The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  But it was obvious that Sir Thomas Seymour must be removed from the competition; what better way to do that than to marry his daughter, Lady Mary Howard, the Duchess of Richmond, to the king’s brother-in-law? Marry his daughter to the king he would not; Norfolk was a good Catholic and no man, whether he called himself pope, king or Supreme Head of the Church, could dispense for such consanguinity as that presented by a father marrying his son’s widow. It was simply out of the question. But a marriage to Seymour was a good alternative.

  Seymour was one of two uncles of the heir to the throne. The king was failing, all could see that, and when he succumbed, the Seymours were likely to be named regents for their nephew. Prince Edward was only five years old; the duke was not a betting man, but he would have laid odds that Edward would be a child king. And what better way to wield influence over a child king than if his daughter were wife to one of the regents? But when he had laid this plan before his son, the earl of Surrey had threatened all sorts of dire consequences. Norfolk was nonplussed; he had thought it a brilliant scheme. But his son had sputtered and blustered, and shouted in anger that no upstart Seymour was a fit match for a Howard, and he had made it plain that if his father pursued such a course, he would protest the match up to the very altar. When the priest asked if anyone knew of any reason why the couple should not marry, Surrey was prepared to name off a list of reasons that would leave no doubt as to his strong objections, and which was certain to alienate the Seymours permanently. The duke, who was beginning to feel his years, had backed down rather than fight his son on the matter.

  But the king had been hatching plots of his own to do away with his competition for the lady’s hand; what better way to do that than to simply remove the person physically? And so Sir Thomas Seymour had been informed that the king was doing him the honor of sending him permanently to the court of Mary of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands, sister of the king’s ally, the Emperor Charles, as his ambassador. Checkmate again!

  Just before Sir Thomas was to depart for Brussels, Anne of Cleves requested an invitation to court; she had something of importance to discuss with the king. Permission was granted, and when she arrived, she brought along her kinsman, the Duke of Bavaria. The duke, she explained, had asked the former queen, his cousin, to inform the king of England that he wished to offer his sword to the king in the upcoming war between England and France.

  Mary was beside herself with joy to see Philip again; she had been sitting beside her father in the Presence Chamber when Anne and the duke had their audience with the king. Neither she nor Philip gave even a hint of their excitement, but Mary felt as if the very air were on fire when she saw him enter, so tall, blonde, wearing his full regalia of medals and bejeweled like a Maharaja.

  Anne flicked a quick glance in Mary’s direction, her eyes sparkling with mischief; and suddenly Mary knew how Philip’s letter had gotten to her.

  At that moment the now familiar sound of Philip’s spurs ringing on the stone walkway brought Mary out of her musings with a start. She stood and turned and there he was. He was so tall that he had to stoop to go under the arbor leading into the garden. Mary knew a fleeting memory of the last time they had met here; it had been winter and the arbor had been covered with a tangle of branches and the orange of the rose hips. Now it was April, a lovely spring, and the arbor was crowded with little pink roses.

  Holbein had once told Mary that there was no color that stirred a man’s blood as much as red, so she had worn a gown of crimson satin, trimmed with gold braid and tinsel, and sewn stiff with rubies and pearls. As he approached her, though, he appeared not to notice anything; he was looking directly into her eyes. She might as well have been clad in her shift!

  Philip held out both of his hands as they neared each other and when they touched the world seemed to spin. The sun had set below the horizon, leaving the garden in gentle dusk. The sky to the west was still a pale blue just on the horizon, but to the east the sky was a deep amethyst and pricked with the first stars of night. The new moon was a thin silver bow and hung low in the sky, reaching for the pole star just as Philip had reached for her hands.

  There seemed to be no words; once again Mary melted into those protective arms and buried her face in his doublet. After a few moments, without breaking their embrace, he took his hand and gently lifted her chin. Her eyes were like two startling sapphires, gems that had lost their way in the night sky, and sought refuge with his beloved princess.

  “Ah, do not cry, my heart,” he said softly. His Latin was flawless, but there was still a hint of the German accent that Mary had grown so used to when speaking with Anne.

  Mary smiled, and it seemed to Philip as if the sun had changed his mind, and for the first time ever, reversed his path and returned to light the night sky. “They are tears of joy,” she whispered.

  His kiss was as soft and tender as she remembered; it was a kiss that she had dreamed of for a thousand nights without him. The only sound was the soft, soothing cooing of the roosting doves, and the only light besides the starlight came from the glow of the candles through the stained glass windows of the Chapter House. It was a moment of such rare beauty and peace that Mary felt as if time were standing still. If only she could capture this moment, keep it, like a sliver of the True Cross in a reliquary, to worship, to comfort her, in the times to come. The thought of Philip going to war with her father made her blood run cold. So many things could happen to him! But there was no room at that moment for fear; only for love.

  They had not much time; it was ironic that the first time Mary had met Philip it had been much against her will. Now their meeting was stolen, they had received no permission to see each other privately; Anne had arranged to be with both of them and then had absented herself, leaving them to meet alone. It was a clever ploy, but one that could not be repeated. Mary could only hope that when Philip had his private audience with her father to ask for her hand, that he would allow the betrothed couple to meet before Philip went off to war.

  “I have dreamed of this moment for many a day,” he whispered. Philip’s lips were now near her ear and his breath was warm; it sent an unaccountable thrill down Mary’s spine.

  “And I,” Mary replied. A feeling of utter helplessness mingled with ecstatic joy swept over her; it was something that she had never felt before with anyone. She understood now why her father needed so badly to fancy himself in love. And he had tasted its joys five times! He was in love with love. She knew now why that was so; and yearned for it for herself. She had had so little happiness in her life. She knew that her father believed himself in love with Lady Latimer; surely he would own that she, Mary, deserved love, too.

  And suddenly she had a brilliant idea. She would call Lady Latimer back to court immediately. There was time, if she sent a message tonight, for Lady Catherine to be at Westminster for Easter Sunday. Easter marked the end of Lent; mourning time enough for a woman who was not really grieving anyway. Surely Lady Catherine must be desperate to be back at court before Sir Thomas departed, which he would do the day after Easter. That would give Lady Catherine time to say her goodbyes, which were sure to be bitter if that lady felt for Sir Thomas what she herself felt for Philip; and then the field would be open for the king. He would be mad with joy at Lady Catherine’s return; and in such a mood, how could he say no to Philip? They could be betrothed immediately, the banns called, and married before the king left for France.

  Mary lifted her face to Philip’s and parted her lips. She barely remembered saying goodbye to him and making her way back to the palace, so eager was she to send her summons to Lady Latimer.

  Hampton Court Palace, July 1543

  If the king felt in the slightest bit awkward standing on the very spot on which he had married both Jane Seymour and Katherine Howard, he gave no indication of it. It did strike Mary as odd that her father was marrying yet a third wife at Hampton Court, and had yet to marry any of them in the beautiful little chapel there. Still, the Queen’s Closet was
a lovely room, with high ceilings, tall windows, and exquisite tapestries. It was July, high summer, and the room was filled to bursting with the flowers that Henry knew his new bride loved.

  Mary had known Catherine Parr all of her life; her mother had been a lady-in-waiting to Katharine of Aragon, who had stood godmother to the baby Catherine. It was likely that Catherine had also been named for the queen. Maud Parr’s devoted service to her mother had not gone unnoticed by Mary, and now she was actually glad that her father was marrying someone whom she knew to be a kind, generous, learned and virtuous lady.

  Why that lady had agreed to marry the king was no secret; refusal could have had the most unpleasant consequences, not only for the lady herself, but for all her family. As it was, the Parrs, who had been royal servants all their lives but in relative obscurity, had now been brought into prominence.

  Catherine’s sister, Anne Parr, Lady Herbert, was to be a lady-in-waiting to the new queen. Sir William Parr, her uncle, who had been the duke of Richmond’s chamberlain, would now fill that office for his royal niece. Margaret Neville, her step-daughter, was made a lady of the bedchamber, as well as her cousin and dear friend, Elizabeth Bellingham. And Sir William Parr, her brother, had been admitted to the Privy Council in March, even before Catherine became queen. In April he was made a Knight of the Garter and created earl of Essex, in right of his wife, Anne Bourchier, just after their marriage was annulled for her adultery.

  Catherine loved her sister-in-law, and had pleaded with the king not to execute her, for adultery was punishable by death for a woman. This was not the first time that Catherine had thrown herself at the king’s feet, begging for mercy; her husband, Lord Latimer, had been implicated in the Pilgrimage of Grace, and Catherine had pleaded for his life; her cousin, Nicholas Throckmorton, had gotten himself into trouble and Catherine had pleaded with the king to pardon him; and just at the time the king had made his intentions towards herself clear, the scandal of her sister-in-law’s disgraceful behavior had broken. It was an awkward time to be pleading for mercy for an adulteress, but the king, wishing to please his new sweetheart, had spared the woman. But in retaliation for showing such mercy to a woman who in his opinion deserved death, he had taken all of the lands that William Parr held by right of his wife and vested them directly into William. It was a back-handed way of granting Catherine her plea; but she knew the king for a cold-hearted bully, and his actions against her sister-in-law were, as far as she was concerned, very much in character.

  Catherine’s goodbye to Sir Thomas Seymour had been fraught with tears and avowals of love; and for once they had indeed sealed that love without any holds barred. It had been deliberate on both their parts. For Catherine it had been done in a moment of bliss on one hand and defiant anger on the other. She had no qualms; she and Henry were both descended from King Edward the Third, but in the illegitimate line; Thomas Seymour was descended in the legitimate line. If she was with child by Thomas, so be it, and the king none the wiser.

  But soon her conscience began to prey on her, and her fears; what if the rumors about the king’s impotence were true? When Henry had respectfully proposed to her in the privy garden at Greenwich, he had reluctantly acceded that perhaps it was too soon for her to think of marriage yet; perhaps she would be ready when he returned from the war with France…? But Catherine, her moment of defiance spent and her fears uppermost now in her mind, had assured the king that she wanted nothing more than to marry him as soon as possible. Henry was overjoyed, and applied immediately for the license from Archbishop Cranmer. Cranmer had been equally overjoyed, suspecting that Catherine was a fellow Reformer, and when asked to dispense the need for banns to be called, had done so with alacrity. The result of all this haste was that now the king’s immediate family was gathered in the Queen’s Closet on this summer day to give England yet another new Queen.

  By this time Catherine knew herself to be free of any worry that she might be with child. She was, in a way, disappointed. But she was now, as of that moment, joined with the king, and her life was changed forever.

  Anne Stanhope, Lady Hertford, observed sardonically that Catherine was taking quite well to her new position as queen; already her dress was extravagant in the extreme. The new queen’s wedding clothes were particularly grand; she wore a cloth of gold robe intricately embroidered and sewn with gems over a gold brocade kirtle, and she wore the Italian sleeves that the king had given her at Candlemas. Gems glittered in her hair, at her throat, and from every finger.

  Lady Hertford had long suspected that that there was more than met the eye going on between Catherine and her brother-in-law, Sir Thomas Seymour, and when the king had packed him off to Brussels, she was certain of it. To tell or not to tell? It was now an offence punishable by death not to reveal knowledge about any impropriety pertaining to a person aspiring to the crown. But there was the rub; she had no proof, only that which her intuition told her.

  Still, it irritated her mightily to see one of Catherine’s ilk raised to the very throne. And why? Because she had been fortunate enough to catch the king’s eye at a vulnerable moment? And what was it the Bible said about a serving woman displacing her mistress? Oh, yes, she was a Reformer and had read her Bible. She would just have to keep her eye on mistress high-and-mighty Catherine.

  Henry eyed his new queen with complacent satisfaction. Finally, he had the perfect queen. It was true that she had been twice married and had produced no children; but she had been married to two sick old men, men who already had their heirs when they married her. She was no girl, but she was still young enough to bear children. God send that he would be able to oblige. That other Katherine had worn him out, but he had performed admirably in the circumstances; it was only after he found out what she was and what she had done to him that his abilities had failed him. If he could not…well, then, perhaps he should be grateful and satisfied with that which God in his wisdom and mercy had already given him…Edward.

  The wedding party was a small, intimate group; only twenty people, only those closest to the king, and the new queen’s family, were in attendance. The king was feeling his leg and had to sit on his great chair with his leg propped up on a hassock. The strong afternoon sunlight slanted in through the windows, and from his vantage point he saw it shining on a multitude of golden and red heads clustered about his new queen, who was magnificent in the new Italian robes he had bought for her. She was different from his other queens, except perhaps that first Anne, in that she was tall; but there was nothing willowy about her, she was full-figured and buxom. She suited him perfectly.

  Mary had experienced an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu as she listened to her father take his vows; so had he done not so very long ago with that other Katherine, and when he had done so, she remembered looking at Philip and thinking, “Our turn next…” The thought brought tears to her eyes. For when Sir Thomas Seymour had departed for Brussels, the Duke of Bavaria had gone with him. It was a cruel blow, but Mary took comfort in the fact that the king had not said no to Philip’s suit; but neither had he said yes. Henry had been quick to take Philip’s offer of a sword for the French wars, but as to the marriage proposal for his daughter’s hand he had been less enthusiastic. The best that the disappointed duke was able to get from the king of England was an agreement to consider the matter. With Scotland well in hand, Henry had been sending foot soldiers to the Low Countries to fight the French there; let Philip go and fulfill his self-imposed obligation.

  Mary sighed deeply. Twenty-seven this year, and although she had some hope of a husband and children in Philip, she was deeply aware of the passing of time. There was nothing she could do but wait.

  Grafton, Ampthill, Dunstable, August - October 1543

  “Thank Heaven the rain has stopped,” said Lady Margaret. “If we had not set forth again today I fear me I should have gone mad.” Lady Margaret was now a lady-in-waiting to the new queen, and along with the royal children, had been invited to accompany the king and queen on Ro
yal Progress. She, like Mary, was an excellent horsewoman, and eschewed the litter that carried the queen and some of the other ladies.

  Mary, who was mounted on her favorite roan mare, was not so sure. She was not feeling quite herself, and another day at the manor of Grafton would have been welcome. It was hotter than she could ever remember, and the air was very humid.

  “At least the rain has made everything very green,” Mary replied. The fields and meadows were luxuriant with tall grass, blue butterflies played on purple heather in the distant hills, and the bees were busily engaged in visiting the vast array of wildflowers. The water in the ditches at the roadside was alive with dragonflies, busily fertilizing the eggs of the damselflies, amongst the reeds and cattails. Whenever Mary tried to focus on their erratic flight, she felt her head swim, and the droning buzz of the bees was almost hypnotic.

  Margaret flicked a quick glance to see if anyone was within earshot, decided there was not, and then she said, apropos of nothing, “The queen is a Reformer, you know.”

  “Is she indeed?” Mary replied. “I did not know.”

  “The king seems very happy and contented with her. I wonder what he would do if he knew.” Margaret had no guile, and had always struck her cousin as a scatterbrain; it surprised Mary that Margaret would even know such a thing. Perhaps her ordeals had finally served to grow her up; God knew it was time! She was a year older than Mary and still, like Mary, was unmarried.