The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  When Her Grace offered to mull some wine for him, he did not demur; anything to delay the inevitable moment. For he now had the odious duty of informing this pathetic virgin that her marriage to Philip of Spain was not to be. For a fleeting moment, he was almost glad. Let someone else’s hopes be shattered besides his own! The entire Imperial delegation had been allowed to depart in October; Sheyfve had left a month before and gone home to Brussels. But the emperor had told Renard in no uncertain terms that he must remain at the English court until further notice. He had written posthaste to the emperor, reminding him that he was a special envoy, not a permanent ambassador, and that his commission was to have been temporary, only a few weeks at the most; he had now been in London for six months. He had therefore not put his affairs in order before embarking for England, and he sorely needed to get back to Brussels.

  The emperor’s reply had come in the form of his permanent appointment as Imperial ambassador to the court of Queen Mary of England. Any other man would have been rejoicing, but not Renard; he just wanted to go home. He had had enough of Her Grace, Her Grace’s Council, Her Grace’s people, and Her Grace’s country. It was so unfair!

  And then suddenly he was assailed by an overwhelming feeling of remorse. None of this was the queen’s fault, after all. And although privately, in his heart of hearts, he had always held her in great contempt, he had of late begun to alter that opinion somewhat. First, there was her extraordinary and most laudable characteristic of being able to truly forgive those who had wronged her. It was an ability which he lacked entirely, and this profound self-knowledge had allowed him to come to greatly admire this capacity in the queen. And second, he could not help but approve of her recent tough stance with the Parliament and her Council. She had managed them masterfully, and even though her clemency was sometimes misplaced, Her Grace evidently knew when to lift her hand and say, “No more!”

  He lifted his eyes, which had been trained on the contents of his mug of wine, and regarded the queen. She was looking at him expectantly. He was always more than welcome into her presence, because she viewed him as her cousin Charles in proxy form; indeed, she had an embarrassing habit of treating him almost as if he were family. But he recognized these ruminations for what they were; he was simply prolonging the agony. He could delay no more. The best way was the swift cut.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “It is my sad duty to inform you that there can now no longer be a possibility of marriage between your gracious self and the prince.”

  The scroll, which Mary had been clutching in her hand, dropped to the floor. Grateful for even a second’s respite from deeper explanation, he bent to retrieve it. He recognized the document and despite himself, his heart went out to her.

  But perhaps he had misjudged the situation, or mayhap misjudged her; he had expected tears and hysterics, but instead she simply stared at him. Her face had gone deathly pale and her pupils widened until her eyes looked almost black, but otherwise, the dropping of the scroll was the only indication she gave that she had even heard him.

  And when she found her tongue, she surprised him again; he had not expected anger. “Why the devil not?” she barked.

  He must explain, but as he gathered his thoughts, part of his mind remarked to himself that far from leaning forward and reaching out to touch him, she had shrunk back as far as she could in her chair, as if he were a leper and she wished to avoid proximity.

  But there was no sense in mincing words. “It has been postulated by the King of Portugal that the prince is pre-contracted to his sister, the Portuguese Infanta.” He noticed that Mary’s eyes had reversed themselves and now her pupils were mere pinpoints. Diplomatically speaking, her physical reactions, which she could not control and likely was not even aware of, gave her away despite her restrained demeanor. She would always be an open book to someone skilled enough to read such signs.

  Suddenly she leapt from her chair, seized the poker, and stabbed relentlessly at the logs on the hearth. The speed of her movement from sitting to standing startled him and the violence with which she wielded the poker was frightening. It was his turn to shrink back into his chair. He had heard all about the Tudor temper, and although he knew of instances where Mary had certainly displayed it, he had never seen it himself; and certainly he had never yet been the object of her wrath. And the room was so small…

  But when she turned, she seemed calm; she replaced the poker with a steady hand and the fire was the better for her ministrations.

  “I have received from the pope the dispensation for my marriage,” she said. “Surely the Holy Father would not have provided such a thing had he known that there was a pre-contract?” Renard made to reply but the queen continued. “Your Excellency,” she said, leaning down to press her hand atop his own, “think! If there had been an agreement of marriage between Her Grace of Portugal and Prince Philip, they, too, would have had to apply for a dispensation. We are all related within the fourth degree, after all. I do not think His Holiness is yet in his dotage, but even if he were, certainly his staff would have known to point out such a thing to him.”

  If his pet monkey had suddenly turned and spoken to him, he could not have been more surprised. Had she been born a man and not a princess, she would have made an excellent lawyer. Such logic, and all on the spur of the moment! Once again, her stock with him rose.

  “I do not believe that this pre-contract exists,” said Mary. “What I do believe is that my cousin of Portugal sees the great wealth of the New World pouring in to the Empire, and is sorely disappointed that it is to be mine instead of hers. Have you told anyone of this?”

  Astounded anew at her calm, Renard shook his head. To answer non-verbally when spoken to by a monarch was completely unacceptable; but Mary seemed not to notice, and kept pacing the small room, which was no more than five of her short strides in any direction.

  “Tell no one of this,” she said. “Until we have had time to discover if this news is, indeed, true, and if it is, if it is enforceable. I do not believe that God would have inspired me to accept the suit of the prince if the marriage was not meant to be; nor do I believe that my cousin, the emperor, would have held out such a possibility to me if he truly believed that Philip’s hand was not available. We must write to the emperor and to His Holiness at once. You will do that for me?”

  Again Renard nodded. He was still at a loss for words, and his throat had gone dry. He lifted his mug of wine, now tepid, and gulped the remainder.

  Mary’s pacing landed her once again beside her chair. She lifted the scroll and clutched it to her bosom. No, she decided, this news was not a setback, it was merely God, or mayhap the Devil! …testing her resolve. Forsooth, whoever it was, He would not find her lacking! She would not give up Philip without a fight.

  Palace of Westminster, January 1554

  The room was silent and no one moved, or even breathed, as Mary, with a slight incline of her head, took the scrolled document into her hands from Renard, who represented the Imperial and Spanish delegation ranged behind him. Calmly, with no hint of the great excitement welling up inside of her, Mary tucked the scroll under her arm and then made to remove her gloves. Everything about Mary’s person was always very fine, she decked herself out every day like a Turk, but still Renard noticed her gloves. They were exquisite; they were made of leather of the purest white, with flowers embroidered on the backs in golden and silken threads. She laid the gloves aside, unrolled the scroll, and holding it full open, began to read it through.

  Renard stifled his impatience; how many times was Her Grace going to read it before signing it, he wondered? Still, he understood. Mary had been devastated at the thought that the marriage with her cousin might not take place, after so much time had already been spent trying to effect the marriage treaty. To start all over again now, with a different bridegroom…she would be thirty-eight that year, and there was no more time to waste if she were to produce a legitimate, Catholic heir for England. And he might be wrong, but he
believed that Mary, for some reason unknown to him, had formed an affectionate attachment to Prince Philip far out of proportion to the circumstances. This was, after all, an arranged marriage. But ever since His Grace’s portrait had arrived, Mary had spent hours with it in her privy chamber, talking to it, and caressing it. He had spies amongst her women who were perfectly willing to divulge such things if he made it worth their while. It had been hard to find such people; almost all of Her Grace’s servants had been with her since she was a child and were loyal to a fault.

  He searched the queen’s face and thought he detected a slight smile; just a small, almost imperceptible curling of the lips. And well might she be smug! He had done as she commanded him and sent fast couriers to both the emperor and the pope. The replies had come back just as swiftly, and were exactly what Mary wished to hear; yes, the emperor had been in negotiations on behalf of his son for the hand of the Portuguese infanta, but when the news had reached Charles that Mary had won through and was now queen, he had immediately ceased his suit. No agreement had ever been reached, and there was no pre-contract.

  Mary had been in ecstasies when she heard the news, but hard on that had come a seething anger about how such a rumor had started in the first place. It did not take Renard long to discover the source; it was Noailles, the French ambassador, who had been seeking ways to prevent the Spanish marriage and the Imperial alliance that was its corollary.

  But there had been quite a bit of collateral damage done; when the rumor of the pre-contract with Portugal had reached the ears of the English people, they had gone mad with joy that there was to be no Spaniard coming to their shores, a situation which they had greatly feared. The whole thing had been blown out of all proportion, and Mary had been angry and depressed at the people’s jubilation. They had openly rejoiced, and broadsheets announcing the marriage of Philip of Spain with Isabella of Portugal had been plastered to walls and doors throughout the city. Forsooth, did they not realize how important this marriage was, not only to herself, but for England? For days she had alternated between tearful melancholy and dreadful anger; she fretted and fumed; and then finally the first messenger had come back from the Imperial court at Brussels, with assurances from the emperor himself that the whole thing was a lie promulgated by the French to wreck the marriage and the alliance.

  Mary had gone from the depths of depression to an almost manic elation; so it was neither God nor Satan who had been testing her, but the French ambassador! Would that she could visit her wrath upon Noailles, but diplomatically speaking, consequences were not possible; the best, the only thing to do, was to ignore the whole ugly episode and move forward.

  Paget had never believed the rumor; although he knew what was being said, he had presented the queen with the final draft of the marriage treaty anyway, just hours before Her Grace had been told the news of the pre-contract, certain in himself that the rumor would eventually prove false. And he had been right!

  He knew that the queen disliked him, but that was by-the-by; whether she liked him or not, she still respected his undoubted skills as a statesman and his ability to negotiate a marriage treaty that would be to England’s advantage. And he had succeeded beyond all expectations. Had it not been for the rumor of the pre-contract, if the people had first been made privy to the terms of the agreement that he had negotiated, they would have been not only pleased but astounded. No one, if they understood the document that the queen herself was now gloating over, could possibly object to this agreement.

  He had started his negotiation from the position that strong safeguards were needed to protect the queen, the country, and the English people. It was customary for a woman’s property, titles and income to pass to her husband’s authority upon marriage; this was impossible in Mary’s case. The Imperial delegation understood this and was prepared for all manner of objections. Their mandate from the emperor was to agree with everything; they could always demur on certain points later. The result was a contract skewed decidedly in England’s favor. If Mary produced an heir, he would eventually rule both England and the Netherlands, an inestimable boon to the flourishing and symbiotic trade between the two countries. England produced wool, exported it to the Low Countries where the weavers’ looms were kept busy, and the resulting cloth sold back to England. What could be more advantageous to either country than joint rule?

  On the other hand, upon Philip’s death, Spain was to be ruled by Philip’s current son and heir, Don Carlos, independently of England, and Mary was to enjoy a generous widow’s pension. Should Mary die first, Philip would have no claim to England. No Spaniards were to hold office of any kind in England. England was to be called upon to support no Hapsburg conflicts, especially those with France. Should the queen die childless, Philip and the Holy Roman Empire would have no further connection to, or claims upon, England.

  After all was said and done, the marriage contract identified Philip as no more than Mary’s consort; he could advise, but not mandate. He would have responsibility but no power. Certainly his offspring would benefit from the marriage and the alliance, but he would not. As king consort, he would be, legally, a subject like any other, only he would enjoy certain privileges as the husband of the queen. In fact, he would be little more than…it could be thought if not said…the male equivalent of a brood mare.

  Still, there were advantages to the Empire; for instance, even if Mary’s son eventually ruled both England and the Netherlands, England would become what most people who objected to the marriage feared; a mere satellite of the Holy Roman Empire, in fact if not in name. And the marriage would provide an excellent counter-balance to the anticipated marriage between the little queen of Scotland and the French dauphin.

  Renard stood impatiently waiting for the queen to finish reading the document. She would sign it; there was no doubt of that. But he would rest easier when the document had been signed, sealed, placed into the diplomatic pouch and was on its way to Brussels and the emperor. Because until the document was signed and sealed there was always the possibility that one small detail might be discovered, and if it were, the entire house of cards might collapse. In the flurry to get the document drafted, approved, signed by the emperor and back to England, Mary and her Council had not noticed one small omission. There was no explicit mention of what would happen if Mary died leaving a minor heir to the throne of England. Renard knew that in the emperor’s opinion, this was not only possible but likely considering the queen’s age and the state of her health. He had instructed the Imperial delegation to make no mention of this eventuality unless the English brought it up; they had not. Without a clause specifically addressing this state of affairs, the law would devolve onto Philip as the legal guardian of his own issue, thereby making him, for all intents and purposes, the king of England until the heir came of age. And if the heir should be female, then a swift marriage alliance with a Hapsburg cousin would seal England’s fate.

  Mary closed the scroll and handed it to Bishop Gardiner, who laid it out on the table and weighted its corners down. Paget nervously fumbled with the inkpot and the quill. As her ministers performed these tasks she fingered the new bauble that hung about her neck. It was an enormous diamond, pear-shaped, almost as big as a plover’s egg. She had had her jeweler drill a hole in the small end and place a golden ring through it; through this she had threaded a golden chain. She had worn it every day since, and it was now her favorite jewel. Charles had sent it to her by way of apology for the anguish that he knew that the misunderstanding over the Portuguese marriage must have caused her. It had arrived along with the signed marriage contract, and that had been a very good day for her. The only way her happiness could have been more complete would have been if the jewel had been sent to her by Philip instead of Charles. She longed to be able to write to Philip now that their marriage was all but finalized, but etiquette demanded that it was for the man to begin such a correspondence. And so far, she had heard nothing, all this time, nothing at all, from Philip himself. Even his
portrait had been sent to her by Charles.

  The men in the room were all regarding her with varied expressions, far too many to read accurately. But Renard’s expression was one of impatience, rare for he who cloaked his emotions so well. Ah, well, she thought, he has a master to please, after all. She lifted the quill, inked it, and for a few moments the only sound in the room was that of the nib of the quill scratching across the parchment.

  Paget looked very pleased with himself as he gathered up the document and handed it to the Lord Privy Seal; the earl of Bedford sealed the document and presented it on behalf of the queen to Renard. All that was left to do now, thought Paget, was to announce the fact to the people of England. They would be disappointed, and he wondered what their reaction would be.

  Royal Manor of Sheen, Richmond, January 1554

  The freezing weather had persisted throughout the Christmas and New Year celebrations, and showed no signs of abating. Wood and coals had become very scarce; the queen had arranged, at her own expense, for sea-coals to be brought down from Newcastle by ship to the dock at Queenhithe, free to all comers. But still every morning on the streets of London there was a new crop of bodies, poor unfortunates who had frozen to death in the night.

  It was just such a freezing cold, dark night through which Sir Thomas Wyatt rode for Sheen. There was not a moment to lose; he must confer with at least one other of the conspirators before raising his army. It was not the best time of year to begin a campaign, but there was nothing for it; never had the people been more ripe for insurrection than they were at this moment. The Spanish marriage loomed; the populace was once again at a fever pitch of fear, not the least because they had thought themselves reprieved. They had gone to sleep one night secure in the knowledge that there would be no Spanish marriage, only to awaken to find that the queen had ratified the marriage treaty with Philip of Spain. Now they faced again the fact that His Grace would shortly be sailing for England with a host of Spanish grandees and conquistadores to claim his bride.