The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The page lit all the candles and was working on the wall sconces when a commotion was heard outside the door. The metallic swish of the halberdier’s weapons sounded, the doors opened, and the queen marched in purposefully.

  This was most unusual and Gardiner was at first taken aback. The king had not, as far as he knew, summoned the queen. For her to appear without such a summons was strange, especially in light of the fact that the queen knew about, and according to Gardiner’s spies at court was much disturbed by, the king’s obvious fancy for the Duchess of Suffolk. But Queen Catherine was too experienced a courtier to show her vexation to the king. That was why her sudden appearance was disconcerting to say the least. It was even more so considering the reason that Gardiner had for ensuring that he had some time alone with the king.

  But as the bishop studied Catherine’s face, his fears fell away. Her usual composed manner and calm demeanor was absent; she appeared quite flustered. The queen obviously had something of great importance, at least to her, to discuss with the king.

  Catherine bobbed a peremptory curtsey, and then looked from Henry to the bishop; clearly, she expected the king to dismiss the prelate. He did not do so; he simply sat and waited for her to speak. She pursed her lips and Gardiner noticed that below her voluminous sleeves, the queen’s fists were clenched; a sure sign of annoyance. She waited a few moments more, but it was evident that whatever it was she had come to say must be said in front of the bishop.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I have just heard that you have caused to be repealed the statutes allowing the laity to read the bible. Is this true? Have I heard aright?”

  Henry sat silent, one hand on his knee and one elbow on the table, rubbing his chin in thought. He eyed his wife through narrowed lids. His face was now so fat that his eyes had all but disappeared. Suddenly he leaned back in his chair, took up his goblet of wine, took a long pull, and swallowed. Carefully, deliberately, he placed the goblet back onto the table and then steepled his fingers under his chin. Finally he drew a long breath and said quite calmly, “Yes, it is true. What of it?” The unspoken words shouted louder than any clarion call of the trumpets; and what is that to you?

  At this Catherine clasped her hands in front of her and her face took on a most anxious expression. “But Your Grace,” she said. “How will the people of England ever be led out of darkness, into the light, if they are not allowed to read God’s word for themselves?”

  Bishop Gardiner observed the king’s color as his face began to mottle; he had turned in an instant from the now usual pasty white of the sick man in pain to the splotchiness of sudden ire. A vein at the king’s temple throbbed.

  Dear God, thought Gardiner, of thy mercy, do not let him have a fit of apoplexy before we have fixed a plan for the regency! And not one in which the queen has a part!

  Henry had been having much pain with both of his legs, so much so that he rarely stood up on his own. But he did so now, leaning his massive fists on the sturdy wooden table. Suddenly he banged one of those beefy fists so hard on the table that the chessmen jumped. Gardiner busied himself with righting them, hoping that he was replacing them properly; the king, for all his current maladies, still had a formidable memory and almost total recall.

  “May I remind you, Madam,” be bellowed, “that you are not regent of England any longer? Would you question the king’s proclamations? In what wise?”

  Catherine was a master at holding her temper and hiding her feelings. It was as if a mask slipped over her face and all of a sudden she was her usual serene, quiet self.

  She smiled. “Never would I presume such a thing,” she said. “I simply…”

  There was nothing quite as terrifying as Henry Tudor in a furious temper. Many believed that the fabled Tudor temper had sprung full-grown from his head, as Athena had from the god Zeus; but it was not so. Henry had inherited his truly frightening temper from his Plantagenet forebears, who had been known to throw themselves down on the floor and chew the rushes in their anger.

  Henry exploded in rage. “God’s Toenails, woman!” he roared. “The law allowing common men to read the bible was not meant for the purpose of their interpretation and debate, but for their enlightenment! But all that has been accomplished by allowing such liberty is that now common men argue the meaning of Holy Writ in every alehouse from Land’s End to Berwick-upon-Tweed! I will not have such men defiling God’s Word with their ignorant disputations! You may go!” With that, Henry fell, rather than sat, back into his chair.

  The queen, nonplussed but still clinging desperately to the shreds of her dignity, curtseyed and left the room.

  It was one of the king’s bad days; it was just such a day for which the Bishop of Winchester had been waiting. Henry was in as ill a temper as Gardiner had ever seen him. For weeks he had been delicately dripping poison against the queen into the king’s ear; for weeks he had hung back, observing with great satisfaction that the king now seemed to spend more time with the Duchess of Suffolk than he did with the queen. In addition to the patience of Job, and the ability to read quite accurately both situations and people, Stephen Gardiner possessed an extraordinarily reliable gut. He had an uncanny instinct for knowing when the moment was exactly right. Now was such a moment.

  And while he had been playing his waiting game, weaving his web of intrigue against the queen, sitting back waiting like a malevolent spider to strike at his victim, he had conceived another most ingenious plot. In this live game of chess he was playing, if he were going to bring down a queen, why not a bishop, as well? For years he had coveted the archbishopric of Canterbury. He had tried in ways both subtle and overt to bring down his great rival, that heretic of heretics, Thomas Cranmer. But always the king protected his protégé, the man who had, in the king’s estimation, anyway, been instrumental in procuring for him his heart’s desire, Anne Boleyn. Never mind that the king had grown to hate the lady and had had her executed, and that she was almost ten years moldering in her grave. Just as the king never forgot nor forgave a slight, neither, apparently, did he ever forget a favor. And Archbishop Cranmer had done the king an enormous one. But all idols eventually showed their feet of clay; perhaps one more try and he would be successful.

  Bishop Gardiner stole a look at the king; his color had turned from a dangerous puce back to mottled red.

  Henry was aware of the bishop’s scrutiny. He turned back to the chessboard, but he had lost his desire to play. “A fine thing it is,” he said sarcastically, “when women become so bold as to scold their husbands! But for a woman to reproach the Supreme Head of the Church of England as to religious affairs is iniquitous! How dare she come to me in my old age and lecture me! Who is Supreme Head of the Church of England, then, myself or the queen?”

  “Indeed,” agreed the bishop. “It puts me in mind of the queen’s recent catechism on the evils of seizing the revenues of the universities for the crown.”

  Henry flat-handed the table smartly, and this time the chessmen were scattered beyond retrieval; some of them even fell to the floor with a thud, and rolled this way and that. The page came to life once more and began to gather them up. “And that is another thing!” cried Henry. “How dare she preach me a sermon on how to manage the finances of this realm!”

  If Gardiner’s purpose had not been to destroy the queen, he would in all honesty have had to agree with Catherine on that score. Henry had started his reign with his coffers full to overflowing; but the young king had spent and spent, frittering away millions on useless wars and entertainments. Then with England on the brink of bankruptcy, clever Cromwell had used the break with Rome as an excuse to rape the Church in England; the wealth thus showered on the king had once again been wasted on useless wars. Now the country was once more on the edge of financial collapse, and to stay solvent the king had had to debase the coinage. The evils wrought by such a ploy were causing not just the common people to suffer; it affected all the men of the realm, rich and poor, noble and common alike. And it ruined En
gland’s credit abroad. But that did not stop the unscrupulous from loaning England money at usurious rates of interest, deepening England’s woes. The queen had merely sought to save England’s fine houses of learning, such as Cambridge, from ruination, and she had succeeded; the king had backed down.

  Gardiner stayed silent for a moment, studying the backs of his hands. “I have also heard that the queen is opposed to Your Grace’s dogma of infallibility as Supreme Head of the Church of England. It smacks of the same claim that is made by the bishop of Rome, says she.”

  Henry’s eyes bugged out of his head. “She dared to say that?”

  “I did not hear the queen utter such words myself,” replied Gardiner. “I have only heard that it was said. And that Cranmer was right to bring his wife back from the Continent, because clerical celibacy was unfair, unjust, and only encouraged sinful behavior on the part of the clergy.” He held his breath; this was a direct attack on Cranmer, the king’s pet priest. Was he putting his own head in the noose for the satisfaction of bringing down the archbishop? He was almost relieved when Henry seemed either not to have heard him, or to ignore the dig at his beloved Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Henry shook his head in disbelief. “God’s Teeth! What does one do with such a wife and queen?”

  Exactly the question that the bishop had been waiting for. Carpe temporum.

  “Your Grace,” said Gardiner quietly, “I have heard it said that the queen’s recent religious publications are dangerously faith-based. She has gone so far as to suggest that one can attain Heaven by faith and good works alone, and that the intercessions of priest and mass are superfluous.”

  Henry picked up his goblet, realized it was empty and threw it into the hearth in his anger. The hapless page seized the tongs and tried desperately to retrieve it. “And these books! Did you hear that her Meditations was printed twice?”

  “I did indeed, Your Grace.” Gardiner had taken one enormous risk already; in for a penny, in for a pound, then. “I fear me that the queen may have gotten the wrong impression by Your Grace’s leniency in the case of Archbishop Cranmer. He has continued with his reforms, careful to tread lightly lest he violate the Act of Six Articles. But the queen is only a woman; she may have misinterpreted such laxity.”At this the king looked up at him sharply but said nothing. “And her writings indicate a Reformist stance.”

  Henry appeared to be seriously weighing Gardiner’s words, but still he said nothing. The fire crackled. The page retrieved the king’s goblet, cleaned it with the hem of his tunic, refilled it, and placed it at the king’s elbow. Henry took a big gulp.

  It was now or never.

  “If I may say so, Your Grace, I fear me that the whoever writes such stuff is a very short step away from heresy, indeed, may already have crossed over that line. As Supreme Head, the queen’s criticism of your actions is intolerable. Such sinful thoughts could lead to treasonous acts, not only on her own part, but on the part of others who observe her behavior, and worse, perceive that she does all this with impunity.”

  Henry narrowed his eyes. The timing could not have been better! He wished to rid himself of the queen in order to marry the Duchess of Suffolk. Just the thought of that lady’s delicious youth…she was not yet thirty…and her extraordinary beauty made his loins contract in that now familiar manner. And no long, drawn-out trials to go through! Here was deliverance being handed to him on a platter! He could have kissed Gardiner. He suppressed a smile.

  “And what do you suggest, then?”

  Gardiner let go his breath, which he had not realized he was holding. Checkmate! He had all but destroyed the queen, gotten away with planting the seeds of doubt about Cranmer, and he was now more deeply in the king’s confidence than he had ever been before.

  “I suggest, Your Grace, that the queen be investigated for heresy and treason.” Again Gardiner held his breath.

  Henry picked up his stick and leaned his hand on the golden knob at the top of it. He kept twisting and turning it in his hand. “And how would we begin such a proceeding?”

  Best not to show too much enthusiasm. Gardiner shifted in his seat and replied softly, carefully. “If it please Your Grace, perhaps we ought to begin with a search of the queen’s apartments. For heretical materials and such.”

  “A good plan,” said Henry. “Draw up the warrants and I will review them.”

  Gardiner reached into his robes and pulled out a scroll. “I have already taken the liberty of doing so,” he said. “In case Your Grace…”

  Henry seized the scroll and skimmed it. “Yes,” he said “Yes. Perfect. Perfect! Tell Lord Russell to apply my privy seal forthwith.” He handed the scroll back to Gardiner without even looking at him. Already he was dreaming of the Duchess of Suffolk in his bed, her startling blue eyes gazing at him lovingly from the pillow next to his own.

  Woodstock, Oxfordshire, March 1546

  To any who had never seen the king’s royal hunting lodge at Woodstock, the very name seemed to evoke a small, cozy manor at which one might spend warm, comfortable nights beside the fire. In reality, like all of Henry’s properties, it was an opulent palace.

  Travel was now extremely difficult for the aging monarch, but Henry being Henry, he simply refused to accept his growing incapacity. Indeed, why should he? With hundreds of servants, sycophants and any of the court whom he cared to name to to accompany him on his peregrinations, except for his personal discomfort traveling was, if not exactly easy, at least possible; and to a degree, tolerable.

  The king’s uncertain temper caused many of his courtiers to be of very divided mind as to whether or not they were asked to accompany the king and his traveling court. All feared being left behind lest their enemies have an opportunity to undermine them to the king; and yet Henry had become such irascible company that few truly wished to be included when that vast cavalcade set off for this or that royal destination.

  Long gone were the days when the king could hunt for hours on end and tire out a half dozen horses; any hunting he did now was from a raised platform, where the deer were herded into an enclosed area for the sport of the court. Henry secretly despised such devices, but it was the only way for him now. And the court must eat, after all.

  Another sport which the king enjoyed immensely, and which he was still able to indulge in to his heart’s content, was hawking. And so on this frosty morning with spring seemingly still very far away, even though the lengthening days told that it was near, Henry’s hawk-master trundled along behind him and the Duchess of Suffolk. The king’s Gyr Falcons, hooded and jessed, sat atop their perches on the wooden platform on which they travelled on a sturdy wooden cart. And behind the king’s birds another cart carried the Duchess of Suffolk’s Merlins.

  Lady Catherine, the Duchess of Suffolk, rode along beside the king as she had been doing since the duke’s death the year before. Henry was an attentive suitor when he was smitten; in a dazzling show of foresight he had ordered white fox fur from his friend, the king of Denmark, just after Brandon’s death. It had taken four months for the pelts to arrive, and a further two for the exquisite hooded cape that Henry had ordered for Lady Catherine to be fashioned to his satisfaction. He had presented his gift to the duchess that very morning to celebrate the anniversary of her birth. The hawking expedition had been planned the day before, by a knowing king, so that Lady Catherine would be able to show off this treasure.

  The day was overcast and very cold, but no rain or snow threatened. There were traces still of a previous snowfall; perfect, thought Henry. The sky was white, the landscape was white, and the duchess, in her white fur robes, was a stunning picture of white on her white horse. Her skin was pale, but not with the death-like pallor of Jane Seymour (he could own this imperfection now that Jane was so long gone); Lady Catherine’s skin was the color of new cream, just blushed with the pink that the cold temperature caused. Her hood was thrown back and her raven’s wing hair blew softly behind her in the intermittent breeze. When she turned to look a
t him, he was startled anew by her magnificent eyes. At times they were a startling blue, but today, in the close, uncertain light, they seemed violet, as violet as the lilacs of spring.

  She smiled; her lips were naturally red, and to prevent them from chapping in the cold, she had dabbed them with goose grease scented with lavender oil. Her eyes were fringed with the longest, blackest lashes that he had ever seen. Brandon had indeed been a lucky man. Lavender had been his first Anne’s scent; until now, he had been unable to abide it. But on Lady Catherine, it was the scent of a goddess.

  “Shall we let fly, Your Grace?” she asked. Henry was so fascinated by her beauty and her deep, velvety voice that for a moment he did not think to answer her.

  Then the king smiled back. “Of a certainty,” he replied. “But from the top of the hill!” With that he spurred his bay, usually a calm gelding but still spirited enough when called upon. With that, he raced to crest the hill.

  Lady Catherine’s mare was in season and restive; a good gallop was exactly what she needed to cool her hot blood. The duchess’s laughter carried on the wind as the mare jolted into action, chasing the king’s horse up the rise.

  When they reached the top, Lady Catherine patted her mare’s neck. “Ah, there’s none that can touch her!” she cried breathlessly.

  Henry regarded Lady Catherine with hooded eyes. “Aye,” he agreed. Their eyes met. Just then the tinkling sound of the bells each of the birds of prey wore around their neck caught their attention. The king’s hawk-master and the duchess’s falconer were making their way up the hill.

  “Master Cheseman,” bellowed the king. “Are the birds’ chaps snugged as I recommended?”

  “Aye, that they are, Your Grace,” replied Master Cheseman, the king’s head hawksman. Just to be certain he gave each of the leather thongs holding the chaps in place a tug. The king’s falcons hunted rodents; usually rabbit or squirrels. When trapped and frightened and fighting for their very lives, their teeth could bite through a bird’s legs.