It was one week to the day since Latimer and Ridley had been burnt at the stake in the town ditch at Oxford. And he had been forced to watch the hideous event. Thank God, Hugh Latimer had died quickly, but Ridley…even now a shudder passed through him that shook him to his very bones.
“You are cold, Eminence,” said Father Richard. “I will stoke your fire.”
At the mention of fire, Cranmer shuddered again. He had become frightened of the very thought of fire since watching his friends burn to death. Ridley’s death had been slow and torturous; it had taken him forty-five minutes to slowly cook to death. He felt certain in himself that if the queen or the cardinal had been compelled to witness such a dreadful thing, the burnings would have been stopped immediately.
Still, he thought he knew why the queen, or perhaps it had been Cardinal Pole, had ordered that he be made to witness his friends die such a terrible death; they thought that if he saw how horrible it was to burn that he would recant his faith, his life’s work, to save his body, and thereby condemn his soul to Hell, where he would burn not just for a few moments, but for all eternity.
He sighed. They were right. He had, after the ordeal, been taken back to his rooms at the Deanery. There he had shivered for hours, reluctant to light a fire even in his grate to stay warm. But as the day waned and darkness closed in, he found that he was disquieted by the gloom, and so he lit a candle. Now, a candle is usually a comforting thing, symbolic of the light of Christ; but he had shrunk from its flame even as he rejoiced in the light it provided to dispel the gloaming. After a while he was inexplicably drawn to the flame, and sat down beside the table where the candle was, its flame tall, straight and unmoving in the stillness. What was fire, after all? It was a mystery, certainly. Where did it come from? Where did it go when one blew out the candle? As he sat studying the enigma of the flame he became curious about it. Tentatively, he held out his right hand. Could he bear for the flame to touch him even for a single moment? He held his hand over the fire and tried, he really tried, to keep it there; but he found that he could not. Merciful Christ, he wondered, how had Good Nicholas borne it for forty-five minutes? The pain must have been beyond endurance. And poor Nicholas had not had the luxury of choice.
It was then that he knew that he could never endure the stake, not even to demonstrate his solidarity with all those poor souls who had already been burnt in the name of Reform. He was ashamed, nay, mortified that he could not face death as so many others had done, for what they believed to be right. It was humiliating to realize that he was about to deny all that he believed in and held sacred. But at that moment, in his heart, he knew that he could not face that wooden stake in the town ditch.
“There now,” said Father Richard, as he arose from the hearth and replaced the poker. “You will be warm now, Your Eminence.” As he spoke he lighted several candles; three in a candelabrum on the sideboard, one in a sconce by the door, and one at the archbishop’s bedside.
Cranmer sat up in the bed and regarded all this fire flickering about him. “Thank you, Richard,” he said. “I can manage from here.”
Father Richard took his own candle and departed the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Cranmer arose and walked to the sideboard. He stood staring at the three candles in the silver candelabrum. After a few moments, he gripped its stem and walked with it to his writing desk. With that same right hand, the one that he could not bear to hold in the fire for even a few seconds, he began to compose his recantation.
Greenwich Palace, November 1555
It was late when Mary returned at last to her apartments. After a day spent with other people, she felt an overwhelming desire to be alone, and so had dismissed all her ladies. She removed the heavy black headdress herself and laid it aside. She walked to the sideboard and her hand was on the handle of the flagon when she remembered her vow; not another drop of wine until Reform was utterly defeated in England. Still, it was with no little regret that she backed away. Good! Such acute awareness of sacrifice was the point.
She was bone weary; on this day she had served as chief mourner at the funeral of Bishop Stephen Gardiner. He had been ill for some time, but she still could not believe that he was actually gone. He had been a fixture in English politics through three reigns. She found his death strangely upsetting; it was as if the old guard was suddenly disappearing before her very eyes.
She had felt the same odd disquiet when the old Duke of Norfolk passed away in August. Thomas Howard had reached a great age; he was over eighty when he finally gave up the ghost. She still remembered the day at New Hall over twenty years before when he had strode in and declared that if she were his daughter and disobeyed him the way she was disobeying her father, he would have beaten her head against the wall until it was as soft as a baked apple. But she had not held that against him. He had supported her cause after she defeated Dudley and his rebels and gained her throne; Norfolk had always been a king’s man and was nothing if not a loyal royal servant.
Such thoughts brought Cranmer to mind; he had used the excuse of his conscience compelling him to recant that he might obey his queen, who for him, as a royal servant, represented divine authority. What tripe! She knew very well why Cranmer had recanted; he was a coward and he was afraid to die. It was as simple as that. Her cousin Reginald was overjoyed at Cranmer’s recantation; but she was not. Latimer and Ridley had played the men and burned for their beliefs; Cranmer was a gutless, spineless craven. But she had not given up. She would persist and he would die. She was, after all, the queen.
Despite her abject misery at the absence of her husband and her desolation at being left behind when he departed for Brussels, her days had taken on a decided pattern; she spent her mornings at prayer and the afternoons conducting business. Philip had expected Reginald to see to the business of government in his absence, but surely he must know by now that her cousin the cardinal was not suited to rule and that the secular responsibilities Philip had to left him were seen to mostly by herself. But regardless of how tired she was, she would end her day the way she ended all her days; by reading her personal correspondence and writing to her husband.
Tonight there was only one letter to be read, not from Philip; he was writing to her more and more seldom now, and the letters he did send were terse and apt to concern only matters of state.
She recognized the seal on this missive; it was that of Sir John Mason, her ambassador to the Imperial court. Why on earth was that considered personal, she wondered? She snapped the seal with a sigh and began to skim the letter. She froze; she went back to the beginning and read the letter more carefully. She thanked St. Michael and all his angels that Sir John had had the presence of mind to mark this one private! As she read, the tears welled up in her eyes and fell unheeded down her cheeks. This explained why she was hearing from Philip so infrequently.
It seemed that her husband was enjoying himself immensely at the court in Brussels. His exploits were beginning to arouse comment and Sir John felt that it was his duty to apprise the queen of her husband’s behavior before she learned of it from other sources. The king spent his evenings masquing, banqueting, and attending balls; he often stayed out all night and was too tired to conduct business the following day. He arose late and spent his days hunting and indulging in all manner of amusements.
Unfortunately, one of those amusements was named Madame d’Aler.
Mary closed her eyes and crushed the letter in her hands. If she was just now hearing of this, it had likely been going on long enough to attract attention. Everyone must know.
How could this be the same man who was so calm, so stoic, so taciturn? It was as if Philip’s very personality had changed once he departed England, that some other person buried deep within him had been unleashed.
Her heart was broken; she realized now that Philip had been misleading her with his empty promises of a speedy return. He had written in September to say that he would not be back in time to open Parliament, as he had
promised; that body was now proving most unruly without the king’s firm hand. Shortly after that, Philip had sent word that he wanted the rest of his Spanish household to be sent on to him in Brussels, ostensibly to replace all those who would depart with the emperor when he went back to Spain. But Mary now knew differently; Philip had no intention of returning to England. She wept bitterly as each ship sailed, but the English people openly rejoiced at the departure of the Spaniards. The final blow came when she was informed that Philip had sent a ship laden with ducats to settle his accounts in England. Never had anyone sent so clear a message that he had little thought of returning!
And now this! What was she like, this Madame d’Aler? She must know.
Mary strode to the door and called for a page. When a young boy appeared, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousled from sleep, she knew a pang. If only she had such a one to leave her crown to when she was gone! She pushed that thought aside; too painful.
“Fetch me the Imperial ambassador,” she said, and the boy took off running.
Mary sat beside the fire brooding while she awaited Renard’s arrival. Finally, the doors opened and he stood before her.
“Your Grace,” he said, with an elegant bow.
“I am sorry for disturbing you so late,” said Mary. She handed him Sir John’s letter. “Is this true?”
Renard’s dark eyes skimmed the page. There was no sense in lying; there was no room for diplomacy here. He raised his eyes to hers. “Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
Renard shrugged. “Not long. A few days.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears once again, but she was careful not to acknowledge them, and they did not fall. “And you thought to spare me?”
He nodded uncomfortably.
Mary smiled through her tears. “Thank you,” she said. When all was said and done, it was not Renard’s responsibility to inform her of such things; he had done right. But she could not help but wonder how much of his reticence was due to fear of her reaction. She sighed. She probably would have done no differently, had she been in his position.
Into the uncomfortable silence he said, “I have had a letter from His Grace.”
Mary looked up; the haunting pain in her eyes was unmistakable. Renard had received a letter from Philip, but she had none!
“Your Grace, I am recalled to Brussels.” The queen’s face remained expressionless; one could but admire…
“Are you?” she said. “I am glad for you.” She knew how much he wanted to go home.
“I thank Your Grace,” he said. “My wife has not been well of late.”
Now that she had a husband, her understanding of such things went much deeper. How would she have felt, if Philip were ill on some distant shore, and she not able to get to him…?
She leaned over and placed her hand atop Renard’s. “You were here with me through very dangerous times,” she said wearily. “You were indispensable throughout the negotiations for my marriage to His Grace, for which I thank you most heartily.” Even with things the way they were, she could not regret her marriage. “I have always been grateful for your great zeal in serving me and my crown, and ever shall be.”
For once, Renard did not recoil at the queen’s touch. Perhaps, he thought, it was because it was likely that this was the last time he would have to endure it; he knew not. But at that moment, he admired her greatly, and thought her the most steadfast of women. He placed his free hand atop hers, and said, “I thank Your Grace. It has been my honor to be of service to you.”
They both withdrew their hands and leaned back in their chairs. “When do you depart?” asked Mary.
“Within a fortnight, Your Grace, if it be your pleasure.”
Mary could sense his great desire to be gone. Going home to a beloved wife! At least let someone be happy! And although she was riddled with jealousy and curiosity about her rival, she found that she could not bring herself to ask Renard about Madame d’Aler. Let her preserve some semblance of royal dignity!
“Well,” she said, “I shall be sorry to see you go.” She must give him a parting gift worthy of his unceasing support of her cause. Perhaps a set of gold plate…she had so many. “It is late, Your Excellency. Go to your bed and may the angels give you good rest.”
Renard arose, bowed, and replied, “And you, Your Grace.” For the first and only time he kissed her hand with no hint of the repugnance he had always felt in the past when called upon to do so.
Hatfield Palace, December 1555
The sun was shining and the day was fine; how wonderful it was to be able to say to one’s self, “I shall do this”, or “I shall go there”, and have to ask no one’s permission! And not to have to endure the corollary to that indignity, being refused for no good reason! At last she was free to go where she would and to do what she would.
Elizabeth walked aimlessly about the knot garden, not because she had any special attachment to it, but simply because she could. It was December, and although they had been enjoying a spell of very fine weather, she knew that it would not last.
The garden was neatly clipped and all the weeds had been removed; Hatfield was her home and she would tolerate no sloppiness in it, even in the garden in the wintertime. She spied a splash of color and walked towards it. There, embedded within the tangle of a spent rosebush, the warmth of the sun had coaxed forth a bloom. It was stunted and had no scent, but she picked it anyway and twirled it by its stem as she walked along.
The garden was a great square with a stone seat at its center. But she had no wish to sit. Finally, bored with walking in circles, she walked east into the face of the sun and towards the great oak tree that sat atop the highest hill in the park. How welcome was her new-found freedom! She could walk at will with no one to dog her footsteps, or to tell her when she was too far from the house and must turn back.
That she owed this extraordinary liberty to her sister’s husband was a delicious irony that she never ceased to enjoy whenever she thought of it. She reveled in the fact that she was now under the ostensible protection of her brother-in-law. She was convinced in herself that he was in love with her. That any designs he might have on her person were primarily politically motivated went without saying; but she was convinced that there was more to it than that for Philip of Spain.
Mary had once loved her, of that she was certain. But despite that love, she was very much aware that her sister had always resented her. Or perhaps not so much herself as what she stood for. But all that was past and Elizabeth now knew with a deadly certainty that Mary hated her. Perhaps it was inevitable that she should do so. No matter. Her sister had proved herself barren, and her husband had left her. There would be no heir to the throne of England other than herself. All she had to do was to bide her time.
Oh, Mary had made a great show of saying a cordial farewell to her after magnanimously granting her request to leave court. Mary had showered her with gifts and made every show of sisterly affection. But Elizabeth knew this mummery for what it was. Mary wished to demonstrate to her husband that she would obey his command to be good to her sister. But she knew that Mary was every bit as glad to see her leave court as she was to be going.
Elizabeth was aware that her sister now spent her evenings weeping and wailing in her misery and desolation, and writing endless, fruitless letters to her indifferent husband. No man would ever treat her that way! If… when! …she ever came to the throne, she would never share her power with anyone. Or in her sister’s case, all but abdicate it! What on earth was her sister thinking, she wondered, to allow her husband to place an old cleric in charge of the country and the Council, whilst he went off whoring on the Continent? What was an anointed queen for, after all? No man would ever…
“How now, Your Grace!” cried a voice from behind her.
Elizabeth turned to see Sir William struggling up the hill. She stopped and stood, arms akimbo, with a lopsided smile on her face as she listened to him huff and puff to reach her side. When he was clos
e enough she replied, “Cecil! Is the day not fine?” She spread her arms and turned her face up to the blue sky.
“Indeed, it is,” he said. “May I walk with Your Grace?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth replied. It had been long since they had been able to resume her informal courses in statecraft. Sir William Cecil was one of the few people whom she was certain could be trusted absolutely; he had assiduously avoided ever working for her sister, and devoted his services entirely to herself. She was astute enough to realize why; and if …when! …she ever came to the throne, she would reward him accordingly for having staked his future on her.
He arrived at her side red-faced and out of breath. Poor old man! “Let us sit under the tree, Cecil.”
He shot her a grateful glance, but would not seat himself until she had done so. At first both were silent, and Elizabeth closed her eyes. The breeze was not warm, but in her fur cape and hood she felt comfortable. The great branches of the oak tree swayed slightly, causing the sun shining through them to play on her face.
Finally Cecil felt recovered enough from the steep climb up the hill to speak.
“There is news from the Continent,” he said.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. She spotted a wake of vultures off in the distance, lazily circling high in the sky over some poor unfortunate creature. When it was dead, they would descend and pick it to pieces. She shuddered.
“The Emperor Charles has mooted the possibility of a marriage for you with the son of his brother, the Archduke Ferdinand.” Cecil opened the leather pouch at his side and withdrew a hunk of cheese. He cut a small piece and offered it to Elizabeth.
She knew that he would not eat unless she did, so she accepted the little wedge and began nibbling at it. “The emperor seems overly concerned with my matrimonial status,” she replied blandly. There were some things that she could share with no one, not even so trusted a servant as Cecil. If …when! …she ever came to the throne, everyone, including Good Sir William, would expect her to marry. They were all in for a surprise! But for now she must keep it to herself.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 61
