The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Her mind had wandered far after the Liturgy of the Eucharist, and when the mass concluded she was startled when the king arose and everyone began to file out of the chapel. Deep in thought, Mary followed her little group of ladies out into the dark corridor.

  “I tell you, I saw them with my own eyes,” said Lady Margaret. “Frances, you were there; tell them, Cousin!”

  Lady Frances nodded empathically. “Margaret speaks truth. But do not take our word; why not come and see for yourselves? Come, we will show you!” With that Lady Frances lifted her skirts and ran along the corridor, through the door of the Presence Chamber, down the King’s Stairs, and finally out the door into the garden.

  The sun had melted the snow from the dark green yews, but otherwise, all was covered in white, and the snow sparkled diamonds as they ran along the path between finely clipped hedges. When they had run the length of the garden and were almost to the water steps, Frances, who arrived first at their mysterious destination, waited for the others to catch up, pointing in triumph to the embodiment of her and Margaret’s claim.

  When all the ladies were gathered, they peered over the edge of a neatly clipped border of boxwood, and there, in a miracle of white and green, was a bunch of snowdrops. Snowdrops were the only flowers that bloomed so early, even in the cold and snow; hence their name. Because they were often known to bloom early, they were also known as Candlemas Bells. And because they were the flowers that presaged spring, they were deemed a symbol of hope.

  For a moment the little group was silent, and just stood gazing at the delicate white blossoms with their translucent green stems and leaves.

  And then Lady Catherine, with an expression of ecstasy on her face, clasped her hands to her breast and exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely! How heartbreakingly lovely!”

  Mary had observed Lady Catherine to be an eminently practical woman, and one not given to emotional outbursts. Yet here she was, with tears welled up in her eyes, exclaiming over the beauty and promise of the extraordinary little white flowers peeking their heads up bravely through the snow. The others simply assumed that Lady Catherine was overwrought by the imminent death of her lord husband. But Mary, who was as startled as anyone by Lady Latimer’s outburst, could not help but believe differently. For Catherine’s reaction to the flowers was almost exactly akin to Mary’s own feelings. Mary suspected, for no concrete reason, that Catherine’s tears had little to do with her dying husband; Mary was an ardent gambler, and at that moment, she would have wagered all her jewels that Lady Latimer, like herself, was in love.

  # # #

  “Ladies, dear ladies, gather ’round,” cried the king jovially. Silent, unobtrusive servants carried goblets of Hippocras and sweet wafers on heavily laden silver trays, and made their way around the room with their offerings.

  From the garden, Mary and her ladies had gone back to the palace, and into the King’s Privy Chamber, which had been set for a small, intimate family gathering to celebrate Candlemas. The only people present who were not directly related to the king were the spouses of his relatives, his in-laws from three of his marriages, the duke of Suffolk and his wife, who were his in-laws from the duke’s marriage to the king’s deceased sister, and Lady Latimer. She alone of Mary’s ladies had been invited, at the insistence of the king. It was true that Lady Catherine was a fourth cousin of the king, but had everyone at court who could claim such descent been invited, there would hardly have been room to stand. So why, Mary wondered, of all her ladies, had the king insisted on the presence of Lady Catherine?

  “I have gifts for all the ladies,” said Henry, “to celebrate this joyous occasion.”

  Henry sat on the elaborate chair that had been made especially for him, to accommodate his now enormous size. The chair was upholstered in rich red brocade and trimmed with gold braid; his bad leg was propped on a matching stool. His walking stick, which lay on the floor beside him, was made of sturdy oak, chased with gold leaf and studded with gems that winked in the bright light of the sun streaming in through the windows. On either side of him were piles of gifts, all wrapped in cloth of gold or silver tissue and tied with ribands in a multitude of colors.

  “Come, daughter, you shall be first,” laughed Henry, as he eyed Elizabeth; she was the youngest person in the room and could not contain her excitement. Of all the things she enjoyed, receiving gifts was far and away her favorite.

  Elizabeth approached her father a little uncertainly, but he patted his good knee and bade her sit. She did so with a smile. The king held her with his left arm, then eyed the gifts on his right. Spying his quarry, he reached down and grasped an amorphous golden bundle tied with a red riband and handed it to Elizabeth.

  Her eyes shone with anticipation, but she waited until the king gave her a nod. Carefully she untied the ribands and the cloth fell away to reveal a new gown, deep purple in color, and sewn stiff with gems and pearls. Elizabeth could not hide her delight; she clasped her arms around the king’s neck and kissed him. Remembering herself, she became serious and said, “Thank you, Your Grace. What a lovely gift.”

  “Yes, yes,” laughed Henry. “Wear it in good health, Daughter. Now, who is next?”

  The king was having the time of his life as each lady was made to sit on his knee in order to receive her gift. It was comical to watch the various reactions; the duchess of Suffolk, Brandon’s wife, had not been unaware of the king’s keen interest in her at the time of her marriage to the duke. She flirted shamelessly, while Brandon looked on with a benign smile. He had no worries where either his wife or the king were concerned; the Lady Catherine Willoughby, as she had been then, had schemed for years to become his wife, even whilst he had still been married to the king’s sister, and the lady herself betrothed to his son. So she should flirt where she might; Brandon knew that she loved only him and he had no fears. Also, he was the king’s best friend, and he alone in the room knew what the charade was all about.

  Henry had chosen Lady Suffolk’s gift well; it was a looking-glass, newly arrived from Venice, those masters of the art of glass-making. Henry, who was interested in all things scientific, had asked the Venetian ambassador to explain how such a thing was made. His Excellency explained that it was made of quicksilver, allowed to condense on a piece of glass. The reflective surface, which was clearer than any mirror of polished silver that even the king possessed, had been placed in a golden frame studded with gems. Lady Suffolk, who was vain of her beauty, could not stop looking at herself for the rest of the day, and relinquished her furbelow only when the other ladies excitedly insisted on their turn to admire the novelty, and their own images in it.

  Everyone had to suppress their laughter when the overly-dignified Lady Anne Stanhope was called to sit upon the king’s lap. She was known for her excessive pride and snobbery. A member of the imperial delegation under Chapuys had once felt the heat of her anger and had remarked that she was more presumptuous than Lucifer. Lady Anne was the wife of Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, the oldest brother of Jane Seymour, so she was the king’s sister-in-law by marriage. She sat so stiffly and unsmilingly on the king’s knee that her brother-in-law, the mischievous Thomas Seymour, who was standing out of eyeshot of the king, kept making the most hilarious faces at her to try to get her to smile. But smile she would not; she accepted her gift with a minimum of enthusiasm and slid off the royal limb.

  Lady Margaret Douglas, the king’s niece, Mary Howard, Lady Richmond, the wife of the king’s dead son, and several others, all took their turn on the royal knee, and received their gifts.

  But the pile of gifts was dwindling, and Henry, looking around the room, spied Lady Frances. “How now, Niece,” he said. “I remember not so long ago that you told me your days of sitting on men’s knees were long past. But you shall not have your gift unless you do so this day!”

  Mary and all the guests laughed at this quip; Frances lifted her skirts and ran to the king’s side, laughing all the way. “Your Grace, I would sit on the lap of the devil himself
for one of those looking-glasses!”

  “All in good time,” laughed the king. “Here is your boon, Niece, and hark thee, this is not for use on your horse, but on your husband!”

  Frances loosened the ribands and when the cloth of gold wrapping fell away, it revealed a gem-studded riding crop. Frances collapsed into paroxysms of laughter; she was known to all as a scold and no one doubted that she would not hesitate to use her new gift on her husband, Henry Grey, the Marquis of Dorset. Lord Grey tittered and looked about uneasily; apparently he did not doubt it, either.

  When the good-natured laughter had subsided, the king beckoned Mary and she sat on his knee as she was required to do, trying to hide her unease. She loved her father, but she would always be wary of him. She could never forgive him for what he had done to her mother, nor could she ever forget what he had done to her. But he was her father, and her king, and must be obeyed; and that acquiescence must be masked by a veneer of acceptance and goodwill.

  Henry handed her a bulky parcel, and when she opened it, a veritable cloud fell out of it; she had never seen anything like it. There was yards and yards of the stuff, white, finely woven, like a spider’s web. She exclaimed that it was lovely, but she was at a loss; she had no idea what it was, and for that reason, no clue as to what to thank the king for.

  Henry assumed an excited, proprietary air, ready to explain. “It is called lace,” he said. “It comes from Brussels. It is used to decorate your clothing.”

  Suddenly Mary’s face lit up with dawning comprehension. Sewn onto a kirtle, or one’s sleeves, the lace would be lovely indeed; the color of the cloth underneath would be visible through the gaps in the weave, which was intricate and a work of art in itself. Mary loved fine things and the king’s gift moved her.

  “It is beautiful, Your Grace,” she said sincerely. “I have never seen anything like it before.”

  “And it will look well on you, my child.” Henry smiled benignly, and with that, Mary slid off the royal knee. There was only one gift left, and only one lady who had not yet received her boon; Lady Latimer.

  Lady Catherine had been uncertain as to why she had been asked to attend such an intimate family gathering and after some thought had concluded that Mary wished to lift her flagging spirits. It was difficult keeping up a show of grief when one was in the throes of the excitement of a love affair, but so far, if she must judge herself, she had been the soul of decorum in the public view. She was fond of Lord Latimer in her way, he had been kind to her, and she loved her stepchildren; but beyond a certain fondness and respect, there was nothing. She would be sorry when her husband passed on to God’s keeping, but it had been an arranged marriage, he was old enough to be her father, and that was that. They had not been man and wife in the true sense for quite some time due to Lord John’s ill health, and even before that, their efforts had been lackluster and in some cases, ineffectual.

  Catherine had thought all these thoughts in the brief span of time that it had taken her to cross the room. She had been standing as close as possible to Thomas; even if she could not touch him, they could still converse without arousing suspicion, and she loved the male smell of him. Just to be standing near him in a crowded room gave her an unspeakable thrill.

  Wishing to strike an acceptable balance between the proper behavior of a woman whose husband was dying and the demeanor appropriate to the honor that the king was doing her, she approached Henry deferentially and sunk into a deep curtsey, lowering her eyes.

  Henry extended a hand to help her back up, which she could do nothing but take; his fingers were as hot as Thomas’s… “No ceremony, please, my dear Lady Catherine,” he said. He, too, was conscious of the need to be less boisterous with a woman who, if Dr. Butts had not lost his skill, was soon to be made twice a widow. He noticed her hesitation, attributing it to awe of his person. “Here, you must take your place, as all the other ladies before you have done.” He tightened his grip on her hand and drew her onto his good leg. It was all he could do to keep from ravishing her then and there. His blood was hot; he had not thought to feel the rush of desire, the excitement of a new love, ever again. And she had done this for him! He felt alive, really alive, for the first time since…but he would not spoil the moment with thoughts of that other Katherine.

  Henry held her fast, ostensibly to keep her from slipping off of his knee, and reached down to pick up the last of the parcels. He had taken a great deal of trouble over the wrapping; after much thought, he had judged that Catherine’s coloring warranted the cloth of silver. Her pale complexion had roses in it, and her eyes were as blue as a deep forest pool. He had opted for a dark blue riband.

  The noise in the room abated considerably; all the jesting and laughing had ceased. All eyes were on Lady Catherine as she made to open her Candlemas gift from the king. She took the ends of the riband in her delicate white fingers and slowly pulled. The people in the room seemed to draw close to see what would be revealed. The king’s gifts had been novel and well-thought-out; each had had a significance unique to its recipient. What would the king think was suitable for Lady Latimer?

  Almost as if in slow motion, the riband loosed and the silver tissue fell away. A collective gasp escaped the onlookers. Lady Catherine held, one in each hand, a pair of matching sleeves. The ladies of the court were always aware of the latest fashions; these were finely wrought sleeves in the Italian style. They were made both of cloth of silver and cloth of gold, a thing unheard of at the time; the clever Italians had used both metal threads contrapuntally for the weave and the effect was startling. The sleeves shimmered as the sunlight danced upon them. Hundreds of seed pearls had been sewn onto them in a subtle pattern, made to look like tiny flowers; and in the center of each a diamond flashed.

  Everyone in the room was momentarily stunned. All were astonished firstly by the exquisite beauty of the gift, surely; but although gifts of clothing were permitted between ladies, gifts of clothing from men to women were permitted only from a father to a daughter, perhaps to a niece, or to…a wife. The sleeves were not only magnificent in and of themselves, but…and all were thinking this shocking thought…they were fit only for a queen.

  Catherine had been finely educated and had superb manners; she was also an experienced courtier. There was no mistaking the implication of the gift. Outwardly, she arranged the planes of her face into a delicate smile, suitable to a woman who was about to be bereaved and enter a period of mourning; very softly she thanked the king for his generosity. She knew what was expected of her; her behavior was impeccable. She leaned forward and kissed the king, then gracefully slid off his knee, took her sleeves, curtseyed, and backed away. It was checkmate for the king; Lady Catherine dare not refuse the gift, but accepting it was tantamount to accepting the king’s unspoken, and completely unexpected, proposal of marriage.

  Mary was watching her closely, and observed that just for a moment, Lady Catherine’s eyes searched the room, found their mark and locked with those of Sir Thomas Seymour. For a fleeting second, the expression of sheer horror on both of their faces was unmistakable. But no one except Mary seemed to notice; the women had all gathered around to admire the sleeves, and the men had turned back to their conversations, which had been interrupted by Lady Catherine’s audience with the king.

  Instinctively, Mary turned then to look at her father, and her blood turned to ice; for he, too, had been watching Catherine and had seen the look of terror mixed with longing that had passed, on that knife edge of time, between her and Sir Thomas.

  Westminster Palace, April 1543

  The late afternoon sun was strong, bathing everything in its golden light. The wind on the water of the river made little ripples that resembled liquid gold where the sun hit them, but on the other side, each ripple was the color of amethyst. A pair of swans glided by, moved as if by the breeze, but Mary knew better; the water of the Thames was still fresh from the winter snows, and was clear enough for her to see, from her vantage point on the little stone bench,
the swans’ black webbed feet swimming with the tide.

  She remembered well the last time that she had sat on this seat in the abbot’s little garden at Westminster Palace. And now here she was again, as if it were yesterday, and not over three years ago. She had studied her face carefully in the Duchess of Suffolk’s Venetian looking-glass, but she was still unsure; had she changed much? Had Philip?

  No further correspondence had been forthcoming after the letter from Philip that she had found in her apartments just before Candlemas. Mary was glad that she had not burned the letter, because had she done so, she would have begun to doubt that she had ever received it, would have started to believe that perhaps she had dreamed it.

  So much had happened since that Candlemas Day celebration! Lady Latimer had returned to London to nurse her sick husband. Lord Latimer had died a month later to the day. Her father had hinted that Mary should order Lady Catherine back to court, but to do so would have been unseemly. Mary had been placed in the awkward position of having to point out to the king that the lady would be in mourning, and at any rate, it was now the Lenten season, when all good Christians should be reflecting upon their sins and purifying their souls through prayer, penance, atonement and self-denial; the implication being, and not lusting after young widows!

  “Hmph!” Henry had expostulated when Mary reminded him of this, and he had stumped angrily away on his stick.

  The king was now in no doubt that there was an amour, and perhaps some deeper understanding, between Lady Catherine and Sir Thomas Seymour. Well, he would put a stop to that! He had set his sights on her, he meant to have her, and that was that. Sir Thomas, who was young, handsome, and a known rogue, was no fit mate for Catherine Parr, Lady Latimer.

  But Mary and Henry had not been the only ones with keen eyes at the Candlemas celebrations in the king’s privy chamber; Norfolk, that eagle eye, had also seen the look that had passed between Lady Catherine and the king’s brother-in-law, and seeing this, had hatched a plot of his own. It was obvious that the king had set his cap at Lady Latimer, even though her husband was not even dead yet, let alone cold; he knew that niceties such as waiting for his predecessor to die would not stop Henry. After all, had the king not wed Norfolk’s own niece, Anne Boleyn, before even Archbishop Cranmer’s sham of an annulment of the king’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon had been granted?