The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  But his need to draw his subjects from every possible angle before he decided how to paint them was very real. How else was he to make the vital decisions about profile and stance? Once immortalized in paint, that was how posterity would see his subjects, for all time; to him, this was an awesome responsibility, and one not to be taken lightly. And in the case of his portraits of potential brides for his master, the king, they served an even more immediate purpose. From these portraits would come England’s next queen.

  In the end, Holbein decided to paint Anne straight on. There were only two sorts of people who deserved, who should possibly be, painted full on; the innocent child was one, and the guileless adult the other. Anne’s beauty lay not so much in her physical form as in the honesty of her nature. There was no need to paint her from one angle or another, to hide some flaw of character; this was a person who had no such flaws, and who should look out on her observers for all time, her innocence and purity shining from her eyes, eyes that were the color of an oak leaf; deep green, with intriguing little gold flecks in them.

  How could anyone fail to love her?

  Grafton, Worcestershire, August 1539

  The horn sounded on the wind and Mary turned her horse in its direction. Nothing stirred her blood so much as the hunt. The sun was high, the day was hot, and the wind blew refreshingly from the north and east. She galloped through the trees, the sunlight dappling the trail. She caught sight of a movement out of the corner of her eye; the russet stag was bounding through the glen on her left. The barking of the dogs was getting louder. Now was her chance. She turned, raised her bow, nocked her arrow, and no sooner had she done so than the stag came crashing out of the forest onto the path. Without a moment’s hesitation, she let fly. The arrow hit home and the animal staggered a few steps before collapsing. The arrow must have pierced the stag’s heart to bring him down so quickly. She walked her horse up to the animal, whose eye was already clouded with death, and counted his points. So this was not just a stag; it was a hart of fourteen points. She watched as the pool of blood widened.

  The sounds of baying hounds and crashing hooves told her that the hunting party had picked up the scent again, which it had probably lost temporarily due to the stag crossing the stream. Mary always made it a point to ride parallel to the chase on the other side of the water; this strategy had bagged her some prize animals in her time. She sat waiting for the others, the arrival of whom would not take long, as the hounds had now scented the blood. She removed her hat, mopped her brow, and took a sip from her wineskin.

  The king came galloping down the woodland path at full speed, and when he spotted his daughter, he pulled up, stopping just short of her and circling his horse around the dead hart. “Oh, well done!” he cried. “Well done indeed, Daughter!”

  As the others arrived, they too shouted their congratulations and the huntsmen, who had arrived trotting on foot, began the preliminaries of dressing the animal prior to poling it for transport back to the manor.

  “Feckenham Forest is one of my favorite places to hunt, Sir Gilbert,” said the king jovially, with a slap on the back that rendered Sir Gilbert momentarily unable to breathe.

  Sir Gilbert smiled nervously; he wanted nothing so much as for the king to tire of Grafton Manor and Feckenham Forest, and remove his progress on to Woodstock, before the honour of the royal visit bankrupted him and his family.

  “Come, Your Grace,” said Sir Gilbert, trying to sound bluff. “Such sport gives one an appetite! Let us repair back to the manor where a hearty dinner awaits us.” Sir Gilbert tried not to look at the stain on the king’s leggings; that, coupled with the unnatural pallor of his countenance indicated that His Grace was in sore need of a respite from the chase. God forfend that the pain and discomfort of the king’s bad leg should develop into the need for the king to stay at Grafton longer than planned.

  Henry silently blessed the man; he did not want to be the one to suggest an end to the day’s sport. But this last prize was meat enough along with the day’s other kills, and the shadows were growing long. What he needed was a bath and a good meal.

  # # #

  Not an aficionado of the hunt, and an indifferent if not fearful horseman, Cromwell had stayed behind when the hunting party left the manor early that morning. Therefore, he had been the only person of consequence in the manor when the little cavalcade had arrived bearing its precious cargo. He rubbed his hands together with glee as the drayman unpacked Holbein’s paintings. Oh, clever Holbein! He had even sent elaborate easels of just the right size for displaying his work. Both portraits were securely wrapped in oiled canvas and packed in crates padded with hay. Holbein had even thought to include rich velvet palls with which to cover the paintings once they were mounted upon the elaborately carved stands, to increase the drama of an unveiling.

  And so Cromwell had spent the morning seeing to the unpacking and mounting of the exquisite portraits, trying them in this corner and that until he had found the perfect place for them to be viewed. Holbein had painted both of the Cleves sisters facing forward, and the canvases approximated life size; so true to life were they that one almost expected the girls to reach out a hand or, perhaps, speak a word of greeting. The detail of their clothing and adornments was superb. Master Holbein has outdone himself, thought Cromwell. He would see that the artist was handsomely rewarded. For there was no doubt in his mind that once Henry viewed these portraits, one of the Cleves sisters would be chosen as the next queen of England. A lovely face; a king impatient for another heir, and not only that, intent on falling in love; adversaries who had lost their taste for battle; and a new duke itching for a grand alliance. The bowls were lined up for a Protestant marriage and an accord with Cleves, and he must see to it that the king struck while the iron was hot.

  For it was evident that the threat of war had waned. François had neither the treasury nor the stomach for waging war, and the Emperor Charles now had his hands full with the Ottoman Turks, the deterioration of relations with France, and the upheavals caused by his German Protestants.

  Cromwell knew that he must, however, tread carefully in the wake of the recent passage of the Act of the Six Articles, and he must, at all costs, hold his peace where Norfolk was concerned. Norfolk had been instrumental in the passage through Parliament of the Six Articles; it was he who had first seriously challenged Cromwell’s religious reforms. The king had always purported to be a good Catholic, and had supported Norfolk’s position. The king’s goal was to suppress heresy and to reassure Catholic Europe that England was still orthodox despite the break with Rome, and that a crusade against England or her king was uncalled for. It was such a shame, really; if only the king had waited, the threat of war was certain to have waned without taking such drastic measures as passing laws.

  But what was done was done, and Cromwell was clever enough to realize that now was not the time to challenge Norfolk or his religious laws. An end run around them was the best way; and a marriage with Cleves was exactly the means by which to accomplish this.

  A noisy hubbub in the courtyard signaled the return of the hunters. Cromwell smiled his rare smile, and tweaked one of the red velvet palls into a more fetching position. The king would not wait for a moment once he saw the display set up in the great hall.

  Despite his painful leg, Henry strode in, grabbed a tankard of ale from a tray that had been set out for the weary hunters, and shouted to Cromwell, “What have we here, then?”

  Cromwell bowed and said, “Your Grace, most excellent news. The portraits from Cleves have arrived.”

  “Say you, so then? Well, let us waste no time!” He set down his tankard and wiped his mouth on this sleeve. Then he twitched off the palls from the easels, one in each hand, so that both Anne and Amalia seemed to stand before him. He stared transfixed at the paintings.

  By now the rest of the hunting party had come into the hall and were helping themselves to the drinks and cakes that Lady Talbot had ordered to be set out for their return, and wer
e gathering about the paintings.

  “God’s teeth!” Henry whispered in awe. “There is no better court painter in the world than my Holbein! Cromwell!”

  “Here, Your Majesty,” Cromwell replied.

  “Which girl is which?”

  The Princess Amalia is on the right, Sire, and the Princess Anne is on the left.”

  Henry studied the portraits intently from every angle. Finally, he whistled through his teeth and said, “Jesu, it is a difficult choice, is it not? Brandon!”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Brandon with a bow.

  Henry was now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Which is the prettiest to your eye?”

  Charles Brandon had married four of the most beautiful women in Christendom; neither of the Cleves sisters appealed to him. But to say so would be impolitic. He eyed the portraits more closely. “You are indeed correct, Your Grace, it is a difficult choice.” Both the princesses were a bit plain in his estimation, and their foreign dress was uncomfortable to the eye. Henry was too excited to wait for an answer, so Brandon was spared the ordeal of voicing an opinion.

  “Norfolk! Which appeals to you?” Henry was bobbing from one portrait to the other, even running his hands across their surfaces, as if he could touch the girls for real; the paintings were indeed exceptionally life-like. Without waiting for an answer he cried, “The Princess Anne is the more desirable to my eye…” He stopped for a moment; what a shame that her name was Anne! That brought back memories; unpleasant ones. But then it seemed as if every fourth girl-child born in England was named Anne. And what did a name matter, after all? He turned to see Mary standing at his side, and she also seemed utterly taken with the portraits. Here was an opinion he could trust! “And what think you of the ladies of Cleves, Daughter?”

  Mary stood in front of the portrait of Anne. She had sorely missed Jane’s company for a long time now. Her heart ached for another friend, a confidante of her own rank. Although Sir Geoffrey Pole had been pardoned and released from the Tower earlier in the year, Lady Salisbury and Lady Gertrude, despite her hopes, had not been. And then to make matters worse, both had been attainted in June; stripped of their lands and titles, their wealth forfeit to the crown. Mary dared not even visit them for fear of arousing her father’s anger. It was so unfair.

  Something in Anne’s expression, something in her eyes, connected with Mary at that moment. The Princess Amalia was pleasing enough, but her eyes seemed empty…vacant. Holbein was a genius; there was no denying that; if he had painted the girl so, then it must be so. But Anne’s eyes shone with a lively intelligence and her lips curved in an intriguing manner; not quite a smile, no one smiled when their portrait was being painted; but it seemed as if she were bursting with life, was only just able to hold something back that longed to be released.

  “I like her eyes,” Mary whispered.

  Henry stood next to her and gazed at the portrait of Anne intently. Finally he said, “Yes…that is it. She is the one. Cromwell!”

  Cromwell bowed again. “Your Grace?”

  “I have decided upon the Princess Anne. See to it.”

  “Ah,” Cromwell replied. “A wise choice, Your Grace. I had a letter from Sir Christoph that came with the portraits, saying that in his opinion, the Princess Anne as far surpassed her sister the Princess Amalia in all things, as the golden sun does the silver moon.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Henry, waving an impatient hand. “How soon can we reach agreement on the marriage pact?” He had waited long enough; he had made his choice; now he was impatient for action. He wanted the girl here, in England, as soon as possible. Time was wasting; precious time at his age. He would brook no delay. He suddenly became aware of his painful leg and his squire, recognizing the signs, unobtrusively handed him his walking stick, on which the king began to lean heavily.

  “But Your Grace,” said Norfolk. “Is it wise to make a such decision so precipitously? Should not due consideration…”

  Suddenly Henry exploded. “Hold your peace, man! There has been enough delay. England needs a queen. I need a wife. I need more sons.”

  Norfolk turned around and pointed at Cromwell. “You!” he shouted. “This is your doing! How can England hope to convince Christendom that we are not Protestants and heretics whilst pursuing an alliance with a Protestant country!” He turned to the king. “Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider.”

  Henry assumed his hands-on-hips stance, leaned forward and bellowed, “What is there to consider, I ask you? We have our Six Articles to prove to Christendom that we are no heretics! But it has become evident since the break with Rome and the denial of papal authority that no Catholic country will ever allow its princesses to marry into England, and I need a wife! I need a queen! England needs more heirs!”

  “And that,” said Cromwell so softly that all of a sudden the hall became very quiet, so quiet that one could have heard a pin drop, “that is why the good duke has tried repeatedly to make his daughter, the Lady Mary Howard, the mistress of the king!” He turned to face Henry and said, “Your Grace, he seeks to influence you through the wiles of your own daughter-in-law! A more disloyal subject never trod the soil of England!” He was sorry as soon as he said it; he thought many things that should never be said, and he was usually a past master at controlling his tongue, but this time it just slipped out.

  An angry Duke of Norfolk rounded on Cromwell and said, “Why, you base-born son of a maggoty churl! That is a vicious lie! I sought no more than for my daughter to comfort the king in his loneliness!” Norfolk glared at Cromwell and Cromwell glared back; it was evident that they had nothing but contempt for each other. Their mutual hostility, which had been smoldering for some time, was now out in the open.

  The king raised himself up to his full height and banged his stick so hard upon the stone floor of the hall that sparks flew from it. “I will not have this unseemly squabbling! Stop this at once! Let it be known here and now, once and for all, that no woman, no man, be he bishop or pope, king or emperor, lord or churl, will ever have influence over me! I rule England, and no one else!” His eyes flashed and no one had the courage to meet his gaze as it swept the room. Every eye was fixed on the floor, every head bowed.

  “Now,” he said in a normal voice. “Cromwell, how soon can a delegation be sent to Cleves?”

  Thoughts raced through Cromwell’s head at this question; how to answer? In light of what the king had just said, was it safe to say that he had anticipated Henry’s decision and had already asked that Duke William send his delegation to England? Or was it best to just assure the king that all would be put in motion now and handled swiftly? Cromwell was not a gambling man, but this one time he decided to throw the dice.

  “A delegation from Cleves is already on its way to England, Your Grace.”

  Henry turned about and gazed once again at the portrait of Anne. “Oh, good man!” he said, slapping Cromwell on the back. “Let us get the formalities concluded as quickly as possible. I want her here before Christmas.”

  Cromwell flashed a quick look of triumph at Norfolk.

  “And let us prepare to move on to Woodstock,” said Henry. “I am for a change. My blood is restless now that I know my bride will soon be on her way.”

  Sir Gilbert feigned disappointment at the king’s words, but exchanged a covert glance with his wife; the relief in both sets of eyes was evident.

  Chapter 15

  “It is impossible to describe the love the people have for the princess.”

  - Eustace Chapuys, Imperial Ambassador to the court of Henry VIII

  Hampton Court Palace, November 1539

  “Ah,” said Henry. “There you are, my beauty.” Henry pulled the miniature out of his doublet, where he kept it stashed on a golden chain. Clever Holbein! Hard on the heels of the portraits the artist had sent from Cleves, he had sent, by fast messenger, an exquisite miniature of Anne. Wherever he happened to be, he had Anne’s life-size portrait set up in his rooms. But he could not stay in his rooms all
day…he said good morning to her every day upon arising, and then grudgingly went about his business, waiting for the moment when he returned so that he could see her face again. And then, like a miracle, Holbein’s miniature had arrived. Now, no matter where he was or what he was about, he had simply to pull out his little painting. Henry would see that the artist received a special purse upon his return to England for this thoughtful touch.

  As he fingered the little painting, he daydreamed about how life was about to change for him. Nothing made a man feel so young as being in love. Perhaps he was in love with love; otherwise, how explain this buoyant feeling that the anticipation of his betrothed’s arrival created in him? He had felt almost done in when Jane died. And ever since she had been taken from him, his life had been empty at the core. It recalled to mind a tree he had once seen in the forest at Windsor. It was a giant elm tree. It still had great spreading branches and green leaves, but the trunk was hollow. The tree was so tall and old that a man could have stood up in that empty center. That was how he had felt until Anne had come along. He was looking to her to fill that emptiness.

  It would be as it had been before, only better. He would play the same tricks on her that he had played on Katharine in their youth; he would dress up in some outlandish costume, surprise her in her rooms; she would play along until the moment when he revealed his true identity. Then they would laugh together. How they would laugh!

  He would compose poems for her and set them to music, as he had used to do for that other Anne. He would sing them to her, to his own accompaniment. Cromwell had already warned him that Anne had no music, but that it was not her fault; German ladies of gentle birth were not taught to play or sing. He would soon remedy that. And he would teach her to dance galliards and pavanes to his own compositions.