The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Catherine was not in the least bit squeamish, but for some odd reason the sight, and presently, the coppery smell of the Lord Chancellor’s blood nauseated her. She quickly brought her hand to her mouth. O Lord, of thy mercy, please do not let me be sick in front of…

  The king gave Wriothesley a push and he fell splayed upon the ground. The sight was so comical that Catherine forgot her queasiness and this time had to cover her mouth with both hands to stifle her rising laughter. Laughter would be most inappropriate; queens, and she was still a queen, did not laugh in such situations. If this goes on much longer, she thought, I shall become hysterical.

  The king was limping back to her where she sat, while Wriothesley gathered up the tattered shreds of his dignity and attempted to rise. He was having some difficulty doing so and Catherine had to turn her head; the threat of laughter was never greater than at that moment.

  Henry arrived at the table, grabbed his stick and said, “Let us go.” She saw him look back at the struggling Wriothesley and for a moment she was afraid that he would go back and begin to beat the poor man with his stick.

  Her relief was patent, but it was as if she were suffering from the strange sensation that there were actually two of her. One Catherine was now standing, with her arm hooked into the king’s, beginning to walk away from the scene that had just played itself out, and from which she had escaped death once more; the other Catherine was somewhere high up in the sky watching the scene and wondering what it had all been about.

  Wrothesley managed to gain his feet, but his doublet and sleeves were stained with blood, and his face was as pale as death. Despite herself, she felt sorry for him. “Your Grace,” she said. “Perhaps his fault was occasioned by some great mistake?” Perplexed, she regarded her husband quizzically. If he had not meant for Wriothelsely and the forty men of the royal guard he had brought with him to arrest her after all, why had he not informed the Lord Chancellor? And if he had decided to let Wriothesley make a fool of himself thus, why had he not told her? She could not escape the conclusion that the king meant to play with all of them as if he were a cat and they the hapless mice. For the first time since she had become embroiled in this impossible situation, she thought that perhaps the king was mad after all.

  “Hah!” replied Henry. “Little do you know how evil the Lord Chancellor is, yes, and our good Bishop of Winchester as well! Wriothesley deserves no pity from you, my lady.”

  His eyes shone with megalomania; she was right, he must be mad. It were better to keep her peace, then. Wriothesley and Bishop Gardiner had sought to destroy her, and the king had been content to let them; then he had changed his mind at the last moment, and forbore to inform them. Why? There was only one explanation; the king was mad.

  Westminster Palace, December 1546

  The bottle of poppy syrup lay well within reach, but Henry simply looked at it with dull eyes. If he had not long to live, he wished to keep his wits about him. His favorite sister, Mary, for whom his daughter was named, had lived in pain from some unnamed ailment for the last years of her short life. She had become addicted to the black, sticky brew and had been insensible much of the time. A luxury he could not afford!

  Already the vultures were closing in. And Edward only just turned nine! What would he not have given for just a little more time, just a few more years? But darkness was closing in and none knew this better than himself. It almost made him laugh to hear his physicians. It was high treason to even imagine the king’s death, so to speak of it openly was suicide. Therefore, his doctors and apothecaries went about smiling and assuring him that he had all the time in the world.

  But he knew better. It was time to make his will. He had put it off again and again; the very act was one of acquiescence, a giving up, as it were. But he dare delay no longer.

  He had never forgiven Bishop Gardiner for speaking against the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he never would. The Bishop of Winchester had been warned; he had not listened. Gardiner’s blunder in speaking against the queen had been the perfect excuse to finally exclude him from the king’s inner circle.

  It was easier to forgive Wriothesley, even though he had berated his Lord Chancellor well and good on that day when he had arrived with the royal guard to arrest the queen. Wriothesley was like that little lizard that Chapuys had told him about one time; in some faraway place where the Emperor ruled over a vast array of heathens, there was a tiny creature that actually changed its color to match its surroundings. Henry grunted. He could not have described Wriothesley better. What was it called? Ah! He had it. A chameleon. After the collapse of their plot, Wriothesley had slithered into the Seymour camp without a backward glance and there he would stay.

  Edward would need men of all sorts to assist him in his awesome task of being king. Such a little boy, to take on such a burden. But then again, he himself might live for years to come. Perhaps he could put off drafting his will just a little while longer.

  No. All his life he had gone about fooling himself, but no more. He might live a few more years, but even if he did, what would his life be like? He was in almost constant pain now, he could not walk on his own most of the time, and the burden of his massive flesh had become almost too much to bear. No, he must face facts. He would die, and soon. It would almost be a relief. Almost…

  Sir Anthony Denny had postulated a most interesting idea. He was Henry’s favorite chamberer, and the man closest to him, his best friend now that Brandon was gone. Sir Anthony had never come out and said the words, he had simply subtly suggested that perhaps appointing a single regent would not be the best thing to do. No mention of death or consequences; just a suggestion, made without context, and so, somehow easier to bear. That Denny was acting as cat’s paw to others Henry well knew. But there was merit in the idea and he had given it a great deal of thought.

  He knew that Catherine fully expected to be named regent for the young king. Edward adored her, and probably nothing would have suited the boy better. But he had not labored through six wives trying to secure the succession to a male heir to give over to a female! Never. She would be disappointed; all he could say to that was, good! She had disappointed him, too.

  So what was the corollary to the idea that a single, powerful regent was an undesirable state of affairs? It must be a cadre of men capable between them of steering England through some very dangerous waters for several years. Every king must have a council of advisors. But Edward’s council, should he die while Edward was still incapable of ruling on his own, must be more than just a group of men. They must all be regents; they must share the burden, each contributing their strengths to support his son. He must appoint a Council of Regents.

  Who, then?

  There were many undesirable factions at court; in fact the court was made of them. The most damaging was the religious faction. He was not blind to the fact that Gardiner’s plot against the queen had been more than that; it had been aimed at the entire Reformist clique. But while foiling the plot had been fun, and he had certainly taught everyone involved a lesson, the sad fact remained that when he was gone…he could face it now…there would be nothing he could do to stem the Reformist tide. It galled him, but there it was. And he had trusted his precious son to the queen to supervise the prince’s education! What a blunder! Edward and Elizabeth were now Reformers; Mary was still staunchly Catholic, and an unrelenting papist. Where would his “Catholic without the pope” policy be when he was in his grave? The answer made him dangerously angry.

  He was in a quandary and no mistake. And Henry Howard, of all people, had forced his hand. The Earl of Surrey had been found to have quartered his arms with those of Edward the Confessor; he had immortalized this folly in a painting of himself that hung on the walls of his home at Mount Surrey. The meaning was clear; Henry Howard viewed himself as a prince in his own right with a claim to the English throne as strong, if not stronger, than the Tudors.

  When it came to the Council of Regency, this placed Henry squarely between a r
ock and hard place; the Catholic Howards could not be trusted to serve the prince as king, in fact, they were likely to have Edward declared a bastard, he had been born after Henry had broken with Rome, and seize the throne themselves. It was a risk he could not afford to take. But the only other cabal he was left with in that case were the Reformers.

  It had pained him to do it, but he had, earlier in the month, ordered the arrest of both Surrey and Norfolk on charges of high treason. Death for them was the only option. His choices were Edward deposed and the conservative Catholic faction back in the ascendant, or eliminate them and leave his precious son and heir, for which he had wreaked so much havoc, in the hands of his uncles, Jane’s brothers. They were all Reformers, though they did not know he knew it, and now thanks to Catherine, Edward was a Reformer as well. But the Seymour brothers had their entire power base invested in Edward as king; they would die rather than let harm befall him. It was the only way. All of Christendom viewed Edward as a bastard and Mary as rightful heir. It was ironic, but the only way to save England was to leave all her in the hands of the Reformers, for only they could be trusted to support Edward’s claim to the throne. He had checkmated himself as surely as if he had thrown the game purposely.

  Norfolk had been a loyal servant to the Tudors all his life, and his death would cause Henry far more pain than Surrey’s. Surrey was an egotistical, bad-tempered bully with a big mouth and a wildly inflated opinion of his own dignity. He would have been no loss to anyone if he hadn’t been the premiere poet of Christendom…that did give Henry pause, but there was nothing for it. The earl had dug his own grave and to it he must go, before he had a chance to wreak havoc with the Tudor succession.

  On the other hand, Edward Seymour, for all his military prowess, was a high-handed prig who fully expected to be bestowed with a dukedom and the sole regency of England. He would protect Edward, yes, but it was nine more years until Edward would reach his majority. What kind of king would Edward Seymour make? The answer was too terrible to contemplate.

  And so here he was, back where he had started; who should be named to a Council of Regency?

  Richmond Palace, March 1547

  The edges of the paper, made from coarse linen, were becoming frayed, and where the letters had been folded, the folds were beginning to give way. Mary decided that that must not be; come what may, she knew that she would treasure these letters to the end of her days. Regretfully, she placed the missives between two thin but sturdy planks of oak, placed them lovingly into a velvet bag and pulled the drawstrings, and put it at the bottom of one of her trunks.

  She went to the window and sat down in the window seat, tucking her knees up to her chest, and resting her head on them. The day seemed fine, but the sun was deceptive; a cold wind blew from the north, and the clouds scudded by on some vital errand known only to themselves.

  Suddenly the door burst open and Anne exclaimed, “Ich kann immer noch nicht glauben!” shaking her head, and holding a little flower-embroidered linen square up to her eyes, which were streaming tears.

  Mary had begun to pick up a little German here and there from Anne; she had little head for languages, not like Edward and Elizabeth, but she needed no special knowledge to translate this phrase. Anne had been repeating it for weeks. She still could not believe that the king was dead. Having received no reply from Mary, for none was needed at this point, Anne sat and stared into space, reliving Mary could only guess what scenes from her brief time with Henry of England.

  That her father’s death should upset Anne so much was a complete mystery to Mary. The king had, in Mary’s estimation, treated his fourth wife abominably, and then abandoned her. The blow to Anne’s pride and self-esteem had been devastating, mitigated only slightly by the great wealth that the king had bestowed upon her to compensate her for her loss; and, Mary suspected, had been aimed more at assuaging the king’s guilty conscience than at making Anne comfortable.

  Mary’s eyes strayed to the chest at the end of her bed where she had, just moments before, placed Philip’s letters. She had not known for months what had become of Philip’s appeal for her hand, made in the summer before when she had seen him so briefly. The king made no mention of it and, since she and Anne were not supposed to know that Philip had been in England to see him, they could not ask. It was not until some weeks later that Anne had received a letter, not from Philip directly, but from her sister, Amalia. Her letter had explained, in a convoluted, roundabout manner so as not to give anything away should the letter fall into the wrong hands, that Philip had been refused once again.

  The events of the autumn had then overtaken everyone and everything. The king had been grievously ill and had made his will, but had refused to sign it. There had followed much unseemly wrangling amongst the Council for future position and place, not to mention assurances of the legacies they expected for their continued loyalty to an irascible, short-tempered monarch. Everyone had expected the worst, and then the king recovered, even went hunting, and ventured on what was to be his last Royal Progress with the queen, even if it was only the short distance from Windsor to London.

  Then the king accused the Howards of high treason and had them thrown into the Tower. Mary had been hard put to it to feel badly about that because she had suffered so much at the hands of the Howards; but they were the most powerful Catholics in the realm and the last bastion, in her estimation, against the Reformers. Gardiner was the only other Catholic pillar, and he had been swept aside by the king after the debacle concerning the queen’s arrest, and the king refused to see or speak with him.

  Everyone had expected the king to relent, but he had not; the Earl of Surrey had been tried in January and beheaded on Tower Hill. The wily old Duke of Norfolk, like a cat with nine lives, had escaped the axe by a matter of hours due to the king’s death. Even though his death warrant was signed and sealed, none wanted to take responsibility for carrying it out, and the excuse given was that it was deemed unseemly to begin King Edward the Sixth’s new reign by the spilling of more noble blood.

  If the people of England had been shocked by the events of the autumn, those of the winter had left them stunned. In clear defiance of the king’s will that there should be a Council of Regency consisting of sixteen equal partners, Edward Seymour, Edward’s eldest uncle, had convinced the Council to name him Lord Protector of the Realm and Governor of the King’s Person. Thomas Seymour, the Protector’s own brother, had been outraged and ranted furiously over such an arrangement.

  “Hmph,” said Mary. “I will tell you what I cannot believe! The nerve of Thomas Seymour even thinking that he was a fit match for myself, or for Elizabeth, bastard though she may be!”

  Mary and Anne had many such discussions; each would be silent, thinking their own thoughts, and then exclaim a point to which the other replied as though they had been conversing on the subject for hours.

  “Ach, unt der Thomas, he effen ask for mine handt! Dumkopf! Who thinks he iss?” Anne was indignant and outraged that a jumped-up knight, elevated to such a high position as uncle to the king solely by the route of a fortunate sister who had been nothing more than a servant to the queen she had betrayed, should aspire to marriage with a princess of Cleves, and despite all, a former queen. Her English grew so bad every time she expounded on the subject that Mary could barely understand her; and then she would lapse into German.

  “Yes,” said Mary. “And when he could not gain a royal wife that way, he even sought after the Duchess of Richmond, thinking to make do with the widow of a king’s bastard! It is as ridiculous as it is unseemly!” Mary waved a dismissive hand.

  Anne nodded emphatically. “I am hearing now dat he hass begun to pay hiss attentions to der qveen herself!”

  This did give Mary pause; she had not forgotten that Candlemas Day at Hampton Court so long ago when Catherine had cried over the snowdrops, and the look of sheer terror that had passed between her and Thomas Seymour when the king had made known his intentions towards her. Mary could only
pray that Catherine had more sense than to fall for Seymour’s transparent gold-digging.

  “The queen was greatly disappointed not to have been named regent,” said Mary. “She had already begin signing her letters with that title under the assumption that it was hers.”

  Anne shook her head and scowled. A log on the fire collapsed in a shower of sparks; Anne rose from the delicate chair in which she sat, which gave her up with a creak that sounded much like a sigh of relief. She seized the poker and stabbed at the remaining logs to stoke the fire as if they had been her sworn enemies.

  “But I am forgetting,” said Anne. “Let uss to dinner, mein liebling. You must eat. Come.” She held out her hand and Mary took it, rising from the window seat. Anne was becoming quite stout; food and her gardens were the only pleasures left to her now, Mary supposed.

  Mary’s apartments in the palace were next to Anne’s, and Anne’s contained a small, intimate dining room. It was hung with charming Flemish tapestries and always held beautiful flower arrangements. She had even installed a mirror on the wall, quite a large one, a thing never before seen; Anne had been much taken with the Venetian hand-mirror that the king had given to the Duchess of Suffolk as a New year’s gift, so long ago that it seemed as if in another life. The mirror had the trick of making the room seem twice as large as it really was.

  Delighting in her new-found wealth and freedom, Anne had bought an array of golden plate and delicate Venetian glass drinking vessels. No clumsy trenchers for her! She had an artistic nature, and her little dining room was an enchantment to the eye. Once they were settled, Anne raised a little silver bell and gave it a tinkle. Like magic, servants began to bring in dish after dish of food.

  First there was a salet of purslane, the colorful flowers dislodged from their stems, candied and circling the plate of succulent greens; next came artichokes piled on a platter to look like a small tree, with a moat of lemon-and-thyme sauce; this was followed by a cold stew of braised sparrows. Then a tiny pear pasty to cleanse the palate, and then came the hot dishes, one after the other. There were tiny quails, roasted and then redressed in their own feathers; fresh sturgeon, chicken baked in caudle; and finally, a delicate blancmange topped by candied hearts-ease. The whole was washed down with an excellent Rhenish wine that Anne had sent for from Cleves especially for her table. Lastly, there was a dish of candied walnuts, pistachios and filberts.