The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Suddenly the cloth of gold sails of the king’s flagship, the Great Harry, glinted on the horizon. Without taking her eyes off of the vessel that a stiff wind was carrying towards the dock at an alarming rate of speed, Catherine calmly rang the little silver bell on the table beside her.

  Her sister, Anne, Lady Herbert, appeared instantly.

  Without turning her head Catherine said, “The fleet is here. Fetch my Gentleman Usher and notify the court. We must greet His Grace as befits his loving subjects. Make certain that the cannons are set for the royal salute.”

  Anne was her sister’s only confidante; no one else understood or could be trusted. Softly Anne replied, “All is in readiness. Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

  Catherine took a deep breath and grasping her sister’s hand, squeezed it. “Quite ready,” she replied. “Let us to the dock.”

  # # #

  The welcoming ceremonies and the banquet to celebrate the king’s safe return from his Pyrrhic victory in France had been long and tiring, but at last they were over. Catherine reflected that it was ironic that one of the few compensations for the loss of Thomas had been the very fact of being queen, with all its concomitant perquisites, but yet she had been forced to all but abandon her fine apartments to live in an ante-room of the king’s opulent rooms. He would allow no one else to touch him now except his leeches, and if the king had his way, soon she would have the duty of bleeding him as well. When Henry wanted her, he was now too impatient to wait until she could be summoned from across the palace.

  So now here she was, aching with tiredness, but she could not gain her own bed until she had seen to the king. Wearily, Catherine began the long process of unwinding the king’s soiled bandages so that she could cleanse the sore on his leg, a wound which was now as big as his mighty fist, and festering with stinking pus. But the wound itself and what she must do to see Henry comfortable for the night was nothing compared to what he put her through while she was doing it.

  Henry simply would not accept the fact that his days as a lover were ended. While she tended his leg, he would insist on fondling her breasts through her shift, or sometimes he would perhaps feel a spark and make her remove her shift altogether. No one dared to enter the room whilst she tended the king, so she had no fears for her modesty, but all the same it made her uncomfortable.

  This evening was worse than usual; but if she must be made so wretched, she would at least get something for her pains. And if the king needed distraction from his pain while she washed his wound with her own special concoction of rain water, hyssop and witch hazel, she needed distraction from his wandering hands. She would begin her campaign of conversion by seeming to acquiesce to his disgusting insistence on searching the privacy of her body whilst she ministered to him.

  She knelt in the firelight, stark naked, and placed an empty basin under his leg. Carefully she warmed the cleansing brew. When it was ready she took a soft woolen cloth from the stack piled high for the purpose and gently squeezed it over the wound. In the firelight the drops of water resembled so many fireflies, falling to their doom in the basin below.

  The secret to Catherine’s unusual success in caring for the king’s leg was many-layered; it consisted of ensuring that the water was comfortably warm, not cold; the hyssop did have healing properties, but it also had a most pleasant smell; and she did not ever rub the wound, as the king’s apothecaries insisted on doing. She simply squeezed the healing, soothing waters over the wound until the top layer of pus was loosened and fell away. It was a long, tedious process. The king absent-mindedly squeezed her breast while she worked.

  “Henry,” she said softly. Deftly her hands managed the soft cloths, and the tinkling sound of water falling into the basin was at least soothing to the ear.

  “Hm?” His hand wandered from her breast to her thigh and she shuddered. The oaf! Could he not see that she was cold in her nakedness, despite the fire crackling on the hearth? But her shudder was not from the cold; his touch on the privy parts of her body sickened her, but she must endure it, turn it to her advantage; it was all part of her penance and God’s will that she should turn Henry finally and for all time from the Catholic faith. Had he not already denied the pope? Had he not despoiled the monasteries and turned out the lecherous and leech-like monks and nuns? He was half way there already. Let Bishop Gardiner burn heretics under her very nose to try to turn from her purpose; she had God on her side, and those who burned were all martyrs, blessed of God.

  “Were you satisfied with my regency?” She began drizzling the healing ointment onto the wound, instead of rubbing it on, as his apothecaries were wont to do.

  Henry had been idly caressing her buttocks, but at this question he sat up straight and changed before her very eyes from lecherous husband to king of England. “Very much so,” he replied. “All sing your praises in that regard, and none louder than myself.”

  Catherine was warming more ointment in a brass ladle over a small brazier that she had purposely placed just outside the king’s reach. Let him fondle his own privy parts! “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Tell me, were you not wroth when the pope wrote to the Emperor Charles chastising him for his alliance with England? I believe the bishop of Rome’s very words were ‘an alliance with a schismatic king and an enemy of Holy Church’.”

  Nonchalantly Catherine slipped her shift back over her head while a fresh batch of ointment cooled enough for her to begin drizzling it over the rest of the largest and ugliest of the sores, before she would move onto the smaller ones.

  Henry shifted in his chair. “The knave! The churl! What right has the bishop of Rome to interfere in the affairs of other countries?”

  “None, Your Grace,” said Catherine. “None at all. He has no right to impose anything at all upon a sovereign nation. England has an authority in religious matters in our own Supreme Head of the Church.” Catherine had been rolling lint into a gauze pad while she spoke; she now laid the soft cushion gently onto the massive sore. She had to bend to do so, and Henry spied a pink nipple atop a creamy breast. Had he not once dreamed of just this very moment? And now here was his lovely queen, with her tender touch, ministering to his sores whilst he fondled her. He slipped a beefy hand into the gaping front of her shift.

  Catherine tried to ignore his touch while she patiently bound up the whole with a long length of linen, cut expressly for the purpose.

  “Say you so, Sweetheart? I am Supreme Head of the church. I am inspired by God. All that I have done to rid our country of idolatry and superstition has been in His name.” Henry pursed his thin lips, and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.

  Catherine deliberately tried to place the items she needed just out of reach so that she would have to break the king’s embraces. She did so now, rising to find the olive oil and the distilled essences of various flowers, stems, seeds, leaves and barks. Unlike some, she never mixed the ingredients until she was ready to use them, to ensure that they were fresh. She only used ingredients that had a pleasant odor. To all her concoctions she added almond oil and honey. Then she heated the totality over the brazier and used the fragrant oil to massage the king’s mighty shoulders. “I do say so,” she replied. “We need not a church that speaks to us in a language none but the erudite can understand, and which teaches us that all we need do is confess our sins and be absolved to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Is not doing good works more important than confessing bad ones?”

  Henry seized her arm when she would have turned away to fetch more of the heated oil. Her hands were slick with it and she dared not touch anything lest she soil it. Helplessly she fell onto the king’s lap. Henry took her by the forearms and spun her around as if she weighed nothing. Catherine lifted her eyes and saw that Henry’s were closed to mere slits and the corners of his mouth were wet with saliva. “I’ll show you good works,” he said huskily. “And I have a better use for that oil on your hands.”

  Would he never learn, she wondered? Again she would be forced to knead and s
queeze, she would be obliged to let him try, but it would all come to naught. He could only get so far and his failures frustrated him mightily. Still, at least when they reached this stage she knew that her ordeal was nearing its end. He would try; he would fail; and the king would be only too glad, in his great embarrassment and chagrin, to see the back of his queen for another day.

  Windsor Castle, January 1545

  Catherine sat on the dais beside the king under the richly decorated royal canopy of state and reflected that if her private life with the king was trying, there were certainly compensations. She had become just like him in the fact that she was now a consummate actor; but unlike the king, she was not self-deluded by her own performances. Henry was utterly and unshakably convinced that she loved him. Neither by word, expression, nor deed had she ever given herself away, not even when Thomas had unexpectedly returned to court in October.

  Henry had not told her that he had recalled Thomas from Brussels; she was convinced that he was determined to find them out, and such a surprise was meant to shock her into giving herself away. But she was too clever for him, and thank heaven, so was Thomas. She doubted if Thomas had been faithful to her during his sojourn at the court of the Regent of the Netherlands, but she had not expected him to be. Men were men, after all. The king had made quite a ceremony of appointing Thomas Master-General of the Ordinance, a position that would take him away from court often and for long periods, and off he went again. It was just as well. They would bide their time, she and Thomas.

  At that moment Clarenceux Herald, the husband of Mary’s waiting woman, Susan, thrust out his chest and boomed, “The Most Right High and Honourable Lady Elizabeth!” It was the last day of Christmas, and the royal children had been summoned to present their New Year’s gifts to the king and queen. Elizabeth approached the dais shyly and presented her gift to the queen. Catherine took it with a regal nod. It was a book, bound in blue velvet, sewn with gold thread and tiny pearls. In the flyleaf Elizabeth had written a most loving dedication to her stepmother. It was a translation from French into English of a popular religious text.

  Next it was Mary’s turn; she presented her stepmother with the first edition of her translation of Erasmus’s Paraphrases of the Gospel of Saint John. Both offerings filled Catherine with a sense of triumph. But her greatest achievement thus far in her bid to influence the Supreme Head of the Church of England towards religious reform was gaining the king’s agreement to supervise the educations of the royal children. For Elizabeth she had chosen as tutor William Grindal, an ardent reformer, and for Edward, Sir John Cheke. Neither child was likely to emerge from their tuition a Roman Catholic.

  Catherine had been further encouraged in her plan to reform the English church through her influence with the king when Henry himself had, for the second time, rescued Archbishop Cranmer from the clutches of Bishop Gardiner and the Catholic faction at court. In the spring of the previous year, Cranmer had been accused of heresy by his own canons of Canterbury. But Henry had ridiculed them and placed Cranmer in charge of his own investigation; in essence, exonerating him of the charge. Henry had even turned a blind eye when Cranmer had used this encouragement from the king to bring his wife, whom he had sorely missed, back to England. And then in November Cranmer had been surprised in the Council chamber, being informed that he was charged with heresy and was being taken to the Tower. Cranmer then handed the nonplussed Gardiner a ring that the king himself had given him, in case his unruly Council should try such a trick. When the Council ran to the king to complain, they were upbraided and informed that the ring was genuine and if the Council expected to retain the king’s goodwill, they would henceforth cease their harassment of his Archbishop of Canterbury and esteem him as did the king, or they would smart for it. The astonished Gardiner and the rest of the Council repaired back to their chamber with their tails between their legs.

  How could Catherine but be encouraged by such behavior on the part of the king? Her plan seemed fair fit to succeed. She had only to bring the king around, subtly of course, on a few more salient points and then she would be ready to enlighten him as to the fact that his own behavior and beliefs indicated Reform; and then she would work with Archbishop Cranmer in earnest to transform the English Church. Along with molding the mind of the future king of England, it was to be her greatest achievement.

  “Come,” said Henry. “Let us to my chambers and out of this formal atmosphere. I would enjoy the company of my children.”

  “Yes,” smiled Catherine, patting the king’s good leg. “Let us do so. Your Grace,” she turned to Prince Edward, who was standing by her side, “will you kindly fetch your lady sisters? The king would have us repair to his Privy Chamber.” Edward nodded gravely and when the young prince descended the dais the crowd of people parted as if he were Moses dividing the Red Sea.

  That was another accomplishment of which Catherine was justly proud; she had succeeded in molding the king and his children, all from different mothers, into the semblance of a family. Only Mary remembered her mother, and had lived a happy life before her tragedy began. But neither Edward nor Elizabeth remembered their mothers, and had never known a family life. Each in their own way, she had gained their love and respect, and, she believed, their affection.

  In Edward’s case this was especially important; he was a small, solemn child, in awe of his gargantuan father, and determined to fulfill his destiny as king, the importance of which had been drilled into him since birth. It would be her task to win his trust, that she might mold him into the reforming king that England needed him to be.

  “At last!” exclaimed Henry, as he lowered himself carefully and painfully into his special chair. The chair was his New Year’s gift from Mary, thoughtful girl! …who had arranged for its construction and had chosen and embroidered its upholstery with her own hands. “Mary!” he called.

  Mary approached her father warily, as she always did, but if he noticed her reticence, he gave no indication of it. “Come, Daughter, I have another gift for you!”

  Mary smiled, fingering the king’s New Year’s gift of an exquisite ruby and gold filigree necklace at her throat, which had been presented to her earlier in the evening. “Your Grace is far too generous,” she said.

  “Ah, but this gift is priceless. Daughter, I have found a husband for you.” Henry’s face had become as vast as a platter as he had gained pound after pound; his eyes had become lost in its folds of sagging fat. They were as beady as a ferret’s but still frighteningly penetrating for all that.

  Mary was at first too stunned to speak. Edward and Elizabeth were sitting by the fire playing with a litter of greyhound puppies; one of Catherine’s bitches had whelped. They were laughing and oblivious to their older sister’s shocked silence. At last! The king had come to his senses and was going to allow her to marry Philip. She had never really given up, although she had known some bad moments in the fall when amongst the many issues bandied by the kings of England and France as they tried to hammer out a peace treaty had been the seemingly never-ending suggestion of a match between Mary and the Duc d’ Orleans. But just as that possibility was being mooted, François unexpectedly made a separate peace with the Emperor Charles, a great humiliation for England, and the duc was subsequently betrothed to Mary’s cousin, Charles’ daughter, the Princess Maria. Mary’s relief had been profound.

  “…Adolf of Denmark,” said the king. “Well, what think you, Daughter? Have I not resolved all possible issues with such a match?”

  Mary’s attention swung like a beacon back onto her father. She had been lost in her own thoughts and had not been listening to him.

  The queen came to her rescue. Giving Mary a sharp look, she said, “Of a certainty, Your Grace, it is a clever solution to a most bothersome problem. Duke Adolph is Catholic, but his brother, the King of Denmark, indeed, all of Denmark, is Lutheran. The duke is loyal to his brother, and has neither the resources nor the desire to usurp his brother’s throne. The Lady Mary is therefore
not called upon to compromise her religious beliefs, and there is no danger to the English throne.”

  Henry was waiting for expostulations of joyful thanks; instead Mary stood, her mouth slightly open, pale as a hawthorn blossom, and speechless as a mute. She could not, she would not, marry anyone except Philip. How could he expect it of her? Denmark had neither strategic importance nor the resources to support England in any mutual pacts; it was an insignificant country in European politics, bankrupt from civil wars and conflicts with Sweden.

  “Come now,” said Henry, now slightly irritated, “are you not mad with joy? I have found you a husband at long last and a Catholic one! Are you not happy? He is a younger brother, so he will reside here; another cause for rejoicing! And best of all, you need not even leave court, or go to a foreign country to live, as your royal aunts, indeed, as most princesses, are called upon to do.”

  Still Mary stood as if pole-axed.

  Henry turned in exasperation to Catherine. “What ails the girl?” he cried.

  Catherine’s lip curled slightly and she replied, “The Lady Mary is probably as stunned as I was when Your Grace made known your intentions towards myself.”

  That did bring Mary out of her shock; she knew just how stunned Catherine had been as she recalled the devastated look that had passed between her and Thomas Seymour on that Candlemas Day just a year ago. Mary flicked a quick glance at Catherine, who wordlessly gestured, by widening her eyes and pursing her lips that some response was called for, and it had better be positive.