The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Enfield Place, December 1539

  For the fourth time in succession, Mary picked up the golden rattle and handed it back to Edward. At two, he was steady on his feet, and confident in his ability to get what he wanted from his little circle of friends. Laughing, he once again dropped the rattle at Mary’s feet. This time she picked it up, but did not return it. Instead, she examined it closely, looking at the little ivory balls it contained, and wondering how much more abuse the rattle could take. Some sycophantic courtier had given the rattle to the prince for the anniversary of his birth in October, and the child had been reluctant ever since to part with it. Mary surreptitiously hid the rattle in her skirts, but Edward was not to be fooled. For a two-year old, he had a truly remarkable attention span.

  “Mine,” he said, pleasantly enough, but with no mistake as to his intention to have the toy back.

  Mary smiled and handed it over. Perceiving that she was tried of the game, Edward toddled off and started the same game with Lady Bryan. Mary sighed and took Dame Agnes’s letter from her bodice, where she had kept it since its arrival the week before. The Dame and her nuns were settled in Haarlem, and she thanked Mary for her help in seeing to the relocation of the inhabitants of the Syon infirmary to alternate accommodation. Mary had not had the heart to tell her that many of them had not survived the upheaval; Sister Clare had died in her bed the day before she was to be moved, and some of the feebler denizens of the infirmary died soon after the move. She had delayed as long as she dared, however, and knew she must reply to the letter before the week was out, lest the Dame be informed of these unfortunate events by a less gentle correspondent than herself.

  Edward was still dropping his rattle and the sound was beginning to grate on Mary’s nerves. How different was Edward from his little cousin, Jane Grey. Jane was quiet and docile and had a placid temperament. She must surely take after her father, the marquis of Dorset, thought Mary, for her mother, Lady Frances, was anything but docile. She watched as Lady Margaret Douglas bounced Jane on her knee, making the little girl smile and coo. It was a soothing, domestic scene, and Mary realized that she had almost dropped off into a doze when she heard the sound of voices in the corridor outside the solar.

  Lady Bryan arose to see what was to do, and came back with a sour expression on her face. “My lady, my lord Wriothesley is here to see you.”

  Mary grimaced. What on earth could Wriothesley possibly want with her? “Thank you, Lady Bryan,” said Mary. She stood up, smoothed her skirts and her hair, and walked to the door, turning to look back at the room and its inhabitants. The afternoon was getting on and the sun sent sharply slanted, golden rays into the room, which faced south and west. She shivered as she walked into the corridor, which was much colder than the cozy solar.

  Enfield was a small dwelling, and had no hall, so Wriothesley had been installed in the little sitting room where the chatelaine did her accounts.

  Mary appeared in the doorway and said, “My lord,” with just the hint of a question in her voice.

  Wriothesley, who had been standing at the window looking out over the bleak garden, turned and bowed. “My lady,” he replied. This room also faced west and had the same golden rays of sunlight shining in through the windows; in which countless dust motes danced.

  All of a sudden Mary thought she knew why he had come; he had been sent by her father to demand that she oversee the preparations for the wedding. Wedding frenzy had commenced in November when word came that, after much dickering, it had finally been decided that the Duchess Anne of Cleves should travel over land to Calais to reach England, instead of by water from a Baltic port. Winter was coming, and it was deemed prudent to keep sea travel to a minimum. England’s new queen, her father’s new wife, was finally on her way.

  The court was plunged into a whirlwind of activity, with everyone ordering sumptuous new clothes and jewels for the occasion of the king’s fourth wedding. No expense was to be spared, and everyone must show their eagerness for the new queen’s arrival, if they meant to please the king. There was a most unseemly scramble among the nobility for positions in the new queen’s household. Decisions must be made.

  As much as Mary longed for the new queen to arrive, she had still been uneasy at the thought that her father was marrying a Protestant heretic. She had been much relieved, and frankly overjoyed, to learn that Anne was, in fact, a Catholic. Cromwell was aghast, and Mary had taken great pleasure in the fact. It was true that he had seemed to befriend her during her great crisis in 1536, when her life had been in danger, but she had learned much about men and politics since then; whatever Cromwell had done for her had also benefitted him.

  She therefore felt no compunction about revelling in his discomfiture over his misunderstanding about the new queen’s religion. She knew Cromwell for a reformist and despised him for it, and she would never forgive his unrelenting dissolution of English abbeys and monasteries. The sheer toll in human misery wrought by these actions was enough in her estimation to damn him to Hell. That her father allowed Cromwell and many others to benefit personally from such blasphemous actions appalled her.

  Suddenly she became aware of Wriothesley’s eyes upon her. She smiled sheepishly. “Forgive me, my lord. To what do I owe the honour of this visit?”

  “About two weeks ago,” he said, so quietly that Mary instinctively leant forward to better hear him, “the Duke of Bavaria arrived in England.”

  Mary was a straightforward person and detested guessing games; she was inclined to snap back, “And what has that to do with me?” But she waited with arched brows for Wriothesley to continue.

  Wriothesley held out a hand that indicated Mary should sit; she did so, allowing him to sit as well. Just then a maidservant entered the room, laid a new log on the fire, stoked it, and departed. Still Wriothesley said nothing; he seemed content to pick pieces of lint from the rich burgundy velvet of his sleeve. Finally, he drew a breath and continued on. “His Highness’s name is Philip, and he is a kinsman of the new queen.”

  Still Mary sat with arched brows; she failed to see what this was supposed to mean to her. She noted, however, how everyone seemed to be referring to Anne as the New Queen. She had a tendency to do so herself. But there had been no proxy marriage; Anne would not be queen until the wedding took place. The king was planning a Christmas wedding at Greenwich. What had that to do with Duke Philip, whoever he was?

  “Duke Philip rules the Palatinate of Neuberg, in lower Bavaria,” said Wriothesley, who had ceased picking at his clothing and now sat with his hands clasped around his knee. “He is also Count Palatine of the Rhine.”

  Still at a loss, Mary replied, “How impressive.”

  “I am glad that you think so,” replied Wriothesley. He looked directly at Mary; she noticed that his eyes, which were very dark and deep-set, had a tendency to move rapidly back and forth, giving him a shifty look. Mary neither liked nor disliked Wriothesley; she had seldom come into contact with him; until recently he had been England’s ambassador to the court of her cousin Mary of Hungary in Brussels. But he was making her feel decidedly uneasy.

  Still Mary said nothing.

  “The duke has asked the king for your hand in marriage,” he said.

  For a moment the room seemed to fade away, the noise of the crackling fire became inaudible, and Mary realized that she was about to faint. She held on to the arms of her chair and fought for control. As unobtrusively as possible, she took deep breaths. When she could speak, she replied, “He h-has? But why?”

  “Both the king and Cromwell think it a good match,” said Wriothesley, completely ignoring Mary’s question. Finally, he unclasped his hands and placed them on his knees. “The duke has heard much of Your Highness, your accomplishments, your virtue. I assure you that he has come to England of his own free will, and wishes to court you. Your royal father has agreed, and commands that you meet with the duke and make him welcome.”

  Mary looked at her hands. Her rings flashed in the firelight. The r
oom was now in shadow. She arose and began to light the candles that were placed in candelabra about the room.

  With her back to Wriothesley, she said, “The duke is a Protestant?”

  After the briefest hesitation, Wriothesley replied, “He is.” Mary turned to look at Wriothesley, but said nothing.

  “The king commands that you be agreeable to the duke. You are to meet him at Westminster forthwith.”

  Mary felt her ire rising. She must get out of this room and out of the presence of this odious man. She walked to the window, but it was now dark and she could see nothing. She fought down her anger and enquired calmly, “When?”

  “On the day after tomorrow, if it pleases Your Highness.”

  If it pleased her! She longed to shout that it did not please her. If only Chapuys were nearby, so she could have consulted with him. But there would be no time. Chapuys had been sent to Antwerp in April and while there, had suffered a severe attack of the gout. He had been doing his best to perform his diplomatic duties from there, as he had been too crippled to face the journey back to London.

  Why was her father doing this to her? She had thought herself immune at this point to the fate of royal princesses, of being forced to leave the place of her birth and all that she knew to dwell in a foreign land. She wanted to marry and have children, but she did not want to leave England. If she were forced to marry a Protestant prince she would be exiled from England forever. And she would certainly not be allowed to practice her religion in a Protestant duchy!

  She turned to face Wriothesley. “I have no desire to change my religion, sir.”

  “You will obey your father, my lady.”

  It was not a question, it was a statement of fact. Wriothesley said it without rancor; he simply said it.

  The tears welled up in Mary’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. It was as simple as that. She would be given no choice. And then she could see it all. Her father had demonstrated amply that he would never allow her to marry a Catholic, who might invade England in her name to claim the throne. As an excommunicated king, allowing Mary to marry a Catholic was out of the question. Edward was now two years old and thriving; she was no longer needed as insurance against his demise. She loved Edward, but his presence made her own redundant, and she was astute enough to realize the possible danger she posed to him. Her father wanted to nullify her power, such as it was. She was no longer the heir to England, recognized or not. She was not only superfluous, she was a threat. Suddenly her bile rose and a wave of nausea swept over her.

  “Please forgive me, my lord,” she said. “But I feel unwell. Will you kindly send my women?” She dropped down with an inelegant plop into the nearest chair.

  Wriothesley made no sign other than to bow and say, “Certainly, my lady.” He left the room on silent feet.

  The candles had not been fresh and now burned low. As Mary sat in the near dark, the tears she had been holding back spilled over. There was nothing she could do but obey.

  Calais, December 1539

  The monotonous sound of the horses’ hooves pounding on the track had almost put Anne to sleep, but the sudden shrill sound of trumpets caused her to jerk awake. She pulled up the litter’s little leather shade and the sight revealed to her was a bleak one. The December days were short and this one was drawing in early. Huge banks of gray clouds roiled in the sky, threatening rain that so far had not come.

  Anne had learned a few words of English, thanks to Sir Christoph Mont, who had taken pains to begin her tuition in that language as soon as it was certain that she would be going to England. She was an apt pupil and a fast learner, and now she sought every opportunity to use what she had learned and build upon it.

  “Vot vass dat?” she enquired of Lady Mont, who was riding with Anne in the sumptuous litter that had seemed at first like a haven, but now, after almost a month, was more like a prison. As neither lady was fond of horses and neither rode well enough to risk riding even for brief periods, in the litter they had stayed.

  Lady Mont had learned that she must speak English to Anne very slowly, and she used her hands a great deal to signify her speech. She now mimicked a trumpet, and said, “The Royal Guard has come to meet us.” Lord Lisle, who was to host Anne at Calais until such time as she could risk a Channel crossing, must have had outriders watching for the approach of their cavalcade.

  Anne understood the word royal, and smiled. It seemed that one day she was what she had always been, an obscure if wealthy and well-looked after lady of a noble German house; and the next, she was the future queen of England. Germanic lore abounded in fairy stories, and ever since Herr Holbein had come to paint her and her sister Amalia, life had changed remarkably.

  At first there was some uncertainty; which lady would the king of England choose, indeed, would he even choose either of them? And then the joyful news had come; Henry of England would have the Lady Anne. Whilst the men had held their secret conclaves, the women of the noble House of Cleves had begun choosing fabrics, cutting dress patterns, buying yards of a new-fangled thing called lace, and sending frenziedly for information about the latest fashions at the courts of Brussels and Antwerp.

  And then suddenly it all stopped; her brother, the new duke, had unearthed a pre-contract with the House of Lorraine. It was the first Anne had ever heard of it, but then, her father would not have deigned to inform either her or her mother of any plans of a political nature. For weeks the betrothal with England hung fire, and Anne, bitterly disappointed, had roamed the castle gardens at Düsseldorf, feeling as if her fairy tale had been snatched away before it had even begun. Now Amalia would be sent for instead and she, Anne, would be left behind. The two sisters were very close and had looked with great sorrow upon the possibility of being parted, perhaps forever; but they knew that they must marry, for the alternative was spinsterhood, a state in which no woman wished to live out her years.

  On the day that the news had reached Cleves that the wedding with England was to proceed, she had been stunned and overjoyed. Never again would she allow anything to cast her down so much as the thought of losing the match with England had done.

  She knew little of her bridegroom, indeed, what did that matter? She would marry where she was told to marry, and make the best of it, as all noble ladies were expected to do. The few questions she asked were waved off as of no importance. At this point, all that she knew of Henry of England was that he was old and this would be his fourth marriage; he had three children, one from each of his wives. That she would be expected to bear sons went without saying. This would be her pleasure; she wanted children of her own and had many times despaired of ever having any. She was not quite certain how this was to come about, but her ladies assured her that when the time came, she would know what to do, and please not to fret and ask any more awkward questions. Enough for now that she was an affianced bride and that her future husband had chosen her, her, from amongst a field of many candidates, some of them reputed to be the most beautiful princesses in Christendom.

  Amalia had never been promised, and so Amalia felt no lack; all along she had been the only one convinced that everything would work out for Anne’s happiness, and she had been right. In the last few nights they had spent together, they still shared the same bed as they had done since they were babies, Amalia had been as excited for Anne as Anne was for herself.

  “I am youngest,” Amalia said. “My turn will come. But never shall I be as grand as you, Dear Anne! A queen! If I marry I shall be a duchess like Sybille, a countess, or perhaps a baroness, but never a queen! I am so happy for you!”

  And so she departed Cleves on a cold, gray morning in November. It had been deemed best for her family not to accompany her to Antwerp; they said their goodbyes in Düsseldorf, where the court had been at that time, and where they would celebrate Christmas. Anne had expected to be frightened at being away from her family for the first time in her life, but she found to her surprise that she was not. In fact, she experienced an unexpected lifting of her s
pirits. She was perceptive enough to see that Lady Mont, who was to accompany her as far as Calais, was much relived that she did not have a tearful, fearful, perhaps hysterical girl to deal with.

  It seemed to all around her that Anne had assumed a new poise, a new dignity; no longer was she simply the unmarried sister of the duke of a small German duchy. She was the future Queen of England, and the members of the traveling party treated her with the respect and deference due to her new rank.

  But she had been completely unprepared for the royal greeting that she received upon her arrival in Antwerp. Five miles outside the city, at dusk on a day of brilliant sunshine and blue skies, she had been met by a company of fifty English merchants. It was a colorful display, with all the people wearing their best finery. Servants carried banners and pennants that fluttered and glinted in the breeze, and the sun reflected off the cloth of gold and silver of the clothing of the excited countrymen of her betrothed. They cheered her until they were hoarse, and as she entered the city, where dusk by this time had fallen, the streets were ablaze with hundreds of torches to light her way.

  She was installed for the night in the home of a prosperous English burgher, and when asked if she would mind receiving some of the people who had walked miles to greet her, she readily agreed. After a simple supper, Anne took up her place in the sitting room and received hundreds with a smile and her few words of English. She laughed at her mistakes and won the hearts of all who passed through the house of her host. It was well past midnight when the last well-wishers departed, and Anne, exhausted but happy, went to sleep with a smile on her face.

  And now here they were approaching Calais. She had wondered what to expect, and if her greeting here would be as ecstatic as that she had experienced in Antwerp. But the clarion call of the trumpets heralded a grand reception, to which she was eagerly looking forward.

  Lady Mont, who had known Anne for many years, was much impressed with her. Many women would have been fretting over their hair and clothing at such a moment, but Anne seemed very comfortable to be feted in her traveling clothes. In short, she had no vanity, and this was a characteristic of which Lady Mont heartily approved.