To some the whole thing was a mystery, but Frances knew why these actions were being taken. The king fancied himself in love with her stepmother and meant to rid himself of the queen to marry her. But unless Frances missed her guess, her royal uncle was in for an unpleasant surprise. He was about to encounter something he had not had to face since the days of Anne Boleyn: someone who was willing to say no to the king and mean it.
A page entered the room, scowling presumably at the noise the baby was making, but more likely at his mistress’s cacophonous caterwauling. He tapped Anne on the shoulder to get her attention; Frances noted the familiarity with disgust. Had any of her servants deigned to touch her person, she would have given them a good clout. The young man whispered something into Anne’s ear, and she left the room with him in haste.
Mary handed the little swaddled bundle back to Margaret with an audible sigh. No sooner had Mary relinquished the child to its mother than Anne came back into the room, whispered something in Mary’s ear, and then Mary left the solar in a rush with Anne by her side. Whatever the mystery was, she would get it from Mary later.
“Oh, Margaret,” said Frances in sudden exasperation. “Do make him be quiet!”
But Margaret only laughed.
# # #
Mary opened the door to Anne’s apartments and peered inside. The curtains had been drawn, but the strong afternoon sunlight glowed through the slits where the drapes had not fully come together. The room was lit only by a single candle and at first she saw nothing but the dim outlines of familiar objects. And then a movement caught her eye, and a shape separated itself from the hearth. At first Mary thought it was one of Anne’s dogs; they would sleep by the hearth in the wintertime for its warmth, and on the marble apron surrounding it for its coolness in the heat of summer.
And then a deep, melodious voice said, “Mary.”
At first she was struck dumb and immobile, as if in a dream; she wanted to run to him, to make a sound, but she could not. She was frozen to the spot on which she stood as if her feet were bolted to the floor. He reached her in three great strides, and once again she was enveloped in that safe, warm place that was Philip.
For a moment reality shifted and she wondered what strange dimension had caught her unawares; why were they not in the abbot’s little garden at Westminster, where they had always met before?
“We haven’t much time,” he whispered in her ear, and then the familiar thrill went up her spine. He took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “I have missed you,” he said.
Finally she found her voice and managed to say, “And I you! Oh, Philip…”
“It was not my fault,” he said, recalling his attempt to see the king when it seemed certain that Mary was to be given to Adolph of Denmark. “It broke my heart to leave without seeing you.” Again he pulled her close, but his desire to look at her warred with his need to have her body close to his own.
“Come,” he said, and he drew her to the settle. He pulled a chair up to her, faced her, and held her hands, their knees touching. Again he peered searchingly at her as if he were unable to draw his eyes away.
“But how...” she managed to croak.
“His Grace, the king, does not know that I am here,” said Philip. “I have no passport; I entered the country without one. But the matter is urgent. I knew if I applied for entry into England that your father would likely refuse.”
Mary was still so stunned that she could hardly grasp the fact that one moment she had been cooing at Margaret’s son, and the next she was here, touching Philip’s hands with her own. She peered at him closely in the shadowy light and wondered what he saw when he looked at her. It may have been due to the uncertain light of the candle and the distracting glare of the sunlight through the slits of the closed drapes, but she thought he looked haggard. He had certainly aged. She knew that he had been off fighting, sometimes for his brother, and sometimes as a mercenary when funds were low. It made her want to weep to think of the insults that her father had thrown at him, both verbally in France, and by way of refusing even to see him when he had arrived the year before to ask for her hand once again.
Urgent…that word did strike a chord. “What is wrong?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
Philip was a man of action and not one to beat about the bush; he came straight to the point. “Your father has put out feelers to the duke of Vendome. He is negotiating a match for you with the duke’s son, Antoine.”
Mary’s eyes widened. There would be no more talk of a marriage for her with the duc d’ Orleans, that much was certain at least; the young man had died of plague the year before. “But why? Has England not just signed a treaty of peace with King François?”
Philip curled his lip, and Mary noticed that he had grown a mustache; he was so blonde and he kept it so finely clipped that she had not noticed it at first. It must have been its bristles, along with the warmth of his breath in her ear, that had sent that tantalizing thrill up her spine. She felt herself blush hotly, and was suddenly glad that he could not see her very well in the darkness.
“Peace treaties were meant to be broken,” Philip replied. “King François is a descendant of the Capetian line. Vendome is Bourbon. A marriage for you with the French king’s rival house would be one way of keeping François in line. But Mary, what a waste it would be!” His voice broke on a sob and she looked at him sharply.
It was not until that moment that she had dared to believe that he really loved her for herself, and not for her position as daughter of the king and heir to the throne. It was extremely unlikely that she would ever succeed to the throne; she had accepted this with the birth of Edward. Her restoral to the succession made her somewhat more desirable as a match, but not enough, in her own estimation, to be used as more than a political pawn. Philip was right. It would be a waste.
Mary gazed at Philip and tears sprang into her eyes. “You are here to ask for my hand again,” she said.
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said, “do be careful, Philip, my darling, my love! I am not certain that…” she stopped. Anne had secured the room, even the drapes were drawn so that none would know of Philip’s presence there; or that she was conniving with him, and that she was meeting with him. But walls might still have ears. She lowered her voice to barely a whisper and drew him closer to her. Did she but know it, her warm breath in his ear had the same effect as his had on her; his stomach gave a contraction that was a pleasant thrill. “I am not certain that he is in his right mind, Philip. He does, he says, the strangest things! None dare say so; none dare even think so! But, oh, you must be careful!” As she said this she leaned forward and the awkwardness of their relative positions became apparent; somehow she found herself on his lap, in his arms. It was a place she wished never to leave. Never had she ever been so close to a man.
Slowly, unconsciously, he began to rock her. “I am not the king’s subject,” he said. “There is aught that he can do to me.”
“You have trespassed the realm without the king’s permission,” said Mary. “He could throw you into the Tower.”
Philip smiled. “He could do so, certainly, but he will not,” Philip replied. “I am in hopes that he will admire my persistence.”
Mary looked up into his face and saw that he was smiling. It was as if the sun had come out on a cloudy day. She smiled and said, “And I hope so as well! Oh, would that not be wonderful, Philip!”
He leaned down and kissed her brow. “Yes,” he said. “Indeed, it would.”
A faint tapping at the door told them that their time was short.
They stood, and Mary smoothed her skirts, somewhat embarrassed, but very happy. Philip took her in his arms and gently kissed her; not on the brow this time.
They parted and Mary said, “Godspeed. Oh, Philip, I…”
“I know,” he said, retreating into the shadows. “And I.”
The rapping at the door was just that little bit more urgent this time. In the dim l
ight Mary backed to the door, until she could no longer make him out. It seemed as if the past few moments had never been. Unconsciously she stretched her arm out in the darkness, but even as she did so she knew the gesture was futile. She might never see him again in this life; and with that thought her eyes filled with tears.
# # #
In the gloaming she stood in the half-light by the window. The sweet, heady perfume of the gillyflowers in the bed below the window rose to her nostrils and she sighed. Would she ever, on just such a night as this, know the fulfillment of love? If only the king would consent to her marriage with Philip! She would then experience what every willing fishwife, every milkmaid, the commonest ale-wife in the realm had, but that she did not; sweet union with another; motherhood. After all she had been through, after all the heartbreak, would she finally be vouchsafed true and lasting happiness? Only time would tell.
# # #
[THIS IS THE END OF VOLUME ONE OF
THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER]
[PLEASE PROCEED TO VOLUME TWO]
Afterword
“Truth is the daughter of time.”
Mary’s motto
Mary Tudor arguably has more detractors than she has apologists. This is true in part due to a confluence of unfortunate circumstances in her own time that became perpetuated as the years, and finally the centuries, rolled on. In this fictionalized account of her life, I have endeavored not to judge Mary either as a queen or as a person. My objective was to rely upon the facts and opinions presented by her biographers, and my ability to empathize with the circumstances of her life, to reach a balanced representation of who she was and why she made the decisions she made. I hope the reader will feel that I have succeeded in this aim and concur with my assertion that I have treated Mary as fairly as possible.
When I had the actual words Mary and other characters used, I have striven to include them. But the context for such actual quotes is not always provided, or provided in the depth that allows for absolute certainty of meaning or circumstance; and even though the language used was mostly English, except for foreign dispatches, there is still the possibility of something being lost either in translation or interpretation. When I knew where Mary was, I have used that location whenever possible. Where the records are non-existent, ambiguous or contradictory, I used my own judgment to decide where and how to set a scene, and what to have the characters say or think. This is where the novelist has an advantage over the biographer; we have the leeway to imagine what we do not know. Inevitably, some events and their timeframes had to be altered or condensed to accommodate brevity. But I would like to assure the readers of this book that I have never sought to rewrite history, as some novelists, screenwriters and movie makers have done in the past.
To paraphrase another historical novelist dear to my heart and the writer who inspired me to write historical fiction:
Writers of historical fiction make no claim that our fictional account represents exactly how it was; we say only that this is how it might have been.
Bonny G. Smith
Fairfax, Virginia
April 2016
The Baker’s Daughter – Bibliography
Ackroyd, Peter, Tudors: The History of England
Erickson, Carrolly, Bloody Mary
Erickson, Carrolly, The First Elizabeth
Erickson, Carrolly, Great Harry
Erickson, Carrolly, Mistress Anne
Fraser, Antonia, The Wives of Henry VIII
Hall’s Chronicle
Jenkins, Elizabeth, Elizabeth the Great
Lacey, Robert, The Life and Times of Henry VIII
Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII
Loades, David, Mary Tudor
Lofts, Norah, Anne Boleyn
Madden, Frederick, Privy Purse Expenses of the Princess Mary [etc.]
Mattingly, Garrett, Catherine of Aragon
Porter, Linda, The Myth of "Bloody Mary": A Biography of Queen Mary I of England
Perry, Maria, The Sisters of Henry VIII
Skidmore, Chris, Edward VI
Scarisbrick, J. J., Henry VIII
Somerset, Anne, Elizabeth I
Somerset, Anne, Ladies in Waiting: From the Tudors to the Present Day
Weir, Alison, The Children of Henry VIII
Weir, Alison, The Six Wives of Henry VIII
The Baker’s Daughter – Bibliography (cont’d)
Strickland, Agnes, Lives of the Queens of England
Williams, Neville, Henry VIII and His Court
The Baker’s Daughter – Bibliography
Whitelock, Anna, Mary Tudor: Princess, Bastard, Queen
About the Author
Bonny G. Smith is from Miami, Florida, where she lived until moving to the Washington, DC metropolitan area at the age of 13. Living in close proximity to the Smithsonian Institution and its many museums awakened a lifelong interest in history. Ms. Smith majored in Business at the University of Maryland, and minored in history, both Ancient and Medieval. After spending a lifetime reading history, biography and historical fiction, Ms. Smith decided to write her own novels about her favorite era, Tudor England; The Tudor Chronicles will consist of a trilogy of novels, starting in the late sixteenth century and ending in 1603. Living in the Washington DC area also piqued an interest in criminology and justice; the result is Ms. Smith’s Detective/Police/Crime novels. The Interpol Series traces the lives of two Interpol agents, who pursue a different crime in every book. Other books by Ms. Smith include a coming-of-age novella set in steamy 1960s Miami, and a book of macabre short stories. Ms. Smith began writing in 2003 while still employed full time as a Certified Project Manager for several major corporations. She is now a full-time writer since retiring from a career in global telecommunications. She holds baccalaureate and masters degrees from the University of Maryland. Ms. Smith lives in the Washington, DC area, in the United States of America. Ms. Smith is the author of six novels and a book of short stories, across four literary genre.
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