The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  The Baker’s Daughter

  The second book of The Tudor Chronicles, Volume 2

  BY BONNY G SMITH

  Other than actual historical persons, this is a work of fiction.

  Any similarity to persons living or dead is unintentional.

  All opinions are mine and not those of any entity named herein.

  Copyright Bonny G Smith 2017

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  ISBN-13: 978-1717107817

  ISBN-10: 1717107818

  Also by Bonny G Smith:

  The Tudor Chronicles:

  The Nymph from Heaven (Book One) – A novel of Mary Tudor Brandon

  The Baker’s Daughter (Book Two) – A novel of Bloody Mary

  In progress: In High Places (Book Three) – A novel of Elizabeth I and Mary, Queen of Scots

  The Interpol Series:

  The Heart of the Dragon

  The Seven Diamonds

  In progress: The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

  Only the Heart Knows Why

  The Secret Lives of Inanimate Objects

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the historical figures who inspired me to write it...real people who had little choice but to live their lives in view of the world as they knew it. I sincerely hope they would feel I have done their stories justice.

  "The Baker's Daughter in her russet gown; better than Queen Mary without her crown."

  - Verse from a contemporary song at the time of Mary Tudor's marriage to

  Philip of Spain

  Acknowledgements

  Editing by Richard A. McClure

  Cover Design by Kimberly J. Sluis

  Chapter 25

  “God had given her the wisdom of Esther, and He…looked up to her virtues with admiration.”

  – excerpt from a letter written by Prince Edward to his sister Mary in 1546

  Whitehall Palace, July, 1546

  Dr. Wendy’s hands trembled as he sought to lay the gauze pad on the king’s enormous leg ulcer. He was convinced in himself that the king must possess supernatural powers as Supreme Head of the Church. Else how did he survive from day to day, for so long, with such an affliction? He was a Reformer who had read his bible; he knew that when God afflicts, he afflicts with purpose; it is because of His love for us. The afflicted are made to search their hearts for sin, that God may show them the error of their ways and lead them back to righteousness. Did not God afflict Job, but did He not in the end…

  “God’s wounds, man!” cried the king. “Here, I will do it myself!” And with that Henry seized the pad and slammed it down onto his leg with a grimace. It hurt less to place it thus quickly than to have Dr. Wendy dither and shake.

  For the hundredth time Henry mourned the passing of Dr. Butts. Of his queen he refused to think; it was true that she had a soft, gentle touch, but endure any more of her sermons he would not. Thoughts of Queen Catherine invariably led to thoughts of the duchess, also Catherine; but Lady Catherine would never be called upon to look at his sores, or to dress them. She was far too lovely, far too refined to be expected to act as nurse.

  Perhaps that was where he had erred with the queen; how could he be expected to perform with a woman who had just seen and bandaged his disgusting legs? It would not be long now before he would be bedding Lady Catherine, and he had it all planned. There would be soft lights and scented rushes, and only fragrant apple wood would burn in his hearth. He would command that bowls of fresh potpourri be placed all over the room. The duchess, soon to be his new queen, should not have to deal with any but pleasantness when it came to their times of intimacy.

  Undaunted, Dr. Wendy was gently wrapping a long linen strip about the king’s leg. Henry rarely felt remorse about anything, but Dr. Wendy was such a kind, unassuming personage that he felt badly about shouting at him. “There, that is better,” said Henry. “Now you can work on the less troublesome ones, eh?”

  Dr. Wendy looked up at the king gratefully. He knew that His Grace suffered agonies with his legs; he did not mean to be short. It was a great honor to be the king’s First Physician; but with that position came great responsibility, an understanding heart chief among them. After all, His Grace could have chosen Dr. Nicholas or Dr. Ferris, but he had chosen Thomas Wendy for the honor. And with Dr. Butts gone, he had big boots to fill.

  One of the king’s hounds bolted up from a deep sleep and growled. Just at that moment Lord Russell entered the privy chamber.

  “Your Grace,” he said deferentially, “the Lord Chancellor and the Bishop of Winchester are without.”

  Hah! At last!

  It was all Wriothesley could do not to gag at the odor in the room; the sickly sweet smell of corruption emanating from the king’s sores, the various medicaments and the cloying scent of the bowls of stale potpourri placed about the royal chamber all warred with each other. Combined, they produced an unbearable stench. The king was so inured to it he likely did not notice it, but to one just entering the room, it was well-nigh unbearable.

  “Do you have it?” asked the king impatiently.

  Gardiner hesitated. “We do, Your Grace, but we have precious little foundation for it.” He must somehow convince the king that it was enough.

  “Let me see it.” Henry held out a fist almost as big as a Suffolk ham. Gardiner held the parchment out to the king, while stealing a quick glance at Wriothesley. All their plans, all their plotting and scheming, had come down to this moment.

  Henry skimmed the warrant for the queen’s arrest.

  Wrothesley, unable to keep still, blurted out, “Your Grace, the Askew woman was adamant. With the result of which you are aware.”

  He was aware; he had done nothing to stop the racking of Anne Askew, who, as a noble and a woman, was exempt from such torture. But the ransacking of the queen’s apartments had yielded little with which to implicate her. Indeed, the only items that could remotely support a charge of heresy were some seditious pamphlets found not in Catherine’s rooms but in that of her sister, Lady Herbert. Still, the queen could be held accountable for her women, especially someone as close to her as a sister.

  Henry had secretly told Wriothesley to arrest Anne Askew and have her racked; but the castellan of the Tower, Sir John Gage, refused to do so at Wriothesley’s order. Knowing the king’s wishes, that Askew should be made, by hook or by crook, to implicate the queen, Wriothesley and Sir Richard Riche had operated the rack themselves. By all accounts, the wench could not be broken in spirit, but her body had proven to be less resilient. What was left of her had been burnt at the stake, defiant to the last.

  So they had little in the way of evidence to support a charge of heresy against the queen; Gardiner feared that his plan to bring her down, along with the entire Protestant faction at court, was not to come to fruition after all. It was a bitter disappointment. But the bishop was not willing to let his dream die without a fight.

  “Your Grace,” he said softly. “The decision is yours, of course, but may I say that by allowing the queen her attitude towards heresy you are endangering your own soul? I am in sympathy with your personal feelings, if I may be so bold as to assume them, but as Supreme Head of the Church in England, your own welfare must be paramount.”

  Wriothesely could not bear the idea that any scheme of his should fail; he joined in. “If I may say it, Your Grace, the queen’s beliefs, the whole idea of a Protestant queen of England, makes a mockery of
your position not only as husband, but as king and Supreme Head of the Church.”

  Henry regarded his Lord Chancellor and the Bishop of Winchester blandly. He cared not a fig how little evidence there was against the queen. He wanted the Duchess of Suffolk and he meant to have her. And there was the safety of the English throne to be considered; it was his princely duty to secure the succession. He had done so with Edward, but, and he must own it, his precious heir had never fully recovered his health from the quartan fever he had suffered when he was three years old. Henry owed it to England to remarry and have more sons. It was highly likely that the queen was barren; three marriages and no children told its own tale. And he had not always been impotent with the queen! But the Duchess of Suffolk had twice proved herself capable of a son, bearing two boys to Brandon. His duty was plain, and the way clear; sign the warrant and be done.

  Slowly Henry picked up the quill that Gardiner had lain on the table by the king’s side. He tested the nib, dipped it into the inkpot. The tension in the room was palpable. Wriothesley laid the scroll on the table; Gardiner leaned forward to hold its edges to keep them from curling up. The only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill across the parchment, and the slow expulsion of breath by the bishop.

  # # #

  It vexed Henry mightily that he was, most of the time, incapable of walking on his own. He had good days and bad days, it was true; but lately there had been more bad than good. And on those bad days, he must needs be carried hither and yon in his great chair by four strapping youths, whose very ability to lift him and the chair mortified him and made him choleric with humiliation. When had youth so flagrantly deserted him? Why? There were many at court who were older than he, and still in good fettle. He raged inwardly about this; it would have been embarrassing to rage outwardly. In a moment of rare insight he wondered if perhaps those oh-so-satisfying displays of royal temper in his youth had worn him down more than he realized.

  But he had never been one to dwell much upon the past; what was done was done. He could only be thankful that this was one of his good days. The daily ordeal of having his legs dressed was aggravating. Dr. Wendy was his best physician, but none could hold a candle to dear Dr. Butts, dead now these many months. The good doctor had been only five years his senior!

  He knew that his privy council was desperate to discuss the possibility of his leaving behind a minor to rule the country in the event of his early demise. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that they were right. But he simply did not want to think about it. All he wanted to think about now was Lady Catherine. Let the privy council stew, the traitors! For it was treason, after all, to imagine the king’s death, and he knew as surely as he knew his own name that every single one of them had entertained that thought. But one must have a council…he could not execute them all. He sighed. It bore thinking about, he supposed.

  Dr. Wendy had departed and his chamber men were in their beds; he no longer required any of them to sleep at the foot of his bed or across his threshold. That was for young kings. It was far more likely that Death would stalk him now than an assassin. He had done his worst and was still alive to tell the tale.

  Henry heaved himself up using his arms and stood, holding onto the sturdy oaken table at his side. His stick was always to hand now, and he leant upon that, slowly letting go the support of the table. He took a few tottering steps, then a few more. He could walk. Thank Saint Michael and all his angels! For he had decided that tonight he would press his suit with Lady Catherine. Her year was well-nigh expired, and he would wait no longer, indeed, could afford to wait no longer. Time was catching up to Henry Tudor, and no amount of impotent inward raging would change that.

  He stumped to his wardrobe and eyed his dressing gowns. Something dark, to hide his girth. He plucked out a black velvet robe sewn with diamonds. Elegant. He wrapped himself in its folds and walked to the doors of his room. They opened inwardly; his startled halberdiers righted their weapons to let him pass.

  The passageway was dimly lit with cressets as he made his way to the wing which housed his beloved. He did not even glance at the chamber adjoining his own, where his queen still bided. He had ceased to call upon her or to need her ministrations but he had purposely not restored her to the Queen’s Apartments. Why should he? He barely gave her a thought these days. In fact, when Gardiner and Wriothesley had presented the arrest warrant and Bill of Attainder to him earlier in the evening, he had, for a few moments, quite forgotten that he possessed a queen. He proceeded down the passageway without a backward glance.

  It was very late and the Duchess of Suffolk’s rooms were dark. But he was King of England, and she his subject; and he had decided on this interview. A tap on her door yielded one of her waiting women, robed and capped for the night.

  A velvety voice from the inner reaches of the chamber said in perfect Spanish, “Who is there, Maria?”

  It took Henry by surprise; but then he remembered that Lady Catherine herself was half Spanish, after all. She retained a number of Spanish servants.

  The flustered woman curtseyed, almost stumbled on her hem, and cried, her eyes as round as saucers, “It is His Grace, the king, my lady!”

  Silence.

  And then Lady Catherine appeared at the door, a vision in white gauze and fur trimmings. Her black hair floated behind her, settling well past her waist. She looked at him quizzically, but her manners were impeccable.

  Without taking her eyes off of him she said, “Maria, you may retire.”

  The woman was old; he could tell by the wisps of gray hair that had escaped her cap. She curtseyed again unsteadily, then backed into the duchess’s sleeping chamber and closed the doors.

  Henry’s legs were beginning to tell on him; if she did not soon ask him to sit, he would have to do so without her permission.

  “Your Grace,” she said. Her voice intrigued him; and then he realized what it reminded him of. The lions in the tower zoo made a queer sound when they were contented, usually after they had eaten, a kind of throbbing noise in their throats. Her voice was much like that. Lady Catherine had no choice but to invite him in; she waved an expansive hand and he entered the antechamber.

  “Please,” she said. “I would be honored if Your Grace would sit. May I offer you a goblet of wine?” The room was dimly lighted. The only bright things in the room were her eyes, which glowed an eerie blue in the darkness.

  Tongue-tied again! What was he then, a green boy, or king of England? He nodded helplessly. He watched as she glided across the room to the sideboard and poured ruby liquid into two delicate glasses. She glided back and held one out to him; he was almost afraid to take it, lest he shatter it in his mighty grip.

  Lady Catherine sat across from him and regarded him silently.

  It crossed his mind that she was not going to make this easy.

  Henry sipped his wine and set the glass down on a table so dainty that it looked as if it would collapse if one breathed upon it.

  “Royal weddings must be planned,” he said gruffly. “You have had your year, or will have had by the time the banns must be called.” Damn and blast! he thought. Why did he always blurt things out to her? He had meant to be subtle, more understated.

  The light was dim in the room; there was no fire and she had not lighted any additional candles. He searched her face and was horrified to realize that she was crying. She did not make a sound; her eyes did not screw up and her chin was steady. The tears simply welled up in her eyes and spilled over, cascading down her porcelain cheeks.

  He leaned forward and took her tiny, white hands into his own, where they all but disappeared. “Oh, my lady,” he said almost in a whisper. “Oh, my dear, please, do not cry. You will break my heart.” What had he said? What had he done? He was completely at a loss. She sat as still as death, those tears the only movement evinced by her being. “Why?” he asked gently. “Why do you weep?”

  Catherine took a deep breath and said, her voice now thin and shaky, no longer
the sensual lion’s purr, “You were a good brother to my beloved Brandon. I would rather lose my life than disappoint Your Grace, or be the cause of one moment’s distress for you.”

  Henry was taken aback. “It is true, I loved Brandon as a brother,” he said. “And you could never distress me, my good lady. The love I have for you is true and real.”

  Still the tears rolled down her face, down her neck, to darken the ghostly white of her robes. “As is the love I bear Your Grace,” she said. At these words it was as if a cannon had exploded inside his head; he lifted her hands to his lips, one at a time, but just as he lowered them to look at her she said, “But it is the love of a brother that I bear Your Grace, and always have done,” she said. “You are my good brother, if I may be so bold as to claim that obligation. But I cannot marry my brother.”

  The thoughts that assailed his brain at that moment warred so violently that he knew not how to express them, whether to express them, or even if he could express them. It was chop-logic, but she had stalemated him as cleverly as any master chess player. He could not very well dispute the point when he had used that very argument himself in the past. He could not force her; he could not defeat her. With those few words, he knew that he had lost her. He did not wish to dispense with her friendship; he had never been one to burn his bridges if such could be avoided. Witness his Good Sister, Anne of Cleves!

  He did not even remember standing up, or taking his leave. But somehow he found himself back in his chamber, and for the first time since Jane had died, he cried.

  # # #

  The sound was coming from a distance; he could not quite make out what it was. He woke to find himself asleep in his chair, very stiff and sore. He opened his eyes. His candle burned very low; the melted wax had made strange designs on the table where it dripped. He must have dozed off, but it was still night. The sound he heard seemed to come and go…someone was keening. Such lamentation was usually only heard at a death bed. Who had died, he wondered? And who was wailing for the poor unfortunate one in their despair?