The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  Lady Catherine had removed the soft, dove-grey leather riding glove from her hand and slipped over it instead her gauntlet. Everything about the duchess was feminine in the extreme; even her gauntlet was sewn with pearls. She leaned from her horse and the falconer lifted one of the dainty merlins onto her gauntlet. Lady Catherine tugged at the braces and the bird’s hood fell away.

  There was wisely no competition here; Henry’s Gyr Falcons hunted rodents and Lady Catherine’s merlins hunted other birds in flight. Again they locked eyes and with a nod they simultaneously cast off. Both birds soared with piercing screams that carried on the wind like the wails of banshees and must have struck terror into the hearts of the wildlife of the surrounding countryside.

  The wild ride up the hill had caused Lady Catherine’s white cloak to open and ride back on her shoulders. Just as Henry turned to look at her again and to let his eyes feast upon her captivating beauty, he noticed that she was wearing a cloth of silver gown under a kirtle of violet velvet. No wonder her eyes had seemed so purple, he thought. At that moment the sun peeked through the clouds and struck her full on, and she glowed as if she were on fire. Henry’s stomach did a flip-flop and a hot rush of blood surged through his veins. It was as if she were made of fire and ice, all at the same time. He simply must have her.

  As the morning wore on, the baskets filled with little furry and feathered things; the rabbit skins and squirrel pelts would be used to trim the king’s clothing, and the rabbits would make a tasty pie; the skylarks and doves that Lady Catherine’s merlins had caught would be eaten, and their feathers used to stuff pillows and cushions. Still, Henry reflected, it was a shame about the skylarks and the doves; he loved the song of the lark and the cooing of the dove.

  He turned to encounter the duchess looking at him assessingly. He was a king, and yet in the young duchess’s presence he felt like a tongue-tied schoolboy. Part of him relished the feelings reminiscent of his own youth; another part wished to throw her from her horse, lift her skirts, and show her exactly who Henry of England was.

  He licked his lips, which were dry and chapped from the cold. He looked beyond the duchess to a little copse of trees they would pass through on their way back to the palace. Hidden deep within that copse was Rosamund’s Bower, the trysting place that his ancestor, King Henry II, had built almost four hundred years earlier in which to hide his mistress from his vengeful queen. It was a romantic story; the building that stood there now was not the Bower of legend, but a small lodge used as a place of refuge for the hunting parties to warm themselves on cold days such as this one.

  “Come,” said Henry. “The day grows colder instead of warmer. Let us take our ease at the lodge whilst the bird-men take their charges back to the palace.”

  Lady Catherine was no fool; she looked at the king but stayed silent.

  Again that school-boy bashfulness coupled with that delicious flutter in his gut. “I-I...” he stuttered. “I have something very particular I should like to ask you, my lady.”

  Still she regarded him silently. Lady Catherine was aware that she was known as a termagant, and that reputation had served her well; it was a rare person, man or woman, noble or villein, who dared to cross her. But she had also learned that silence could be as powerful a weapon as angry and acerbic words.

  “That is, if you wish to ride that way…” He simply could not read the wench; it was part of the mystery of her that fascinated him. What was she thinking? Did he dare take a risk of offending her?

  Finally, Lady Catherine drew a breath and the king, did he but know it, leaned forward eagerly over his pommel, the better to hear what his heart’s desire had to say.

  “Perhaps,” she said quietly, “we could ride through the maze?”

  Suddenly a thought struck Henry and pierced him to the heart. Of course. She had remembered, but he had not. He could not dismount his horse, or he would not be able to remount on his own; his girth prevented it. And he was incapable of walking all the way back to the palace on his afflicted legs. He, who used to joust until he had bested all comers, tiring horse after horse! It was humiliating. But tactfully, Lady Catherine had not said as much, she had simply suggested an alternate way to amuse themselves.

  “Yes,” he said, in a voice that came close to sounding chastened. “If that is your wish, my lady.”

  Lady Catherine slowly blinked her eyes, and for the moment when her lids were down, it was as if the sun had gone dark. Then she reopened her eyes and nodded. “It is indeed.” And with that, she waved her falconer, who was rewarding the merlins with their gobbets of venison, back to the palace.

  She knew what the king had in mind; his attentions were anything but subtle and his intentions as plain as the mottled nose on his face. Lady Catherine had been a young girl when she witnessed the king’s cruel treatment of his queen, Katharine of Aragon. Her mother had been the queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting, having come with her all the way from Spain. Lady Catherine had been a silent witness to the king’s unkind treatment of friend and foe alike for much of her life. She had never been blind to his lust for her, and had thanked God fasting that Brandon, her beloved, had stood between her and the monarch’s desire. Now her beloved was dead and gone, and there was no one and nothing to protect her but her wits.

  They had ridden along in silence to the maze, the king respecting what seemed to be her wish for quiet. The sun was a watery white disk, only just visible through the whiteness of the sky. Whereas before it had seemed to cast a pleasant glow on everything, to render the day somewhat magical, now its light seemed harsh, even baleful. Perhaps it was because the sun was now high in the sky.

  As they entered the maze, they had to ride very close. Henry reached over and took hold of Lady Catherine’s horse’s bridle, causing their two mounts to come even closer. Henry’s leg brushed against her own. She looked at him quizzically, as if he had breached some code or made some display of bad manners. She did not frown, for that would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette on her part; one did not frown at one’s sovereign. But her discomfort was unmistakable.

  God’s Eyeballs, he asked himself, what was a man to do?

  “I…” he said. “I…Catherine, dear lady, will you be my queen?” There! He had blurted it out. He had not meant to, but there it was. At least now he had shown his hand.

  Lady Catherine regarded him expressionlessly. This time the silence was so loud it hurt his hears.

  “My Lord,” she said, in that voice that was like liquid fire, “forgive me, but Your Grace already has a queen, have you not?” It was a fair question…and one that Anne Boleyn had likely asked almost twenty years ago! Lady Catherine fought to keep her expression bland.

  Henry grimaced. “Well, yes,” he said. He knew a sudden impulse to rip the cap from his head and dash it to the ground, as he used to do in his youth when he was exasperated. But now he dare not do so; he was not bald, but his hairline had receded greatly and there were now as many silver hairs on his head as there were red ones. Best to leave his hat, studded with gems and sporting a cock’s feather, where it was. “But…”

  Catherine did not wish to hear any more; neither did she wish to be queen of England. A most dangerous position, as the king had amply demonstrated a number of times. To have the king as admiring slave was just, only just, tolerable, since there was little she could do about it; but the very thought of sleeping next to that great mass of putrefying flesh, of making love to him…the very thought was enough to make her bile rise. As if she would let another man touch her! Brandon had been her only love since she was a small child, and that he would remain, with nothing to sully her memory of him.

  At the thought of Brandon her ire rose along with that familiar surge of helpless love. For little did the king know, but Lady Catherine held him directly responsible for Brandon’s death. Her husband’s health had not been good, but Henry had sent him to France anyway, to a useless war. It was true, she had to own, that Brandon had wanted to go; but that
was immaterial. The king had known, and she herself could plainly see, that the duke should not have been made to make such exertions. But the king had ordered him to command his armies, and nothing would have held Brandon, good, loyal Brandon, from doing his duty to the king.

  But then to require him to be at Southsea Castle for the French invasion was altogether too much. Brandon had returned from the French war looking and feeling his age, and in obvious need of a respite. She had begged and pleaded; Brandon had already done his bit in France. He was ill and exhausted. But the king had called and, as always, Brandon had answered that call. Even for that she could have, perhaps, forgiven the king. But even after the French had fled, then the king had called upon his friend to lead the salvage effort for the Mary Rose. And that, as far as she was concerned, was unforgivable. The effort had been too much and Brandon had collapsed and died.

  And for what? To salvage a ship named for Brandon’s first wife, and the king’s dear sister, dead these twelve years! Mary Tudor, Henry’s younger sister, was to have been her mother-in-law; but Lady Catherine, Twelfth Baroness de Eresby in her own right, had used every subterfuge possible to avoid marrying Brandon’s son. How could they expect it of her? The boy was four years younger than herself, ten years of age to her fourteen, and sickly. He was a charming child, and she loved him in her way, but marry him she would not. She was the ward of the Suffolks, and lived with them; they only wanted to marry her to their son for her title, her lands, and her money. Very well, Brandon could have them all, but only if he married her himself.

  And so Lady Catherine had embarked upon a campaign as well-planned and organized as any Brandon had ever devised for his military exploits. Mary Tudor, known always as the French Queen because of her earlier marriage to Louis XII, had had a chronic misery in her gut and did not look to make old bones. Brandon would be sad when she died, but one, in her experience, always seemed to love more than the other, where love was involved; and in the case of Mary and Brandon, it was obvious who loved whom more. Brandon would be distressed by his wife’s death, but not devastated. Even before Mary was in her grave at thirty-nine, Catherine had set about to win Brandon’s heart. And if love was not forthcoming, there were other lures. Either way, the prize of her wealth and title would be Brandon’s; why not marry her himself?

  Her campaign had been successful, and barely three months after the French Queen’s death, she and Brandon had married, with the blessing of the king. Even then Lady Catherine had not been blind to the king’s passion for her. But the king loved Brandon too well to cuckold him. And Lady Catherine’s plan had been further justified when young Henry Brandon had died, following his mother to the grave less than a year after her death.

  And so here they were; the lecherous king looking to kill another wife so that he could marry herself. As if she would ever even consider marrying the murderer of her husband! For she held Henry Tudor squarely to blame for the death of her beloved Brandon. Brandon had been only just sixty; the Duke of Norfolk was seventy-three and thriving! She could have had many more years with her beloved had not the king selfishly worn him into the ground.

  But neither was Lady Catherine unaware of the danger of saying no to the king. She would run this campaign just as she had run the one that had won her Brandon. Play for time.

  Lady Catherine smiled and laid a hand upon the king’s, sending a thrill from his head to his feet, and back to that delicious spot in his loins. “Your Grace does me too much honour,” she said. “I know well how much you loved my lord. You wish to honour me in his name. But dear king, have pity on a poor widow whose heart is broken and still raw with the same love that you bore our dear Brandon. I could not think of marrying until at least one year has passed.” Tears welled up in those eyes that were already like great, deep pools; the swimming liquid made them look like enormous sapphires. The tears were real enough, and she did not lie about the heartbreak.

  Henry immediately withdrew. “Of course, of course, I understand,” he said. “We will speak again of this when the time is right.”

  Lady Catherine dabbed her eyes with a lavender-scented linen square. She was safe for now, praise God, but she must warn the queen without delay. For she knew full well that Queen Catherine was in excellent health, and the only way the king could be contemplating ridding himself of her to make room for yet a seventh wife would be by means both foul and nefarious.

  Richmond Palace, July 1546

  The Marchioness of Dorset stood staring out of the window at Anne’s finely clipped lawns and gardens. June had been a delightful month, but July was proving beastly. Frances mopped her brow and reflected that this summer was a mean season in more ways than one. The king was burning heretics, which was no surprise; but the way he was going about it was alarming. His Grace was using as his cat’s paw Chancellor Wriothesley, a knave if ever there was one, and the Lord Chancellor in turn was using to wreak havoc his own henchmen such as Sir Richard Riche…all religious zealots and all bent on the destruction of the New Faith. It was a dangerous time; it was advisable to keep one’s views to one’s self. Silence was the best defense against the noose, the stake and the axe.

  A welcome breeze wafted in through the window, which was wide and long. Richmond was a new palace, having been built on the ruins of the old Palace of Sheen; it had been sited to take best advantage of the cooling winds from the north. Frances closed her eyes and let the coolness wash over her.

  The solar was the best place in the palace, to Lady Frances’s way of thinking. It was large with many windows, and once the morning sun had made its journey into afternoon, it became cool with any breeze that chanced to blow. Suddenly she was jolted out her reverie by a piercing scream; young Lord Darnley was making his will plainly known, even at his young age. If the truth be owned, Frances detested children. When they were babies they were dirty, noisy, and best left to their wet nurses and dry nurses; when they grew older and were even more difficult of temperament, they were best left to their tutors. Her own children, three daughters, were all placed as far away as she could send them. Jane was with the prince, because they were of an age and had proven to be inseparable. The younger children were cared for by the servants.

  Frances looked over at Mary, who was holding the baby Henry, named for the king. Margaret had borne him in December and refused to be parted from him for so much as an instant. Such an attitude was beyond Frances’s comprehension. She knew that her cousin Mary longed for a husband and a child; her cousin Margaret had evinced no such longings. But once Margaret married the earl of Lennox, who had promptly departed once he had done his duty and was now fighting in Scotland, she had become entranced by all things to do with the subjects of pregnancy and babies. And now nothing was too good for little Henry, Lord Darnley. To add to the confusion of the screaming infant and the cries of his adoring acolytes was Anne’s gruff voice singing…if one could call it that…a German lullaby that sounded as if murder were being done.

  Deliver me, thought Frances.

  She sought refuge in her thoughts. Her stepmother, the Duchess of Suffolk, was actually three years her junior, but they had always gotten on well. They had known each other since they were children. Lady Frances found it strange that many people had been surprised when her father had married Lady Catherine so soon after her mother’s death, but not she. She had known for some time of her father’s infatuation with Lady Catherine. But she had respected the fact that it had stayed an open secret until her mother passed away. And she knew in her heart that her father was incapable of betraying a trust, so there had been nothing but an understanding between Lady Catherine and her father until her mother died. Lady Frances was nothing if not practical; a man needed a wife and there it was. And their marriage, which had taken place with almost indecent haste, had been proven very successful, despite an age difference of thirty-five years. If she knew anything, she knew that Lady Catherine loved her father almost more than life itself, and had been devastated, as had all his children, b
y his death.

  And now Lady Catherine was in dire straits. The king was paying her what Frances knew to be extremely unwelcome attention. Lady Catherine was good friends with the queen, who was much annoyed by the king’s infatuation with her. Sometimes Lady Frances wondered what made the king do such things; it was like history repeating itself.

  Queen Catherine and all her ladies, which included Lady Frances and the Duchess of Suffolk, were Reformers. But they were not radical, so they must needs be subtle about it. It was not that their little clique did not have the courage of their convictions; but none of them were willing to die for them. One must bend with the wind until the wind changed direction.

  This practical attitude was not shared by her contemporaries, and they secretly, she knew, thought the less of her for it. But lately Lady Frances had been more than vindicated. A warrant had been produced allowing Wriothesley to search the queen’s rooms; this had been followed by the arrest of one Anne Askew, another religious zealot, but this one a Reformer. A pox on all religious zealots! thought Frances. Anne was connected to some at court who supported her radical views, views that went far beyond Frances’s mild Reformist opinions. And having found little in the way of evidence in the queen’s apartments to support her downfall, Gardiner and Wriothesley had conceived the idea of arresting Anne Askew. With the king’s permission, she was racked, a blatant violation of the law; she had refused to name any of her supporters at court, including the queen. Just the day before, so broken she could not stand, Anne Askew had been burnt at the stake. What would happen next no one knew, but the queen now found herself isolated and without supporters; no one she knew, including Frances, was willing to die either for a cause or for the queen.