Courtenay looked about the table at the men there. He knew none of them well, but in the short time since his release from captivity he had made it his business to know Sir Peter Carew. Carew was MP for Devon, and would be instrumental in raising his earldom. He meant to use them all to gain the throne, which was rightfully his; he was Plantagenet and the Tudors, all of them, were usurpers. If he had to marry one to give his rule legitimacy then so be it. Despite the embarrassment that the queen’s refusal of his suit had caused him, he was glad he would not have to marry her. The hag! She was almost old enough to be his mother. Who was she to say him nay? Anyway, he much preferred the more delectable Elizabeth, only just turned twenty.
Courtenay leaned forward and said, “Sir Peter and I shall raise Devon.”
Carew nodded his agreement. “Aye, and I have been mooting the issue with the French ambassador. Noailles is keen to help us. He despises the Spaniard as we do, and wants not to see him on the throne of England. King Henri has committed to having a French fleet in the Channel to prevent any assistance from the Empire thwarting our plan.”
Wyatt regarded Sir Peter assessingly. Carew had spent much of his youth in France and had many friends there; by virtue of that he was much Frenchified and felt as that country did about the certain disadvantages to France of an England in unholy league with the Holy Roman Empire. He was a great asset to their cause, and could be trusted to deliver on his commitments.
“And I,” said Sir James Crofts, “shall raise both Hertfordshire and the Welsh Marches.”
Wyatt nodded his satisfaction. “Thus completing the circle. We shall have London surrounded, we will have thousands of men at our command; we cannot fail. But what of the queen herself?”
Although to a man they were agreed that the main purpose of their conspiracy was to prevent the Spanish marriage, the aftermath of their success was much less defined.
Mary had been right when she said that Courtenay possessed no social graces; his formative years had been spent amongst coarse guards and he had had little guidance beyond the attentions of a priest and a grudging tutor to shape his personality. He had no subtlety and came to the point of most debates with alarming frankness. “She must be executed, of course,” he said. “She cannot be allowed to live. It would be too dangerous. No sooner would we have succeeded than the Catholic faction would rise on the heels of our rebellion and the tables could very well turn again.”
This blunt declaration made the others decidedly uneasy. The room was silent for several moments and then Sir James shifted in his seat. “We must see which way the cat jumps at the moment when such a decision must be made,” he said. “It might not be prudent to plan in overmuch detail. We shall have enough to see to as it is.”
Suffolk said nothing; even he could see that Edward Courtenay as king was a bleak prospect. The earl and Sir Peter were needed to raise the Southwest, but he would never support the earl of Devon as king. Jane had been, in her brief tenure, an effective monarch; had she been allowed to continue she would have made a good queen. And with himself and Frances to guide her, to what heights could not England rise? It was wise, however, to remain silent on the subject.
Wyatt felt the coldness he had experienced earlier in his stomach creep through his bowels. It was interesting that he was impervious to cold on the outside, but that this treasonous plotting made his whole inside feel like a winter’s day. But as bad as that was, the idea that internecine bickering amongst the conspirators about outcomes might upset his plans made him burn with an anger that overcame his internal turmoil. They must remain united in their goal of taking whatever steps were needed to stop the Spanish marriage. It astonished him to realize that he had little interest in anything beyond that. Let them fight it out later, after they had accomplished their primary purpose. He must find a way to distract them.
Wyatt chugged the wine in his cup and placed it back onto the table with a thud. “I am suddenly reminded,” he said laughingly, “that Devonshire, Sir Peter, has forestalled us in our effort to league with the French. I heard that the mayor of Plymouth, in his fear of the Spaniard, applied directly to the French king, asking His Grace to take the town under his protection!”
Carew laughed and said, “Aye, it is true! I would not give a groat for his neck when the queen finds out!”
Courtenay, now very drunk and easily distracted, laughed and said, “Her Grace has her hands too full in London to worry about one distant town. Did you hear that someone hurled a tonsured dog into the queen’s chamber as she dined?”
Suffolk slapped his knee in his mirth and said, “Aye, at least the poor beast was dead! And did you hear that a cat, hung dead from a tree, was found at St. Paul’s cross, dressed in priestly garb, and with a communion wafer clutched between its paws, which had been tied fast as if in prayer?”
Soon the room was aloud with laughter. That was good, thought Wyatt. It would not do to think too much about what they were about to do; the important thing was simply to do it.
Chapter 38
“A woman is never feared or respected as a man is, whatever her rank.”
– Mary of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands
Richmond Palace, December 1553
Mary huddled as close to the fire as possible, but there seemed to be no remedy for the bone-chilling cold that December. She drew the fur cape more closely about her shoulders and blew on her fingers; it was so cold in the room, despite the fire heaped on the hearth, that her breath made white clouds that lingered on the air before dissipating. She ran her hand over the smooth fur of the cape; it had been her mother’s, left to her in Katharine of Aragon’s will. But her father had not allowed it to be sent to her and she had come into it only recently, when Susan Clarencius had been looking for some other garment, and had happened upon it, in a trunk long stored away.
She longed to rise and mull some wine; that would warm her from the inside out. But it was too cold to even think about getting up from her chair, where at least some warmth had been stored by sitting in one place for so long. She could have rung for one of her ladies to come and mull the wine for her, but private moments were all too rare, and she wanted to savor alone the reading of the document that lay in her lap.
For at last she held in her hands the final draft of the marriage treaty between herself, Queen Mary of England, and Prince Philip of Spain. It was this document that would ensure not only her own personal happiness, but also the Catholic faith in England. For once it was finalized and ratified, there would be nothing to stop Philip’s departure from Spain. They would be married as soon as he arrived in England, and God willing, she would be with child before the snowdrops bloomed. Her stomach gave a pleasant little flip at the thought. She was all at once eager and fearful at the same time. What would her cousin think of her? Could he love her? Would he grow to love England, and the English people? She lifted her eyes and gazed at Philip’s portrait. Only time would tell.
But of more immediate concern was the help that he would lend to her burden of rule. Renard kept warning her that she had three great enemies of which she must be mindful, and for which it was vital that remedies must be planned and developed. These were the king of France; the heretics; and her sister, the Princess Elizabeth.
Henri of France would always be a thorn in her side; how could it be otherwise? The two countries were ancient enemies and always would be. She had written to Henri upon her accession to assure him of her good faith; he was mightily perturbed by her choice of husband. But what could he expect? She was related by blood to the emperor and an alliance between them was a foregone conclusion. Making war over it would be a waste of everyone’s time and resources. The best that could be hoped for was an uneasy peace. She had written as much to the French king, her tongue firmly embedded in her cheek, diplomatically averring the hope that her match with Philip of Spain should not alter the cordial relations between their two countries.
As for the heretics and schismatics, she had definite plans f
or bringing the English church back to the salvation of Rome. She had come very far very fast, even though she would like to have come further. There was still a great need for caution; there had been much disquiet and even some violent reactions to the changes she had made thus far. Still, progress was being made. The recent acts passed by Parliament included those which now made the practice of any religious service save the Mass illegal; all religious services were to be conducted as they had been in her father’s time. Cranmer’s heretical Book of Common Prayer was now outlawed. Next she would address the problem of married priests. At least her odious title of Supreme Head of the Church of England was being put to good use! Little by little, she would persevere, until everything was the way it had been before Anne Boleyn had come along to start the mighty juggernaut of her father’s great lust in motion. It was the most unfortunate of coincidences that Martin Luther had nailed his ninety-five theses to the door of the church in Wurttemberg at a most inauspicious moment in time; the twin events of the budding Reformation and Anne’s arrival back in England from the court of France had happened under a most evil star.
Thoughts of Anne inevitably conjured up thoughts of Elizabeth. She was still torn on the subject of her sister; part of her remembered and still loved the child she had practically raised. She was old enough to have been both Elizabeth’s and Edward’s mother, after all; there were seventeen years between her and Elizabeth.
What had happened, she wondered, to the sweet, clever child of whom she had been so fond? Is this what motherhood was like, then? That one nurtured so lovingly and reared so carefully, only to have the object of one’s devotion grow into a person whom one could neither like nor approve of? Things had come to such a pass that she could no longer abide her sister’s company. She shrugged the thought aside impatiently, but one thing was certain: come what may, Elizabeth must never sit on the throne of England. Even if she could be turned from her heretical nature, Anne Boleyn’s daughter must never wear the crown. She told herself she need not worry; it would never happen. Did she not hold in her hand at that very moment the instrument for the undoing of what she knew must be her sister’s ambitions?
Even so, she was seriously considering naming her cousin Margaret as Heir Presumptive. Why not? Parliament could easily amend the Act of Succession; heaven knew it had been done numerous times before! It would only be an interim measure in any case; at least such was her fervent hope. So why not, indeed? Her brother had played fast and loose with the succession, attempting to trample upon her own rights. Why should she not do the same?
Elizabeth had recently requested leave to come to court; leave which she had reluctantly granted. It was December and the Christmas season was almost upon them; something in her rebelled at the thought of having to share her first Christmas court as queen with Elizabeth. She had not forgotten Elizabeth’s bold forestalling of her own triumphal entry into London; she had no desire to be upstaged a second time. But hard on that thought had come the overwhelming feelings of guilt that moved her to grant Elizabeth’s request. Things must be dull for her vivacious sister at distant Ashridge.
But then a curious thing happened. Elizabeth had requested an audience the moment she arrived and instead of prattling on about the anticipated delights of the season to come and the entertainments soon to be enjoyed, she had put on a most serious countenance and begged for religious instruction. Mary had at first been taken aback; she wanted very much to believe that Elizabeth had had a change of heart, if only for the good of her sister’s soul. But although she herself could not conceive of lying about her faith, she did know what it was to lie to protect oneself; she suspected Elizabeth of doing the same.
But the salvation of Elizabeth’s soul aside, the thought of her sister as queen still had the power to upset her greatly. She just could not stomach the idea of Anne Boleyn’s daughter on the throne of England. Anne had been a born troublemaker and Elizabeth was just like her. During her sister’s recent visit to court, Elizabeth had been expected to attend Mass. Indeed, how could she refuse, after stating that the sole purpose of her visit was to ask for religious instruction? But every time the call came, Elizabeth pled indisposition. She could only do that so many times and remain plausible, so when she finally did come to Mass, she complained loudly of stomach ache. Elizabeth made quite a fuss until either Susan or Frideswide escorted her from the chapel, most suspiciously always before the Host was raised, to consult one of the court physicians. There she would be bled and then the same thing would happen all over again.
And then something passing strange had occurred. One night on the way to Vespers, Mary and her ladies, with Elizabeth in tow, had been about to enter the chapel when a loud shout of ‘Treason!’ was heard ringing down the corridor. Mary had been the object of several death threats since ascending the throne, but she knew that most of them were just that…threats, no more. And one must set an example; one was in God’s hands. So she had simply ignored the shout and proceeded on to Mass. But Elizabeth’s reaction was startling. She stood frozen in her tracks, trembling violently, unable to move or speak. She had blanched white and it was a wonder, said Frideswide, who had been walking beside her, that the princess had not swooned. Renard had been particularly puzzled by this reaction, and thought it must be the result of a guilty conscience. What was her sister plotting, he asked, and how long would Her Grace continue to doubt that such was the case? But Mary remembered the days when she had been threatened by her own brother and his minions with the Tower, or worse, and took pity on Elizabeth.
Just after that, Elizabeth had once again begged a private audience. She granted it; but Mary thought it peculiar that her sister had entreated her most earnestly in that interview that she should listen to no gossip where she was concerned. Mayhap the girl was right; consider what the ‘Treason!’ episode had resulted in! Groundless accusations! It was later discovered that the shout had been meant for the Lord Chancellor, and was leveled at him by a man whom he had testified against in court. Yes, she knew what it was like to be suspected for no cause, and threatened with imprisonment or even with death. She gave Elizabeth her word never to condemn her without a private hearing; and she swore to herself that she would continue to give her sister the benefit of the doubt despite Renard’s insinuations and accusations.
Still, she found it decidedly odd that Elizabeth did not want to spend Christmas at court; and this, after just suspecting her sister of coming to town only to put her in the shade again during the revels! It made Mary think that perhaps her sister was sincere after all. But she was at last convinced of it when Elizabeth’s final request before departing back to Ashridge had been that Mary should send along, with all speed, the gear necessary to consecrate a proper chapel at Ashridge, that she might take better advantage of her religious instruction.
But all in all, Mary had felt little save a profound relief at knowing that she would be seeing the back of her sister before the celebration of the Twelve Days of Christmas began. That feeling had produced in her such a fit of guilty conscience that she had pressed Elizabeth’s New Year’s gifts upon her before she left; she and her sister shared an inordinate love of finery, and Mary sent Elizabeth off with two long ropes of exquisite pearls, a magnificent rosary, and a sumptuous sable hood.
But it still nagged at her that Elizabeth, who thrived on entertainments and the adoration of others, had not wanted to stay at court for the revels. It was so out of character. So why? Perhaps the answer was that it was simple jealousy on Elizabeth’s part; because despite the fact that she was Heir Presumptive, she was still illegitimate… the recent Act of Restitution had confirmed this…and for that reason, both Margaret and Frances took precedence over her sister at court. Having been subjected to the same indignity herself at her father’s court, she knew how galling that could be.
Suddenly Mary became aware of the cold again. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she had almost let the fire die. There was nothing for it; she must rise, stoke the embe
rs, and throw on more logs. She laid aside the precious scroll that was her marriage contract. She seized the poker and jabbed at the glowing embers. When they began to show signs of life, she lifted several small logs from the basket; they smelt of apples. For all she was a duchess and had been, briefly, a queen, Anne of Cleves was a thrifty housekeeper; when the vast apple orchards that she owned in Kent were culled, the wood was carefully cut into kindling and logs, and dried. The wood was then delivered to all of Anne’s residences where it burned merrily on her hearths. The happy result was that as the fire now rekindled and the warming flames leapt up, a most pleasant scent of apples filled the room.
As soon as the fire was hot again, Mary thrust her mulling poker into the flames until it glowed red, and then she mulled her wine. She settled back into her chair and pulled her fur cape close. She held the hot cup and sipped from it until she felt warm, and then laid the cup aside. She picked up the marriage treaty once again and ran her hand lovingly over the smooth parchment. Her fingers were poised to pluck the riband that held fast the scroll when a faint knock sounded upon the door.
# # #
Of all the places in which Renard must consult with the queen, her privy chamber was his least favorite. Regardless of the venue, castle or palace, hunting lodge or manor house, these rooms were always very small and cozy. Indeed, that was their purpose; apart from her private chapel, the Queen’s Closet, as these chambers were called, was the only place where the queen could be alone if she so desired. And today a retreat to such a place made sense; it was so cold that the Thames had frozen over, and the only place one could even hope to heat on such a day was the smallest of rooms. He was certainly not loath to huddling close to the hearth, but that meant that he must also be in very close proximity to the queen. He dreaded that hand reaching out and touching his, which it was almost certain to do, probably several times before this interview was over. The news that he had to impart was bad, and the queen would expect to be comforted.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 40
