and sputtered his wine. “God’s toenails!” he cried, then a coughing fit took him and he beat his chest with a mighty fist.

  “Yes,” nodded Brandon. “Well might you be shocked. I think the man truly believed that if he made known his pre-contract with the queen, that the marriage would be annulled and Mistress Howard disgraced, and then she would be only too glad to take up with plain Master Dereham again. If am right, it does explain a lot.”

  Indeed, thought Henry. If Dereham had tasted the full measure of Katherine’s charms, he could well believe that the man was willing to take such a risk to regain them. She was enough to drive any man mad with desire for her. And that is what Dereham must have been to bruit it abroad that he had such a pre-contract. He himself had been drawn from the beginning into Katherine’s Demimonde, of which she was the Demimondaine; she was an orgiastic hedonist of the first degree. It did make Dereham’s story all the more believable. But it wasn’t enough; Katherine had proved herself a harlot before her royal marriage and an adulteress after it. And there was Culpeper to consider.

  “And what of Culpeper?” asked Henry.

  “The same, only he is far cleverer than our Master Dereham,” replied Brandon. He sipped his wine and laid the cup aside. “He is trying very hard to save his life. The problem, Your Grace, is that we have no proof. Every bit of evidence we have gathered amounts only to so much hearsay. Culpeper is clever enough to know that if he confesses, he dies.”