As Mary thought her thoughts she had been gazing at Elizabeth; her sister stood there before her, so haughty, so impudent. She was tall, well-proportioned, elegant and beautiful. She had their father’s unmistakable coloring; in moments of pique, Mary had been known to loudly and publicly decry Elizabeth’s parentage where their father was concerned, but in her heart she knew that it was her sister in the blood who now stood before her. But if one looked beyond the red hair, the unusual height and the unmistakably regal carriage, there stood before her Anne Boleyn. One could see it in the delicate features, but it was there in some intangible form as well; there was about her sister an inexplicable allure, some nebulous alchemy. Such things could, in the final analysis, be shrugged off as fancy, as mere imagination. But there was no mistaking that it was Anne Boleyn’s eyes that stared back at her. Mary suddenly experienced an uprush of rage at the thought of this girl on the throne of England.
“Get out of my sight,” she hissed. There! It was an unmistakable command to leave court. And good riddance!
# # #
In the midst of the confrontations between the two sisters concerning Elizabeth’s marriage, news arrived from the Continent that the truce between Spain and France had finally been broken. All knew that Pope Paul had instigated the breaking of the uneasy peace between Philip and Henri; but in order to dispel all doubt, the pontiff had the audacity to imprison several Imperial ministers in the Castel Sant’ Angelo on but the flimsiest of charges. It was as if His Holiness were deliberately trying to provoke Philip into open warfare.
Philip reacted immediately and decisively; he sent the Duke of Alba to lay siege to the Papal States. The duke was a battle-hardened soldier; he cut a swath through Italy and was quickly heading for a panic-stricken Rome. It was a brave show, but Philip was near bankruptcy and would not be able to sustain such aggression for long without support.
In his letter informing his wife of these events, Philip wrote that he was sending his personal servants and his stable back to England. Mary was thrilled, beside herself with joy; indeed the news had given her a new lease on life. Mary could guess what her husband wanted; but she did not care. Her beloved was finally coming back to her! And Philip’s return was obviously no longer dependent upon her ability to convince her sister of anything, including marriage to the Duke of Savoy. With her husband’s letter neatly folded and tucked into her bodice (next to her heart!), she sat down at her writing desk to draw up the formal order dismissing Elizabeth from court. Philip would be back in time for the Christmas revels; her sister would not be needed…or wanted…at court. Let her go back to Hatfield to stew in her juices!
For Philip had realized that while his wife had been burning England’s heretics, he had been burning his bridges. It was time to bestow upon his wife that which she longed for so much; his presence in England. He would demand supplies, men, arms, ships and money; and his jubilant wife would get it all for him, he was certain. And he would see Elizabeth again…
“Summon the Lord Privy Seal,” said Mary, without looking up. “And have a courier at the ready to ride to Somerset House.”
Susan curtseyed. “At once, Your Grace,” she replied. Susan opened the door to Mary’s privy chamber and outside of it, poised to knock, was Sir Robert Rochester.
“Sir Robert!” exclaimed Mary with a smile. She noticed that he leaned more and more heavily upon his stick these days. Faithful servant! He was one of the few people whom she knew without question that she could trust. And such a good Catholic! He had been imprisoned in the Tower during her brother’s reign rather than obey the royal order to forbid the saying of Mass in Mary’s household.
Sir Robert nodded to Susan and stood gravely waiting to speak.
Mary, who had turned back to sand her signature on the parchment, lifted her eyes to him once again.
“Sir Robert, what is it? Is anything amiss?” she asked.
“With your gracious permission…I have a letter…” Sir Robert held out a thick parchment from which dangled an impressively large red seal.
“Let me see,” said Mary with a smile. “Why, it is from His Holiness! At last come to his senses, I hope!” She could not read anything without holding it up very close to her face; all Sir Robert could see were the tiny beringed hands holding the large parchment up. He was startled when he suddenly heard a loud cry.
Mary dashed the document to floor and cried, “Knave! Churl! How could God have made so grave an error as to make such a man pope? It must be a mistake. There is no other way to explain it! Have you read this?”
Sir Robert nodded. “I have, Your Grace, and all the Council, too. It was addressed not directly to Your Grace, but to the Lord Chancellor, and so naturally Sir Nicholas…”
“Yes, yes,” said Mary impatiently. “And the fearful cowards sent you to break the news to me! Hah! Well, if Sir Pope thinks to intimidate me with threats of excommunication, he will soon find out what manner of queen I am!” With that she stood up, trampled the document and for good measure, stamped with all her might on the papal seal. The great red seal broke and splintered with a mighty crack. She ground the shards of the seal into the stone floor. So this was her reward for crushing the snake of heresy, for burning the author of the English Reformation, for burning heretics until the air was thick with their smoke and ashes! She calmly bent down, retrieved what was left of the parchment and threw it unceremoniously into the fire.
“Where are the Council now?” asked Mary.
“If it please Your Grace, they are in the Council Chamber,” Sir Robert replied. This was indeed a surprise! All the men of the Council had been fearful of breaking the news to the queen that she was in danger of excommunication by association with her Hapsburg husband. They had expected tears, novenas, extra Masses and prayer vigils at the altar. They certainly had not expected their devout queen to decry the Vicar of Christ.
“Go, Sir Robert, and tell them to await my presence. I shall be with them shortly. And tell them to be prepared to act! The time for shilly-shallying about what is and what is not in my marriage contract is past.” Mary’s eyes flashed and she began to pace rapidly, as she was wont to do when she was agitated. “So he thinks to cut me, me, off from the salvation of God, does he? I, who have done more to restore the Catholic faith to England than any other creature? This is no pope. I refuse to recognize such a charlatan as God’s anointed! England shall, she must now agree to stand behind my husband, who is bravely fighting that French devil and this evil pope!”
Sir Robert bowed and left the room. He wondered what the Council would make of this warlike queen who had hitherto been so respectful of the Church and its leader.
Mary sat staring at the remnants of the pope’s great seal. The ribbon from which it had dangled lay mangled on the floor amidst the waxy bits that she had ground into the stone floor with her heel. She was so angry at that moment that she was willing to forgive Philip all his infidelities, all of his neglect, his callousness in making conditions about his return, and his threats never to return to her if she did not meet his demands. All of that was past, and now they had a common enemy, an enemy who threatened their very souls. Christ on the Cross, she thought, who was this Gian Pietro Carafa, who by some wicked blunder had been placed in the position of Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church? Well, a woman could not go to war; that was one of the reasons, and probably a good one, if she looked at the whole thing objectively, that her father had wanted a son to follow him on the throne of England instead of a daughter. She sighed. She may be a woman and unable to wage war herself, but by God, she had a husband who knew how to do it, and she meant to get him all the help he needed to show this mockery of a pope who was a good Catholic!
Mary arose from her chair, straightened her shoulders, and with a regal tilt of her chin went forth to order her Council in the way that she meant them to go.
Greenwich Park, London, January 1557
Sir Robert stood just behind the gilded throne on which Mary sat, watching
her Gentlemen Pensioners parade by. He held pride of place behind her throne to the right; the position to the left was occupied by the faithful Randall Dodd. Mary would tolerate no one about her person any longer who was not one of her long-serving, trusted servants.
Sir Robert chuckled to himself, the sound unheard by others amidst the blaring of the trumpets; if anyone should rush the raised platform on which Mary sat, neither man would have been much protection for the worried queen. Sir Robert was feeling his years and could not get about anymore without his stick; if things got any worse, soon he would require two. He should not have been standing at all, but serving the queen was an honor, and only death or total disablement would convince him to relinquish his service to the woman he had known and served since she was a young princess. But despite himself, Sir Robert felt positively youthful again when he beheld the ancient Dodd. The old servant who used to function as Mary’s messenger did not know his age; no one had thought to record the day or year of his birth. But that he was very, very old was apparent. He, too, would accept only death, his own or Mary’s, as the termination of his regal service.
It was an exhilarating display of pageantry. The pensioners who made up the queen’s personal guard wore bright red slashed with yellow, the colors of Castile, and their ceremonial spears were painted green and white, the colors of the Tudor livery. Each man rode a great warhorse, all bedecked in the Hapsburg black and gold. The trumpets blew their clarion call; the colorful standards bearing Mary’s newly designed arms, combining all the elements of the Tudors with those of Spain and the Empire, adorned the parade ground and the royal platform, blowing against the blue sky and snapping stiffly in the breeze.
Yes, it was quite a display, a spectacle to delight the senses. But its meaning presaged only disaster, and Sir Robert trembled for England. Ever since the threatened excommunication, the letters had been flying back and forth across the Channel between the king and queen. Philip had not returned to England for the Christmas revels as he had promised, but Mary understood and was gratified that her husband was finally staying in close communication with her. She believed him when he assured her that as soon as the situation on the Continent was secured, he would return to England. Sir Robert stifled a resounding snort at the thought. No one, including the queen, had any doubt that Philip would arrive in England as soon as he was able. The king’s situation was now desperate; he had enjoyed some success pursuing his war with the belligerent pope, but the tide would soon turn unless he got reinforcements. Philip needed men, money, supplies, ships…and he intended to obtain them all from England through the auspices of his besotted wife. But while Mary counted the days until she once again beheld her beloved husband, the Council, the Parliament and the people dreaded the arrival of the Spaniards. For Philip was sure to release the dogs of war upon England. The only question was how on earth to stop it from happening, and so far, no one had an answer as to how that was to be accomplished.
“It is good to see the queen so happy again,” said a voice from behind him.
Sir Robert turned to see Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England. His support for Mary was unwavering; she had appointed him Lord Chancellor in the face of opposition from several quarters, not the least of which came from King Philip himself, who had wanted his own favorite, Lord Paget, to have the post.
“Indeed,” replied Sir Robert. Mary was now standing, her eyes flashing with delight at the colorful and dexterous display of horsemanship by her guard. “I have not seen Her Grace so lively, nor in so buoyant a humor, in as long as I can remember.”
“But the price of such happiness must needs be high,” sighed Nicholas. “England is being drawn closer and closer to war. Already the queen has ordered an assay of the counties to determine the number of men that each can provide.”
Sir Robert grunted. “The number shall be low,” he said. “Many can no longer rise from their beds for the illnesses brought on by famine and hunger.”
“And where is the money to come from to wage war on the Continent?” Nicholas shook his head, causing his long brindled beard to wag in the breeze. “The refurbishment of the navy has all but drained the treasury. It has been costly to repair, fit and man not only the vessels that languished in a state of ruin, but the new ones that have been built. I am all for a strong navy with a goodly fleet of ships; England is an island kingdom and it is folly not to own the seas that surround us. But I do not want to see the queen give those very ships away to the Spaniard!”
“It would be worse than useless to oppose Her Grace in that matter,” said Sir Robert. “I fear me that she is determined to see England and Spain join forces to defeat not only the French but the papal forces as well. Her intention is to make all-out war on the pope. The threat of excommunication has raised her ire to the boiling point. And in a Tudor monarch, even a female one, that is most dangerous.” Sir Robert shifted his stance and placed a hand on the back of the queen’s throne to steady himself. “This situation is perilously similar to the times when King Henry thought to defy the Bishop of Rome. I love the queen, but I tremble for her, and for England.” He shook his head wearily.
“As do I,” agreed the archbishop. “I do not know whether, if Her Grace tries to bend the bow of the people’s patience still further, the wood and the string may not fly into fragments. God’s teeth, Sir Robert, has the queen learnt nothing from the likes of men such as Dudley, Courtenay and even that misguided young man at Cleobury? Does she not see that pushing England into a foreign war could very well cost her the crown?”
Sir Robert, who knew Mary very well, shook his head and sighed. “The lady is blind to all reason where her husband is concerned, more’s the pity. I fear me that Her Grace stands either to bankrupt her own mind if she refuses him, or her country if she does not.”
Sir Nicholas clasped his hands as if in prayer or supplication. “In that case, we can only hope that if the worst happens that the crown does not roll so far or fast from Her Grace’s head that the wrong person picks it up, yea, even before she has had the opportunity to weep for it.”
Neither man dared to speak the words; should the people rise up once more against the queen, who would then rule England? They were wedged between the rock of the heretic Elizabeth and the hard place of the Spanish king. The former choice was anathema to a good Catholic, and the latter just as unacceptable to any good Englishman.
“Then God help us,” said Sir Robert. “For no one else can.”
Chapter 46
“I spend my days shouting at the Council and it makes no difference at all.”
– Mary Tudor
The English Channel, March 1557
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Christina, the Duchess of Lorraine, her hands clasped under her chin and her eyes swimming with tears.
Philip smiled indulgently at his cousin. He was unsure whether her tears were the result of her emotions or the stiffly blowing wind.
“Marguerite, look!” she exclaimed, pointing a delicate white finger. “Is it not the most beautiful sight you have ever seen?”
“Indeed, it is,” agreed Marguerite. “I must own that I have never seen anything quite so captivating.”
“I told you,” said Philip, with a proprietary air. There was little, he had to admit, that he loved about his adoptive country of England, but the White Cliffs of Dover was one of those few things. The sky was a startling azure with puffy little white clouds, and the grass above the cliffs was as green as an emerald from the New World. As green as Christina’s eyes… Hundreds of seagulls rode the wind, wheeling, dipping into the sparkling sea as the mood took them, and keening their sad cries. The wind was blowing up from the south, warm and with a whispered promise of spring. He was glad that it was a fine day so that Christina was able to see the dazzling chalk cliffs at their very best, shining brightly in the sun like a string of pearls on a chain of diamonds. If only he were not on his way to England and to Mary, his joy would have been complete.
Christina of Denmark was his first cousin; she had been born of his father’s sister, Isabella, and Christian, the king of Denmark. When she was but two years old, her father had been deposed, dispossessed of crown and country, and imprisoned by his enemies. His aunt, with Christina in arms, had escaped and sought refuge with her brother at the Imperial court at Brussels.
Philip met his cousin for the first time when they were children. He had come to the Imperial court from Spain with his father, the Emperor Charles, and his bastard half-sister, Marguerite, the Duchess of Parma. The three quickly became close friends. Philip was not one given to fancy; even at that young age he had been a somewhat serious and solemn child. But many were the times, when he and his noble companions played at swords and soldiers, that he pretended he was laying siege to the Danish castle where King Christian languished in a dark dungeon, that he might free the king and lay the beautiful Christina’s stolen legacy back at her feet, much like a spaniel offering his master his favorite bone in adoration.
Christina of Denmark was known even then throughout Christendom for her beauty, intelligence, wit and charm. She was stamped with the look of their grandmother, Queen Joanna, another legendary beauty. She had the same creamy skin, pale and translucent, not at all like the insipid wan-ness of Mary’s pallor. And this luminosity was blushed with just a hint of peach. Her hair was luxuriously plentiful and so black that it seemed almost blue where the sun touched it. And her eyes! They were as green as the moss on river rocks. Philip wanted nothing more than to marry her; but it was not to be.
The Emperor Charles held the fate of all Hapsburgs in his hands, and he saw no advantage in marrying his love-struck son to his niece. The pair of them were too valuable a commodity on the European marriage market to be allowed to marry each other. So there would be no marriage, in this case, of Hapsburg to Hapsburg.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 66
