He turned to look at her, and the expression of shocked surprise on Mary’s face told a thousand tales; suddenly all the repugnance that he had harboured, all these years, against a female as heir to his throne welled up inside of him and exploded in a burst of sheer horror. Women were sentimental creatures and unfit to rule. Some of his own worst mistakes had been the result of over-sentimentality. His father on his death bed had warned him against marrying Katharine, his brother’s widow, and see how that had turned out! Twenty years wasted and not a single boy to show for it. And Anne…the very thought of Anne, and the dance she had led him, could almost bring on a fit of apoplexy whenever he contemplated the precious time he had squandered on that debacle, and at the end of it all, another girl! God forfend that either of his daughters should ever ascend the throne of England! With God’s help he had managed to avert such a disaster…he had his little Edward. But he was only one son, in the face of the many grave dangers of childhood. Scores of children were carried off every year by myriad diseases and some for no apparent reason at all. He must have more sons, and he must have them now, before his seed dried up.
While Henry had been engaging in his ruminations, the aftermath of Jane’s death had filled Mary’s mind and taken over all rational thought, as it had done many times since that bleak season. Only time could dim the sheer despair and feelings of hopelessness that had been her bitter brew during that dark period. And now this! How could her father possibly be contemplating marriage again so soon, when his bed was still warm from Jane’s embrace, her body barely cold in its tomb in front of the high altar at Windsor? So much for love! If she had never tasted its joys, at least neither had she drunk of its bitterness. And it made her wonder if the former were worth the latter.
As the supplicants came and went before them, presenting their gifts, the scenes of the dreadful days after Jane’s death played themselves out before her once again. St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle draped in black, solemn masses replacing the Te Deums that had celebrated Edward’s birth such a short time before; the constant sound of dirges, of weeping women, of the shuffling of feet as the multitudes came to bid Jane a sorrowful last farewell.
She had officiated at the ceremony as the coffin entered the chapel on the day that the somber funeral cortège reached Windsor in the gloaming, that eerie period of fading light just after sunset but before full darkness fell. They had flocked in like weary birds, twenty-nine women dressed all in black, one for each year of Jane’s life. Jane’s coffin had been borne by six pallbearers, and was received at the door of the chapel by the dean of St. George’s. The dean and his acolytes had prayed over it, and then escorted the coffin to the high altar where Archbishop Cranmer waited to bless it. The coffin had then been set up on a catafalque, where Jane’s tearful women draped it in black palls, and then laboured to set upon it once again that disturbingly life-like effigy.
The ceremonies over for the night, Mary should have repaired to her apartments in the castle, but she found that she could not bring herself to leave Jane alone in that silent, solemn and very cold place. She had taken up a kneeling position at the head of the coffin and refused to leave it. Her women had quietly begged her to sup and rest after the journey, but she would not. She sat vigil with Jane all through the night, and only at the first light of dawn had she allowed her sorrowing women to lead her away.
She had taken a very bad cold, but had not shirked her duties as chief mourner. When all thirteen of the masses that she had paid for had been sung for Jane, Mary again officiated with Archbishop Cramer as the coffin was lowered into the crypt before the high altar. To the sounds of weeping and wailing, the members of Jane’s household staff had each, one by one, broken their staves of office and thrown them into the pit. The last thing Mary remembered was Lady Rochford holding her train as the mourners filed away, but she had no recollection of leaving the chapel or of gaining her rooms. The only thing she could recall was the incessant sound of bells; the bells had tolled for a full twelve hours without stop after the coffin had been sealed into the crypt.
# # #
The king, according to custom, attended none of Jane’s obsequies. He had hidden himself away and none had seen or spoken with him for three weeks after the funeral. Mary had fallen into a fever. Time seemed to have stopped.
And then word reached her that the king had departed Windsor for Whitehall, leaving orders that the Christmas revels were to be much curtailed out of respect for Jane. When her fever finally lifted and she was able to rise from her bed, Mary bade Jane a final farewell and went to Richmond. And then came the summons to attend the court for the celebration of the New Year at Greenwich. The merry-making was subdued, but not completely stifled. And now her father had made the astounding assertion that he intended to marry again. How could he possibly be contemplating such a thing so soon after Jane’s death? Her own feelings were so raw that the pain was almost physical. It was incredible. Chapuys had told her nothing of any marriage negotiations; it was unlike her father to bypass ambassadorial protocol. Could it be that he was simply taunting her again? For she was convinced that her father’s attempts at negotiating a marriage for her were just an amusing pastime, nothing more than a political ploy to stir up trouble between the European powers.
“Well?” said Henry. “Have you nothing to say?” Mary roused from her reverie to survey the trove that had built up around them while she had been lost in thought. A golden trencher, purse upon purse of coins, all presented in velvet or brocade bags, some sewn with glittering jewels, paintings, all manner of cups and vessels in gold and silver, books, even carpets.
Mary gazed about her at the mounds of offerings and replied, “It looks to be a goodly year for gifts, Your Grace. Perhaps you will find that which you seek.”
Henry eyed her speculatively. “We shall see,” he said, and then turned back to the still long line of subjects waiting for their moment with the king.
Warblington Castle, Hampshire, July 1538
This was a gathering of the utmost secrecy; the household had been dismissed for the day. Only the last withered remnants of the White Rose were there. The room was silent, but outside the trill of larks could be heard, and in the distance, one could make out the faded gorse, replaced now by the pink and white umbrels of hogweed.
The Countess of Salisbury, Lady Margaret Pole, was a Plantagenet, being niece to King Edward IV. Her sons, Henry, Lord Montague, and Sir Geoffrey Pole, likewise carried the blood of the White Rose in their veins. Henry Courtenay, the Marquess of Exeter, was the king’s first cousin, being the son of King Henry’s aunt on his mother’s side. Only Reginald, Cardinal Pole, was absent, but this secret meeting was being held at his behest, and on his behalf.
Sir Geoffrey’s eyes strayed to the banner of the Five Wounds of Christ that Lady Margaret had had mounted upon the wall over the exquisite Flemish tapestry depicting Daniel in the Lion’s Den. Except for the danger inherent in owning such a banner, he was glad. The Daniel tapestry always made him feel uneasy. He often felt as if he were in similar case at the Tudor court. And now that his family were conspiring against the king, he was even more fearful. He felt an absurd urge to flee the room.
Still no one said a word. Finally, Lady Margaret clasped her hands on the great oaken table and leaned forward. “It is as simple as this,” she said, her cool gaze eyeing each of them in turn. “The king will never allow the princess to marry a Catholic, be he Hapsburg or French. He simply cannot take such a risk. Gertrude has it from Chapuys’ own lips that the emperor’s spies have proof that the king plans to pursue marriage for Her Grace with a Protestant. The dukes of both Saxony and Bavaria have been mooted as possible suitors for Her Grace’s hand.” She shuddered, and shook her head. “It is unthinkable. I would fear to face Queen Katharine in Heaven if I had allowed such a thing to happen and not perished in the attempt to prevent it.”
Sir Geoffrey almost snorted aloud. As well she might, if his mother insisted on pursuing this path! An
d she would take the rest of the family with her! Only Reginald was safe on the continent, far from the reach of the vengeful Tudor king.
“I agree,” said Lady Gertrude, the Marchioness of Exeter. “But what can we do?” It was just the opening that the Courtenays had been waiting for. She flicked a glance at her husband.
“There is the Earl of Devon,” replied Lord Henry, the Marquis of Exeter, following his wife’s lead.
Lady Margaret had been expecting this suggestion, and knew that she must be diplomatic in its refusal. “That would be eminently suitable, My Lord, if only he were older.”
“Our son is old for his years,” said the Marquess.
“But alas, not old enough,” countered Lady Margaret. “The church will not sanction such a union. The age of consent is twelve, and the earl is only ten.” Not to mention, thought Lady Margaret, what Mary would think of such a match. Her child-bearing years were dwindling; marriage to a child, no matter how royal, would suit no one’s purpose. But it would not do to say so; the Exeters must come around to the Poles’ way of thinking of their own accord.
Lord Henry sighed. “True,” he said. “Tis true. But whom, then?”
Lady Margaret’s hooded eyes glowed a brilliant green. “There is Reginald.”
“Reginald?” expostulated Lord Henry. “But he is a cardinal of the church.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Margaret. “But he has taken only deacon’s orders. He is free to marry.”
“Is that so, then?” said Lord Henry. He exchanged glances with Gertrude. They had not known that! So this had been the Poles’ plan all along. But Lady Margaret was right; few would sanction a marriage for the princess with such a young boy as their Edward. Perhaps Reginald was the only way.
Sir Geoffrey eyed the banner of the Five Wounds of Christ, the very symbol of the Pilgrimage of Grace, uneasily. “But the uprising has failed. We are undone.”
Lord Henry shook his head. “The uprising in the north was doomed to failure from the beginning,” he said. “The men were untrained and lacked leadership. Such would not be true of an uprising in the west country.” The room was silent and for a few moments all that could be heard were the sounds of summer; birds chirping in the orchard, the distant sounds of workers in the fields. Lord Henry drained his wine cup and looked at each of them in turn.
Lord Montague nodded. “Hussey, Darcy and Dacre were fools. They should have struck at the head of the snake, and not allowed the men Aske raised to mince their words. No wish to depose the king! What did they think was going to happen? Their heads still rot on Tower Bridge.”
Lord Henry drew a deep breath and said, “The Courtenays are a law unto ourselves in the west country. The Cornishmen like not these upheavals in the church. They care not what goes on in London. They know only that the law of the land has made them fear for their very souls, just as the men of the north fear for theirs. Whom must they serve? Pope or king? But the real choice these good men are being asked to make is God or king, and to a man they choose God, not some Welsh upstart with as tenuous a claim to the throne as ever there was!” And with that he brought his cup down with such a crash onto the oaken table that Lady Margaret, thrifty woman, feared for both.
A warm breeze wafted into the room and lifted the banner slightly, catching Sir Geoffrey’s attention once more. He was the younger son but one, and with Arthur dead, now the youngest living; no one paid him any heed. But he knew such talk was dangerous, and he feared both of his older brothers’ passion to rid England of the Tudors. He wished that he dared to venture an opinion, but he knew it was useless. The others would only talk him down and might even suspect his loyalties. He sighed.
Lord Montague regarded Geoffrey with a gimlet eye. Young pup! He was aware of his brother’s disapproval and attributed it to fear. That a Pole should be anything but fearless galled him. Well, Reginald had enough courage for them all. They must support this direct line to the pope, which was, after all, a direct line to God Himself. “The king is unbalanced,” he said. “He is an insane lecher who has no right to the throne. He is unfit to rule. He has made a shambles of church and country. Remember the prophecies! He will come into his reign like a lamb and leave it like a lion; he is the mouldwarp. Can anyone deny that he ravages the realms of both Heaven and earth like a lion gone berserk? The Nun of Kent was right after all, although her predictions were dispensed through an imperfect tool, her own peasant tongue. But just because disaster did not strike within a month of the king’s marriage to the Boleyn whore does not mean that the Nun’s prophecy is not valid. She predicted that if the king married her, it would mean his downfall, and by God, it shall! We shall see to it!”
“But what of the young prince?” asked the Marchioness.
“My dear Lady Gertrude,” replied Lord Montague. “What of him? He is a bastard just as the whelp of the Great Whore is a bastard. Has not the bull of excommunication been waiting on the pope’s desk, wanting only for a signature since Squire Henry married the Concubine and broke with Rome? Pope Paul waits only for the right moment to promulgate it, a moment that cannot be long delayed. And what does our king do whilst this bull languishes? He commits the further folly of marrying a pallid miss for the pleasure of her bed! No marriage the king makes under such circumstances can be considered legal by the church, and any issue from it is a bastard damned to Hell!”
The foamy spittle that had gathered at the corners of his brother’s mouth made Sir Geoffrey slightly nauseous and he looked away. He wondered if it were only the king who was unbalanced! The treacherous diatribe issuing forth from Lord Montague’s tongue astounded his brother. It bordered on mania. Sir Geoffrey stole a look at their mother, but Lady Margaret’s own eyes still glittered green and bright. Perhaps she was as obsessed with avenging Good Queen Katharine as the others were. Because he truly believed that such lay at the root of this deadly game.
Suddenly a thought struck Sir Geoffrey. “Squire whom?” he asked.
Lord Montague laughed. “Know you not that such is what Brother Martin calls our king? Luther has been heard to say that Squire Henry means to be God and do as he pleases. The king’s incredible behavior bears this out, I trow! I believe the poison in his leg has gone to his brain and addled his wits!”
Sir Geoffrey paled. He glanced nervously at the open window, and then at Lady Margaret. “Is my lady mother certain that all of the servants have departed the castle?”
Lady Margaret eyed her young son coolly, exchanging a brief glance with Lord Montague. They had already agreed between them that Geoffrey was the weak link in this chain, but they needed him. Best to humor him. She arose and walked quietly to the window. She stood looking out over the rolling hills, on which the sun shone golden and bright. The clouds were moving swiftly, big puffs of white that reminded her of so much quilt batting. As they traversed the sky the light changed below them, causing the sunlight on the fields to change to a dark blue and then back again to shimmering gold. She turned and smiled. “No one lurking about,” she said.
That’s right, thought Sir Geoffrey, mock me. When we might all be headless before the harvest is in!
Lady Margaret poured a goblet of wine and returned to her chair at the head of the table. “We have strayed from our purpose,” she said sternly.
Lord Henry shifted in his chair. “Well, to your earlier point, my lady, even if the king were serious about a French match, and I for one believe his efforts on his own behalf, at least, were sincere, that bird has flown. His Grace,” he spat the word out with a sarcastic tone and an ugly sneer, “has insulted the French king with his ridiculous suggestion that the flower of royal French womanhood should be marched to Calais and paraded before him for his inspection as if they were so many prize heifers. And at the very idea that she might be called upon to warm the king’s royal bed, Marie de Guise practically ran to the ship that took her to Scotland and to her new husband! One might almost think she was running away from King Henry of England and not so much to King James of Scot
land. Even for the sake of a crown, Scotland is a barbarous country and no place for a French lady. But go she did, and gladly, it seems!”
“I agree with you,” said Lady Margaret. “But a French marriage pact is viable only to the extent of making some eligible French lady into the queen of England that she might breed a string of royal dukes for use should some evil befall the prince, not for the sake of peace. Most of the marriage pacts that I have seen resulted in broken promises on both sides, and divided loyalties for the bride. Hapsburg or Valois, it matters not. The pleasure associated with putting one nose or the other out of joint would be fleeting at best. But a French match with Scotland was inevitable regardless of which Frenchwoman was chosen. There always has been and always will be the Auld Alliance between Scotland and France. Unless Scotland sinks into the sea, they will always be only too glad to ally with any country against the English. And the French will always be there to oblige them!”
“A shrewd point, Mother,” said Sir Geoffrey. “And France cannot have their cake and eat it…it is either Scotland or England, and it will always be Scotland against England, I trow. Forget not that King James has many times been mooted as a match for the princess, but to no avail. The Scots do not want peace with England. They would rather war with us, using their French friends as the means to do so.”
The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 41