The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  If I go on like this, thought Mary, I shall end as fat as the king!

  And with that thought, almost as if on cue, Anne expostulated, “Ich kann immer noch nicht glauben!” Lost in thought, she sat frozen with a collop of quail poised on the end of her knife, her eyes seeing some far-off memory that Mary could only guess at, but that she could not share.

  Such ruminations were not at all healthy in Mary’s estimation. She must try to divert Anne from her brooding. But before she had thought of anything to say, her thoughts took their own flight of fancy.

  How it must have galled Catherine for her father to ask to be buried with Jane! Again, it was understandable; Edward was just a child and this attachment shown by the king for his mother, even in death, must have been of some comfort to him. But still…

  Thoughts of her father’s death at the end of January led inevitably to a reliving of those tense days. All knew that the king was grievously ill, and that this illness was likely to be his last, but the Seymours, now firmly in charge, had allowed no access to the dying king without their permission. The royal family had been kept apart since before the Christmas revels, but Mary suspected that had been the king’s own idea. As his life ebbed, he had turned his thoughts to the last matters of ruling, such as how the country was to be governed when he was gone. But Mary knew the real reason; her father hated final partings and had always avoided them.

  When the end finally came, it had been kept secret for three whole days, and this Mary greatly resented. She had a right to know that her father had died, and to be told of the manner of his death. But no one had known of it until a tearful Wriothesley broke the news to Parliament, declaring Edward king.

  The king is dead; long live the king!

  And then started the picking clean of the carcass. The Council had used a loophole in the king’s will to shower themselves with patents of nobility and glittering preferments and legacies. Hmph! she thought. The king would be spinning in his grave if he knew that the ink wasn’t even dry on the stamp that had been used to “sign” his name to his will…in character to the last, he had refused to finalize his will and when he would have, was too weak to wield the pen…before his most important wishes had been flouted by the very men he had trusted to carry them out.

  The only good news that she received was that at long last, she was to have her mother’s jewels, and the king had left her well-provided for, with an income of three thousand per year and a marriage portion, if she married with the approval of the Council.

  And thoughts of her marriage portion inevitably led to thoughts of Philip.

  Again her thoughts strayed to the wooden chest at the bottom of which lay Philip’s letters. He had wasted no time; as soon as news of the king’s death reached him, he had written confirming his wish to marry her, asking if he should come once again to England, this time to put his suit before her brother, the new king.

  It had broken her heart to do so, but she had reminded him that her father had been a king and must be shown due respect. She could not possibly consider a mourning period of less than one year. His reply surprised her; he had agreed completely, apologizing for his hasty importuning. She was right; of course he should wait. They had waited for years and one more year would make little difference, except that he missed her terribly. Perhaps they would be able to meet in the interim. He would leave that in her hands; she should manage the matter as she saw fit, with the new king and the Council, when she deemed appropriate.

  Mary was relieved that Philip had agreed to wait and that he had been so very understanding. Now was not the time to broach such a matter; a decent interval of time must pass before it was appropriate to speak of matrimony. Six months, perhaps; she would weigh her options, take the measure of the men who must approve her marriage, and then decide when the time was right.

  One thing was certain; king and Council could not possibly object to her desire to marry a Protestant. Her brother, when he had been approached by his Uncle Thomas Seymour, had been in favor of a match with either of his sisters to his uncle; Seymour was a Reformer and might be able to change Mary’s mind about the Mass, and her Catholic faith. That would never be; even if she married Philip, she had no intention of ever changing her faith. She and Philip had discussed this, and he was in agreement. Beyond that they had not gone, but it was enough. But king and Council did not know that; they would be thrilled if Mary wanted to marry a Protestant, and she could think of no reason why they should refuse to allow the marriage to take place.

  That the Catholic faction in England would be shocked, not to mention her emphatically Catholic cousin, the emperor, went without saying. But when the time was right, she would find a way to manage that. She must! For now the way was clear, and she would brook no other thought than that she and Philip should marry.

  “Ich kann immer noch nicht glauben!” cried Anne.

  Here we go again, thought Mary, with a wry smile. She gave herself up to the hippocras and wafers, the last items in a parade of dinner courses. If she were not careful, she should soon be belching loudly.

  Just as Mary was thinking that thought Anne did so, and saw nothing wrong in it; and for the first time since she had heard the news of her father’s death, Mary laughed.

  Chapter 26

  “I understand that [Mary] was much welcomed in the north.”

  – Jehan Dubois, Imperial Secretary to François Van der Delft

  Chelsea Manor, April 1547

  At just a little over a year old, Henry, Lord Darnley, was a sturdy child. Lady Margaret attributed his thriving condition to her refusal to allow the boy to be cared for by anyone but herself, with the exception of his wet-nurse; and that lady had ceased her duties months before.

  The elaborate cradle, which Mary had installed in her rooms at Chelsea Manor ostensibly to accommodate Margaret during her visit, was actually meant, in her heart of hearts, for her own child. It would be hard waiting for a year, but when the year of mourning was done and she and Philip were at last allowed to marry, this cradle would, she hoped, hold her own son…Philip’s son.

  Their cousin, Lady Frances, along with the Duchess of Suffolk, had long since gone to their own rooms. Frances could not bear the boisterous behavior of little Henry, allowed by his indulgent mother and neither, Mary suspected, could the Duchess of Suffolk. But Mary was glad that they had gone, because it gave her some time alone with Margaret to speak of things that could not be discussed in front of them. It was not for lack of trust, but the fact remained that Frances and the Duchess were Reformers, whilst Mary and Margaret remained true to the old religion.

  The fire crackled; it was a chilly evening, and Margaret absent-mindedly rocked the cradle with her foot. Mary leaned forward from her chair and admired the child unabashedly, tears welling up in her eyes from time to time. If only her father had married her years ago to one of the long parade of possible suitors, none of the unpleasant things that had resulted from his quest for a male heir need ever have happened. She could have borne a son, a grandson of her father’s blood and bone, and that child could have been the much-sought-after heir to the throne of England. If such had been the case, then perhaps her father would have had no reason to break with Rome, the Reformers might never have gotten such a toehold in the realm, and Anne Boleyn would either have become the king’s mistress, or been dismissed as of no importance once the king finally lost interest in her. Certainly he would never have declared herself a bastard and his marriage to her royal mother null and void.

  If, if, if! She resolved to dismiss her dismal thoughts and give herself up to her enjoyment of this royal imp. And imp was not far from the truth! The child looked so peaceful in his sleep, with his yellow curls, his chubby, rosy cheeks, and his rosebud mouth. He slept underneath a silk and goose-down counterpane so light that Mary wondered that it didn’t float up of its own accord; the child’s pliable little arms were thrown back so that his tiny starfish hands rested next to ears that seemed as if they could have been ch
iseled from marble. It was hard to believe that this was the same child who screamed piercingly if his will were crossed, who threw his wooden blocks with enough force to draw blood, and who was so full of mischief that he had driven two grown women from the room in record time.

  All of this was belied by the little crescents that his tiny lashes made in delicate shadows on his face. Mary sighed resignedly and sat back in her chair.

  Margaret regarded her solemnly. “There is trouble brewing,” she said softly. “Are you mindful of it?”

  Mary took a sip from her goblet of wine. “Indeed, yes,” she replied.

  “I leave for the north on the morrow.”

  Mary regarded her cousin, startled. “So soon? You have only just arrived.”

  “I know it, and it grieves me,” said Margaret. “I thought it meet to come to court to pay my respects to the new king, my cousin, and to commend my son unto him; but I like not the climate that pervades there.” Mary did not reply; she sat nibbling a cuticle and staring into the flames. “The Seymours and Cranmer are in the ascendant now, Mary. Soon the practice of the Reformed faith will become required, I fear me. What will you do then?”

  Mary shrugged. “What I have always done. Trust that God will show me the way and remain true to the Catholic faith. I can, I never will, do anything else. Surely they must know that.”

  “It is different in the north,” said Margaret. “All, with few exceptions, hear Mass as they have always done. I must go back where I can ensure that my son will be safe in the practice of the Catholic faith.” She cast a loving eye into the cradle, and ran a finger with a soft touch over Lord Darnley’s smooth little cheek. “Mary, how will you survive?”

  Mary waved a dismissive hand. “The Lord Protector is far too busy with other matters to concern himself with me, and God willing, it will remain so.”

  “But a time of reckoning must surely come.”

  Mary regarded Margaret curiously. How she had changed! Gone was the flibbertigibbet girl, indulging in one love affair after another. Even if her cousin’s union with Matthew Stewart, the earl of Lennox, was not a love match, Margaret seemed content enough, and motherhood had made her very serious-minded.

  “I know it,” said Mary. “But there is my cousin Charles to be considered. He is a threat to England with his recent successes against the Reformers in his own domains. He has no desire to invade England, but should the Council press their point too hard, they would have him to reckon with.”

  Margaret placed a hand under the child’s quilt; after a moment or two, she withdrew it, satisfied. Not ready for a change yet.

  “And there is also this to consider.” Mary’s eyes went steely and she narrowed them. “Our illustrious Lord Protector,” she practically spat the words out, “still has his eyes on Scotland, which he ravaged almost unto death for my father. With a baby on the throne there, and a new, untried king in France, his eyes are full of stars. All on Edward’s behalf, of course.”

  Margaret nodded her head in agreement. “Yes, despite his faults and the unfortunate situation of the king’s will being flouted, the Lord Protector does seem in earnest.” She bit into a wafer, grimaced, and threw the remainder to one of Mary’s hounds. “Would that one could say the same of his brother!” Mary did not reply; just the thought of Thomas Seymour was enough to raise her ire. The rogue!

  “You are half Scots,” she said. “Do the Lord Protector’s designs on Scotland not vex you? Does not your father’s blood call out to you at all?”

  Margaret pursed her lips. “I have seen little of my father. We have naught in common. I believe that because he came to hate my mother so, he hates me as well. I fear me that I am more my mother’s child than his. I am glad to live in the north, but do not forget that I was born in England, and have lived here all my life.”

  “I cannot help thinking of Jane,” said Mary. “Poor Jane! She would turn in her tomb if she knew that her successor had made a Reformer of her son. Edward is a child; he has no nostalgia for the old ways, knows only what he has been taught. And his mother, God rest her, not here to guide him! And the Council will not let me near him. They will not even let the queen see him! They want no female influence about him of any sort.”

  “Well,” said Margaret, yawning and stretching. “It grows late. I am for my bed.” She stole a glance at Mary and saw the naked yearning on her cousin’s face as she gazed at Margaret’s child. Sudden inspiration took her. “He sleeps so peacefully, does he not? I do so hate to disturb him. Might he stay here with you? If he wakes and fusses, bring him along to me then.”

  Mary’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “Oh, yes!” she said. “I will watch him, and gladly.”

  Margaret leaned over the cradle, her thick auburn braids streaming down her back. She kissed little Henry, threw Mary a kiss, and closed the door softly behind her.

  # # #

  The door that led out from the little room at the back stairs into the garden had a squeaky hinge. It was odd, but when one lived in castles and palaces, one never even thought of such things; but Chelsea was a manor house, small by some standards, with only sixteen bedrooms. It was newly refurbished, having been bought by the king for Jane Seymour. That queen had never lived to see her new house, and the king had willed it to his sixth and final queen, Catherine Parr.

  Catherine closed the heavy door as quietly as she could. Her step was light as she made a mental note to apply some goose grease to that hinge! The hour was late, close to two of the clock, and the night was chilly. Spring had come early, and the days were warm and pleasant, but the nights could still be cold. The stars glittered and the moon, now a silver sliver, lay on her back. As I shall soon do! thought Catherine, with a delicious shudder. The chill that ran up her spine at that thought owed itself not so much to the frost as to the anticipation of another night spent lovemaking with Thomas. He was finally hers, against all odds, and at last, she was his. Nothing ever would, nothing ever could, come between them now. They had walked through Hell to come out in the exquisite little garden at Chelsea.

  As she trod the familiar path to the gate that led into the fields from the gardens, she hugged herself in her delight at the thought that in just a very few moments, she would be melting into Thomas’s mighty arms.

  Through the ornamental garden she ran, with its forget-me-not borders, its colorful, exotic lilies, and tulips standing guard over them all; and into the orchard where the cherry, peach and almond trees, their branches thick with blossoms, waved her on. Finally, she gained the gate. Thomas was not there yet; she was early. She simply could not wait, so she had sneaked out of the house to meet him long before he could possibly have been there. She cared not for the cold; thoughts of Thomas were enough to keep her warm.

  And to think that she had almost lost him again, after all this time of waiting, after enduring the years of sheer misery of being married to the king! Most wearing of all had been the need to keep a brave, happy face on it all, even after he had almost had her killed. She had no doubt that the flames that might have been her fate had only been averted by a miracle. Lady Suffolk had told her all, good friend! How she had done her best to thwart the king’s designs on her after Brandon died, how she had, in the end, simply refused to marry him, and see the queen burnt to make way for her. Catherine shivered, this time from fright.

  She had won through in the end, only to see Thomas almost snatched away from her again. First there was the Lord Protector’s plan to marry Thomas to the Princess Mary, to make a Protestant of her. Nay, Thomas had said, he would have none of the Princess Mary. Then the Council (or so she had heard!) had concocted a plan to marry him to Elizabeth; he must marry Elizabeth to secure a Protestant succession. Again he (brave darling!) had said no, he would have none of the Princess Elizabeth. He had finally, in secret, gone to the king, his little nephew Edward, begging permission to marry his true love, she whom he had waited for as Jacob had waited for Rachel. Edward, dear child, wanting only his beloved stepmother’s
happiness and to please his favorite uncle, had given his blessing. The fact that a few shillings had changed hands was bye-the-bye; if the king could not be bribed, the little boy who was kept short of spending money by his elder uncle was susceptible to the promise of a few coins, and this his wily younger uncle knew. And knowing, had taken advantage. Small price with which to purchase her heart’s desire! A pang or two of conscience was all that it had cost her.

  And so she and Thomas had married, in secret, just two weeks before. Only her sister, Lady Anne Herbert, her good friend Lady Catherine, the Duchess of Suffolk, and her chief lady, Lady Elizabeth Trywhitt, knew of their union. The old king had been in his grave only ten weeks, and she was expected to serve a year in mourning. Mourning! For what, might one ask? For a husband who had almost murdered her, and who, when he finally went to his day of reckoning, had willed that his rotting carcass be laid next to his previous wife!

  She had quietly left the court and gone to Chelsea, where for her wedding night her sister Lady Anne, and her friends Lady Catherine and Lady Elizabeth, had raided the stillroom and strewn rose petals all through her bedroom, lighted scented candles, left Hippocras and sweet wafers, sprays of flowers, and bowls of ripe fruit to prepare for Thomas’s arrival.