The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

“Only this morning,” Mary replied. “Very early. It was still as dark as pitch when I knew myself to be back in myself, if you take my meaning. Having no candle, I slept again. And then you came.”

  Dr. Butts turned to Dr. de la Sa. “I will go and arrange for a tray while you sit with my lady.”

  Dr. de la Sa nodded his understanding. Dr. Butts was offering him an opportunity to speak with Mary alone.

  Once the door closed again, Mary said, “Dr. de la Sa, how fares my mother, the queen?”

  Dr. de la Sa sucked in his cheeks. How to describe the queen’s state without alarming the princess? “She is weak and suffers from pains in her chest. But she is cheerful. Mostly, she worries about you, Your Grace.”

  “I know,” Mary replied. “You must reassure her. This,” Mary waved an expansive hand, “is nothing more than my usual autumn ailment, brought on, I fear me, by a fit of choler.” Mary knew that had they arrived a day earlier, the doctors would have found her in much worse case. But she was better now, and would soon be on the mend. She was determined to put a brave face on it. She forced a smile; unconsciously, it slid into a frown. “One day I hear that the Concubine is out of favor, the next that all is well with her and the king, my father. Then is it said that my cousin Charles will plan my escape, and next I hear that he feels it too dangerous to attempt.” Mary’s eyes filled with tears despite her resolution to be of good cheer. A single tear slid down her cheek unheeded. “One has to wonder sometimes if my cousin truly has any intention of helping my mother and me.”

  Dr. de la Sa sighed, and rubbed his beard. “I am but a simple doctor,” he replied softly. “But I feel that I must agree with your gracious mother’s belief when I say that fleeing England would be a grave mistake, Your Grace.”

  Mary could see that he was uncomfortable even whispering advice on such matters. Mary laid her hand on his arm. “Dear friend, do not worry,” she said soothingly. “And bid my mother not to worry. I am here, and here I shall stay.” An impish smile appeared on Mary’s face. “Much to My Lady Shelton’s discomfiture, I should think!”

  Mary’s suddenly beaming face was at sad odds with the dark, sunken eyes of her illness and the shiny tracks left by her drying tears. But Dr. de la Sa took comfort from Mary’s words. The princess still apparently had a great deal of fight left in her. And unless he missed his guess, she would need it.

  Wolf Hall, Wiltshire, September 1535

  The jolting litter hit a rut in the road and stopped.

  “Oh, not again!” exclaimed Anne in despair. The litter was hard, cold and uncomfortable, but at least it was dry. The rain, which had become almost a daily occurrence since June, had not stopped to accommodate the Royal Progress. Riding, for the ladies, had become impossible, and they had taken to the litter. Unfortunately, the litter had a great propensity for getting stuck in the muddy ruts of the road.

  Lady Lee rolled up the sodden leather window cover to reveal a steady gray drizzle. “We are not stuck,” she reported. “Only stopping to rest the horses.”

  Anne could not abide female company, and it was with great reluctance that she employed the minimum number of ladies-in-waiting about her at the royal court. The summer progress was always an excellent excuse to appear magnanimous and allow her ladies to disperse to their homes for the summer, whilst the court travelled. With only a few exceptions, Henry seemed to regard her household as his own private harem; if it would not have set propriety and tradition at naught, Anne would have dismissed them all. The only female she could truly abide was her cousin, Margaret, Lady Lee.

  “At all events,” continued Lady Lee, “we are almost there.”

  “And thanks be to St. Michael and all his angels for that mercy,” said Anne caustically. “I cannot for the life of me recall a worse journey.” They had set off at the end of July, expecting that after two months of almost continuous rain that the weather must improve. But it had not. The seeds that had been planted so hopefully in the spring had either been washed away, or where they sprouted in the brief periods when the sun had won through, had rotted in the fields. Now, with the summer over, and the weather still intolerably wet but far too warm, there would be little to harvest.

  The entire progress this year had baffled Anne. Instead of the usual tour of splendid manor houses where the royal couple and their entourage would have been entertained in comfort and splendour, Henry had chosen for their itinerary a string of modest destinations peopled by comparative nobodies.

  First they had stopped at The Vyne, the home of Henry’s Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sandys. The Vyne was so small that most of their party had had to find accommodation in nearby villages. From The Vyne they had progressed to Ewelme, where Charles Brandon and Lady Catherine had gone for the duchess’s lying in, which could not be long delayed. Torrential rain had prevented the hunting that Henry so loved and looked forward to, and the four had spent their time gambling at cards until Anne thought she would die of boredom. In between times Henry had spent wistfully eyeing Lady Catherine’s swollen belly and casting resentful glances at Anne.

  From Ewelme they had slogged across the west country towards Wales. They had arrived in Gloucester late in August at Acton Court. Sir Nicholas Poyntz had been almost cloying in his obsequiousness; he had gone to the expense of adding an entire wing to his home to accommodate the royal party, with a foresight that Anne could only wish that Lord Sandys had possessed.

  After a stay so short that Anne was certain she had detected tears in Sir Nicholas’ eyes at their departure, the Royal Progress continued in the unceasing deluge to Little Sodbury Manor, to visit the Walsh family. An outrider came in early in their stay to announce that there was plague in Bristol, and Henry had been so nonplussed that he had ridden off posthaste with a minimal escort, leaving Anne and the rest of the party to their fate. Anne spared a cynical thought for the contrast in Henry’s behavior all those years ago when she had had the Sweat. No daily letters this time!

  They had finally met up again at Faulston Manor, the home of Anne’s vice chamberlain, Edward Baynton, whose relief at their hasty departure sent Anne and Margaret into gales of laughter under the protection of the stifling litter.

  And now, they were approaching Wolf Hall…the last stopping place on their itinerary, and the home of Anne’s most insignificant lady-in-waiting, Jane Seymour. Through service to three queens, Jane had still failed to snare a husband. And no wonder, thought Anne; a plainer, more mousy personage, in both countenance and temperament, she had never known.

  Sir John, the patriarch of the Seymour family, was warden of Savernake Forest, a position that did not require his presence at court; rather the opposite. And although his sons were courtiers, they were neither of them in Henry’s immediate circle of intimates. Except for Henry’s desire to hunt, so far frustrated for the most part by the abominable weather, what on earth were they doing at Wolf Hall?

  All in all, a most intriguing puzzle, and a Royal Progress in stark contrast to Anne’s first trip with the king in 1531. That year, Henry had been positively boyish in his desire to show her off. She should have heeded then the warnings of his mercurial personality. The same enthusiastic boy-like man with whom she had travelled in that enchanted summer was the self-same cruel creature who had left his wife at Windsor without even saying goodbye, and who had bade her curtly not to be there upon his return. This was the face that the angry king now showed Anne most of the time, and she was certain that it boded no good. The next time the litter stopped and Anne rolled up the flap and peered out, it was to see Sir John and his sons outside Wolf Hall greeting their arrival.

  “At last,” said Margaret with a groan. “My back is near broken.”

  Suddenly, the door jerked open and a falsely smiling Henry stood waiting to hand Anne and Margaret down from the litter. He would not meet Anne’s eyes, surely a bad sign.

  In the great hall, the entire Seymour family and all their servants were assembled to greet the royal party.

  Sir John said, “
We are honoured, Your Grace, to welcome you and the queen to Wolf Hall.”

  “We are right glad to be here,” said Henry jovially. “And I trust that I will have good hunting while I am here.”

  Sir John eyed the king nervously, flicking a glance out at the gloom. “I trust so, Your Grace,” he replied with a bow. “Savernake Forest is at Your Grace’s disposal and we will do all in our power to make Your Grace’s visit a pleasant one.”

  Anne assessed the line of people there to receive them as the pleasantries were exchanged. Jane’s eyes were firmly planted at her feet. But for her rich clothing, she might have been one of the servants. It was no wonder, mused Anne, that the girl had failed to make a match in a court teeming with eligible young self-seekers. She was sure to live and die a maid, taking care of her widowed father and kow-towing to her brothers’ wives. The girl hadn’t even been singled out by Henry as one his lights-o’-love, a sure indication that she had little to recommend her.

  “…and just as soon as Your Grace desires,” said Sir John. Anne focused her attention back onto the welcoming words of her host. “You must be tired after your journey,” he said at last. “Please allow us to show you to your chambers.”

  # # #

  Although by far the largest of the homes they had stayed in, Wolf Hall was still at sixes and sevens to accommodate the entire royal party. Sir John made his own rooms over to the king, which had adjoining rooms to the queen’s.

  Henry strolled into Anne’s chamber, where Lady Lee was tiring Anne’s hair. With a flick of his eyes, he dismissed her.

  “The old windbag,” he said. “Thanks be to God he doesn’t grace the court.”

  Anne turned unsmiling eyes to her husband. “If that is the way you feel about him,” she said pointedly, “then what are we doing here?”

  “Why, to hunt the forest, of course,” Henry replied. He threw himself into a chair and sprawled with one leg over its arm. The room was large and comfortably furnished. Sir John’s family had come over with the Conqueror and had had centuries to acquire their wealth. But for all that, they lived unostentatiously.

  “Hunting in this?” Anne waved an expansive hand at the mullioned window, against which the rain splattered noisily. “We might just as well have gone back to Windsor.”

  Henry turned his cold gaze onto his wife. “Nay, I spent the whole first part of the summer cooped up there with a nagging wife,” he said. “The idea of ending the summer in such wise is not appealing. What I need is jovial company, and some amusing pastime.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. Henry fancied himself a past master at the subtle barb. More fool he! she thought. He had never been able to hold a candle to her own cleverness, nor ever would do. “This reluctance to hunt in a good English rain is new for you,” she said. “Mayhap your reticence is more to do with your increasing girth.” There! That taunt went home, she could tell by his face, where the angry red colour had appeared. “Why,” she said, feigning the surprise of new-found knowledge, “that very girth may be the reason why your legs are paining you so.”

  Henry had been warned by Dr. Butts not to allow his temper to get the better of him; or at least to save his fearsome outbursts for when they were most needed. This was not one of those occasions. He would not waste a fit of choler on Anne. The desire to be rid of this most unsatisfactory wife swept over him like a wave. Oh, to be quit of this cold, snake-like creature! When he thought of that which awaited him…but, no. He knew that he could not be rid of Anne whilst Katharine lived. But Katharine was getting old. She would be fifty in a few short months. And if the reports were true, was not in good health. Mayhap the progressively run-down, damp and dilapidated dwellings to which he had relegated her would work their magic after all.

  # # #

  Instead of the acid reply that may have led to further sparring, Henry arose quietly and walked to the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up. “This is shaping up to be the worst harvest in memory,” he observed blandly.

  “Yes,” said Anne. “The people blame you for that, I hear. It was your wanton execution of so many holy men this year.” She studied her hands as though seeing them for the first time.

  Henry turned. “Do they?” he replied. “I seem to remember being told that the people blame you; that you are a witch who has cursed the land, for wanting no Nan Bullen as their queen.”

  This discomfited Anne in spite of herself. “Oh, bother the people,” she snapped. “Who cares what they think?”

  “Indeed,” responded Henry. “But the people truly don’t want to blame any of this on me. They love me. But they hate you, and you, my dear, are expendable. Queens may come and go, but there is only one king.”

  Anne laughed, a pleasant, tinkling sound that had always entranced Henry. “One might even say the same of Lord Chancellors, might one not?” She cocked an amused eyebrow.

  “Do not change the subject,” said Henry. “It is your own fault that the people hate you. And not just the masses, mind you. You have managed to alienate as well almost the entire court, including members of your own family.”

  Anne shook back her wealth of black hair, left hanging down her back by the king’s sudden dismissal of Lady Lee. “They can all go to the devil,” she said.

  “Oh, but remember, my proud queen, that pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. And may I say that I have never encountered anyone haughtier than yourself?”

  Anne glared at him. “It ill becomes you,” she said, “to spout scripture at me! Religious reform is a good thing as far as it goes, but you allow that toadying lickspittle, Cromwell, to rape the church and stuff his own pockets! And yours! Is this our Supreme Head of the Church in England, then? Is this our Defender of the Faith? Defender of the privy purse, more like!”

  Henry did not reply. Anne turned to follow his gaze behind her to the door. There stood Cromwell, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was as pale as the whitewash of the walls, but his black eyes glittered with malice.

  “Ah,” said Henry jovially. “The man himself.” At that moment, a shaft of sunlight stole through the window. “And bringing with him the sun. We shall be able to hunt after all!”

  # # #

  Henry awoke with a jerk and start. The room was dark; it must be very early. It was always this way, his dream, his nightmare. The incessant tolling of the bells would invade his brain, making his head ache, until the only way to keep his head from splitting was to force himself awake. Then all would be blessed silence.

  The dream would start innocently enough. He would be at Mass, on his knees, praying. He loved the ceremony, the comforting sameness of the ritual. It reminded him of the early days of his youth, when he had been destined for the church. He, the second son, was to have been Archbishop of Canterbury to his brother Arthur’s king. Together they were to have ruled England, a perfect binding of brothers, of church and state. And then the unthinkable had happened; Arthur died. No more quiet study in the cloisters. Amongst his tutors had been serene, stately Bishop Fisher, a man he had admired, a priest he had loved.

  When his father died, Fisher had sung the king’s Requiem Mass at Westminster. All over London, every bell in every church, large and small, had rung for three days. At first the sound had been comforting. At some point it had become maddening.

  He had not wanted to kill Fisher. Or More. Or any of the others. He’d had no choice once the juggernaut of his great need for Anne had begun its mad careening. There was no stopping it. It had killed all in its path. But the mills of the Gods had also been grinding all the while, those that ground so slowly, and so exceedingly fine; the spell that Anne had cast over him had burnt itself out at last, had lifted as inexplicably as it had begun, to unveil to his disbelieving eyes the devastation wrought by a powerful king’s desire. Among the mutilated dead lay Fisher.

  And now Fisher’s death haunted him. That saintly face would appear before his eyes, whole and true, suffused with an unearthly light, only to change before
his horrified eyes into the thing that his head had become after so many days on a pike in the summer heat. And as the face metamorphosised into the eyeless phantasm that Henry had finally ordered thrown into the Thames after one particularly bad night, the bells would start. At first they were only a faint echo, off in the unseen distance; but they would continue, growing louder, closer, more insistent, until their maddening cacophony could no longer be ignored.

  And then he would force himself awake with a jerk and a start and all would be silence again. Bathed in his own sweat, he would stir, shift in his bed, try to find a dry place and sleep again, without dreaming. The sleep of the dead.

  “Henry?” said a tentative, whispering voice. “Are you awake?”

  Anne. Come to haunt his waking hours, as Fisher haunted his sleeping ones. There was no escape. “Yes.”

  She slid in beside him, felt the damp linen, and moved closer to the now massive recumbent form. “You cried out,” she said, a question in her voice.

  “A bad dream, no more,” he replied. He was not going to discuss his ghoulish dreams with their author. It was ironic that while on progress he dispensed with having his men sleep about him, only to have that circumstance keep Anne close enough to him to hear his cries in the night.

  By now, Anne knew her quarry. She lay still and said nothing. After a while his breathing told her that he was near sleep. Vulnerable. She made her move, he responded. It was vital for her to conceive again. Her very life depended upon it now. The jackals were closing in, and Henry himself was at their head. Only a son could save her now.

  She knew that in the midst of their growing hatred for one another that her passion baffled him. But being Henry, he was incapable of attributing it to anything but his own allure. For Anne, it had started out as petty revenge, this dream world of pretending that Henry was Harry Percy. But lately it was the only way…

  His own response, he knew, she attributed to a man being a man. But of late it was not Anne’s face that he saw when they were locked in that combat that both saw as the only way to get that elusive boy. It was Jane’s face he perceived above him, Jane’s chestnut hair that flowed down over a snowy breast.