The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  # # #

  Wanstead Hall had many unused rooms, but the Queen insisted that all of them be kept cleaned and aired. There was an army of servants at Wanstead, and such tasks kept them occupied and out of mischief. The queen was wont to check up on them from time to time, to satisfy herself that her orders were being carried out, so the work was always faithfully done.

  One of these rooms looked out over the lake that Thomas so loved to swim in. He often found himself going to that room, just to gaze out over the expanse of land, across the blue of the lake, to the woods beyond. In a house full of women and servants, it had become his own special place. Because he went there when he needed solitude, he had told no one of his preference for it. Until now.

  He knew that Elizabeth was intrigued by his attentions. She was young, on the verge of womanhood, and she was vain of her looks. He was committed to Catherine, it was true, now more so than ever since she was to bear his child. But there was no harm in keeping Elizabeth on hand, just in case the opportunity should present itself. Catherine was wealthy beyond belief, but she was yesterday’s queen. And she was old to be bearing a first child. One never knew.

  He was sitting in a chair overlooking the view that he so loved when suddenly he felt a pair of cold hands cover his eyes.

  “Guess who,” whispered a childish voice.

  “Well,” said Thomas, considering. “Let me see…”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That is just what you cannot do!” She removed her hands. She was through playing games now, anyway. She leaned around the chair, her long, red hair streaming before her.

  “Come here, you,” said Thomas, in a husky voice. Catherine had forbidden him her bed as soon as the child had quickened; he had stayed close to home and serving maids were not his style. At court any number of well-born women were more than happy to accommodate him but this was not the court. He would string Elizabeth along and hedge his bets. If the opportunity presented itself, he would put her in a position where the Council would be only too glad to see her married to him!

  But to do that, he must continue to tease, to tantalize. And the girl was a willing quarry. She was curious. Well, he would satisfy her curiosity. Why not? No harm.

  He swung her around and up onto his lap, so that she reclined across the arms of the chair. Their faces were very close. He took a finger and smoothed some red hairs away from her face, and back behind her ear.

  “So this is your secret place?” she asked, in a whisper. There was no one about, but still, being here with him like this seemed to beg a whisper instead of a shout. “I like it.” She looked around as far as she was able from her position lying across his lap.

  Thomas felt the familiar stirring in his loins, but he must go slowly. It was the only way. He took the finger that he had used to smooth away her hair and caressed her lips with it. She closed her eyes and let go a sigh. He was supporting her neck with his arm; slowly he raised her head until her lips were brushing his own. She lay very still, almost as if she were sleeping. She seemed to be holding her breath.

  He very gently pressed his lips to hers. She did not move. He parted her lips with his tongue, explored her mouth. Slowly, she raised her arms and encircled his neck. She did not pull him forward; she simply wanted to touch him; she was content to let him lead the way.

  His other hand began tracing patterns on her bosom, a great deal of which was exposed due to the fashion of the day. Almost as if in slow motion the circles he traced grew larger and larger until she felt a finger on her nipple. She gasped. The finger stayed there, the circles now drawn tight over that one spot. He felt her shift in his lap.

  He slowly withdrew his tongue from her mouth; it felt hot on her skin as he made his way to her ear. His hot breath and moist tongue aroused feelings completely unknown to her.

  When he withdrew his hand, ever so slowly, from her bodice, her first reaction was to grasp his hand and pull it back. But now his hand was traveling down her side. Intrigued, she waited. He felt her stiffen with anticipation; but she knew not of what. His hand went under the hem of her gown and traveled back up, this time up the inside of her thigh. She almost moaned, but stifled the sound, lest he pull away.

  His hand settled on a spot between her legs which he slowly began to massage. It was an entirely new sensation; she gave herself up to it. Thomas’s lips sought hers again and she parted them to allow his warm, moist tongue back into her mouth.

  Suddenly it seemed as if the earth had reversed its course in the heavens; there was a brilliant explosion and she lay limp in his arms. Her head was thrown back now over the arm of the chair; in her throes he had let her body move where it would.

  After a few seconds she opened her eyes; her head had lolled to the side, and was now facing the doorway.

  And in the doorway stood a horrified Catherine, unable to move or to speak.

  # # #

  Kenninghall, Norfolk, June 1548

  The abyss into which Mary had fallen was profoundly dark; no light could penetrate it. Sounds could; she wished that they would cease and leave her to her grief. She burrowed down into the bed and covered her ears with a pillow.

  She had stayed with Anne for several months after the news of Philip’s death had reached them. He had died as he had lived, fighting a battle, this one for his brother, Otto. He had died unmarried and childless, but not unloved, thought Mary…never unloved.

  Her cousin Charles had never approved of Philip’s bids for her hand, and that was one of the reasons her father had not consented to his proposals. So now Charles was once again proposing a match for her with the perennial Dom Luis of Portugal. But Dom Luis was more interested in her dowry and her place in the succession than in her person; else why had he never come to England after all this time, to see her, and woo her, as Philip had done?

  Nothing would ever come of such a proposal; the Council would never approve her marriage to a Catholic. Until Edward married and produced an heir, they likely would never allow her to marry.

  From far, far away a voice spoke.

  “Mary,” said Frances sternly. “This simply will not do.”

  Merciful Christ in Heaven, thought Mary, give me patience.

  “You cannot shut yourself away like this.” Frances threw aside the bed curtains, ripped off the counterpane, and having done so, strode to the windows and threw open the drapes.

  The bright light was blinding; Mary lifted a hand to shield her eyes. A wave of nausea swept over her; she covered her mouth with her other hand. With a supreme effort, Mary said, “Frances, as you love me, cousin, you will leave me be.”

  “I will not. I have ordered some food for you. Mary, you must eat something, and whilst you are eating you will listen to what I have to say. Ah, here it is.”

  “Frances…”

  A serving maid entered with a laden tray. She placed it on a table and waited. Frances waved a dismissive hand. “That will be all, you may go. Now,” she said, completely ignoring Mary’s protests. “This has gone on long enough. Feigning illness for the Council is one thing, Mary, but if you go on as you are I fear me that you will make yourself ill in very truth.”

  Mary sat cross-legged on the bed with her head in her hands. “I have never feigned illness before in my life.”

  “I believe you,” said Frances. What her cousin needed was something else on which to focus. “Elizabeth has left Wanstead.”

  Mary looked up, startled. “She has? Why?”

  Frances shifted in her chair. “We are in great danger of a grave scandal.”

  Mary swung her legs over the side of the bed, and took the two steps down to the floor. “What has happened?”

  “Catherine happened upon Elizabeth and the Lord High Admiral in a compromising situation.”

  Mary blanched. “You don’t mean…?”

  “Catherine was uncertain. What she saw was bad enough, but not that.” Frances nibbled a cuticle. “Still, what can one expect?” The ghost of Anne Boleyn hung just out of reach on the
air.

  “Merciful Christ,” said Mary. “Frances, I tried to warn her. Truly, I did. But she is headstrong and would not listen.” Besides, thought Mary, Elizabeth was beginning to prove what she herself had feared all along…like mother, like daughter.

  Frances snorted. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about Elizabeth, and nor, for that matter, should you. But I do care about the damage to the crown.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Well, my daughter Jane, for one,” Frances replied. “She is ten years old, but old for her years. Quite a solemn child. I don’t know where she gets that from! Still, Dorset sent me straightaway to get Jane and fetch her home. Jane was discreet, she wrote only to us, but servants talk, Mary. Already the rumors are rife.”

  Mary waved an impatient hand. “It’s that Kat Ashley,” she said. “I am convinced in myself that she has been filling Elizabeth’s head with a lot of nonsense. And this is the result! Where has she gone?”

  “Cheshunt.”

  “The Denny’s?” asked Mary. “Why?”

  “Lady Denny is Kat Ashley’s sister,” Frances replied. At Mary’s blank look, Frances continued, “They are less likely to talk and spread gossip.”

  Mary nodded, then frowned. “What do you mean, damage to the crown?”

  Frances shrugged. “The times are fearful for the people of England,” she said. “Men are being put out of work by widespread enclosures. Land that once needed forty men to farm it now needs only a shepherd or two. Whole villages are dying, there are hungry people wandering the roads, homeless. And Somerset spends ten thousand on a new manor house in London! Your father, my uncle, was one of the greatest kings ever to live, Mary. The power he wielded for so many years by the sheer force of his will was awesome to behold. But he is gone, and in his place is a vapid boy and a dithering fool.”

  “Frances!” exclaimed Mary, shocked.

  Frances sat scowling. “Why waste words? These are truths that must be faced. The crown has been diminished, and Elizabeth’s rash actions stand to diminish it even further.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mary.

  “Hmph,” said Frances. “You bury your head in the sand as you do under your bedcovers. Face facts, girl!”

  “Will Catherine stay at Wanstead for her lying-in?” asked Mary, changing the subject.

  “Not likely!” snorted Frances. “The Protector has given them Sudeley Castle in lieu of the queen’s jewels. Seymour is said to be happy with that, the queen less so. Anyway, Wanstead has too many memories, as does Chelsea. And there is the plague to consider. They have gone to Sudeley.”

  “Poor Catherine!” said Mary. “She has lost all her company at once.”

  “Oh, no,” said Frances. “I left Jane with her. Dorset can be such a fool! He acts without thinking. Better the king should marry Jane than some foreign princess. A pox on foreign entanglements!”

  “I hear that the Protector is suing for the hand of Elisabeth of France, for Edward.”

  Frances laughed. “I fear me that her religion is somewhat of an obstacle. Saving your presence, Mary.”

  Mary shrugged. Frances was a Reformer, but she was still her dear cousin.

  “Elizabeth wrote a charming letter of apology to the queen,” said Frances. ‘The vixen! She is not sorry for what she has done to the queen, she is only sorry that she was caught out!”

  “It is a bad business,” said Mary, shaking her head. She approached the tray but another wave of nausea gripped her at the sight of the food. “What was the queen’s reply?”

  “She forgave her, of course,” replied Frances. “All is forgiven, but not forgotten, I trow. There is an uneasy peace between the three of them, as well as a great deal of distance. But soon the babe will be born, and no one will have time to remember that Elizabeth and Thomas have broken Catherine’s heart. Perhaps not even Catherine.”

  Chapter 28

  “Woe unto a country that has a child for a king.”

  – Ecclesiastes 10:16

  Sudeley Castle, August 1548

  There was a soft knock on the door; Lady Elizabeth Tyrwhitt grimaced. Why could the man not do what most men did at such times and be gone? She strode to the door, looking back worriedly at Catherine, who was between contractions. She opened the door a crack and glared wordlessly at Thomas.

  “Is there any change?” he asked, running a distracted hand through his blonde curls, which were damp and dark with sweat.

  “No, there is not,” said Lady Elizabeth sharply. She held his gaze for a few moments and then he sighed, and walked away. Suddenly Catherine let go an anguished cry, and Lady Tyrwhitt quickly shut the door.

  The room was hot and fetid; but for the sake of decency, must be kept shuttered and the stout oaken door shut fast. Lady Tyrwhitt felt a trickle of sweat crawl slowly down her back between her shoulder blades; she shuddered despite the oppressive heat. Her breath caught in her throat as she walked past a table upon which aromatic herbs smoldered on a silver platter. The scent of them was not one she cared for, and the smoke from the dish made her cough. It filled the air, along with the other noxious odors in the room; sweat…blood…which combined to create a truly unpleasant miasma.

  Lady Tyrwhitt approached the bed on which Catherine lay, writhing fitfully. The midwife kept up a constant dialog under her breath, as if she were carrying on a conversation with an adversary. This was interrupted every now and then by a few words of encouragement to the queen. But Catherine was beyond hearing.

  Lady Anne Herbert, the queen’s sister and chief lady, asked pleadingly, “Can you not give her aught for the pain?”

  The midwife shook her head. “Her Grace must not relax,” she said. “Her strength is the only thing that will see her through her ordeal.”

  Lady Anne nodded. “I understand, Mother Shoat. Perhaps some wine, then?”

  The midwife shrugged. It could do no harm. But anything stronger than that there must not be. She would save her laudanum for when the situation was truly beyond all hope. The queen had been in labor for thirty hours; she was not a young woman, and this was her first confinement. None of these factors were in her favor.

  Suddenly Catherine raised her pale face, which was streaming with sweat, and the look of surprise that crossed her features caught her sister unawares.

  “Catherine, what is it?” asked Lady Anne anxiously. She ran to the bedside to see what was wrong, and to mop her sister’s brow with a rag soaked in lemon water.

  “I-I-think the babe comes…” With that she gave a convulsive wrench.

  “The head!” exclaimed the midwife. Completely forgetting herself, Mother Shoat began coaxing and wheedling as if she were attending any burgher’s wife. “That’s it, dearie,” she cooed. “Just a few more. All soon over, pet.”

  Catherine was screaming now, Lady Anne was crying, Mother Shoat cajoling, Lady Tyrwhitt pacing, and suddenly there was a violent banging at the door. Lady Anne shouted to Lady Tyrwhitt, who was standing nearest the door, “Oh, tell him to go away!” she cried. “This is all his fault!”

  “The poor dove!” exclaimed Lady Tyrwhitt, wringing her hands and looking anxiously at Catherine. “The least he could have done was to take his faithless heart to town! But to carry on where the queen could find him…!”

  Lady Anne glanced at Catherine and shook her head at Lady Tyrwhitt.

  Catherine’s shrieks took on a higher pitch; both women looked sharply at her. Then her face drained of all color, and her mouth opened in an anguished semi-circle of a soundless cry. There was a short whooshing sound; suddenly there was a baby crying.

  “I have never,” muttered the midwife to her imaginary friend, “seen a babe less willing to enter the world.” But her greatest fear was for Catherine; she waited for the gush of the afterbirth and prayed that the entire caul would expel, and that those violent jerks had not injured the queen where none could see or help her.

  Thomas was aware that his wife’s screams had suddenly ceased; he waited, but when no one
came to tell him any news, he could finally wait no longer. He burst through the door.

  “Let me see the little knave!” he cried.

  Lady Anne regarded Thomas coldly and said, “My sister has borne you a daughter, Your Grace.”

  At first Thomas was taken aback; but then he smiled. “A bonny lass, then!” He held out his hands to take the squalling bundle, now cleaned and swaddled. Thomas looked upon his firstborn child with genuine awe. He approached the bed, where the bloody linens had been hastily removed. Catherine lay on her side, curled up, her auburn hair limp with sweat and all a-tangle.

  She wished he would go away. If only she had never seen what she had seen, this moment would have been one of supreme joy for her. As it was, her happiness had been shattered. She longed to recover it. All she must needs do was to forgive him.

  From very far away, voices were talking, but the sounds seemed to diminish until finally they were gone.

  Lady Anne looked over at her sister, then turned quickly to the others. She laid a finger to her lips.

  Thomas nodded, handed his daughter back to the midwife and crept quietly out of the room.

  Sudeley Castle, September 1548

  There was a baby crying somewhere far off in the distance. In that precious moment between sleep and wakefulness, Catherine remembered nothing of her ordeal, the events that preceded it, or even why there should be a baby. And then memory came flooding back, and with it, that sense of being weighed down by sorrow. She felt so heavy she could not even lift her head. The bed curtains were pulled closed, but she could perceive, through half-opened eyes, the light of day beyond them. It was stiflingly hot.

  She remembered it all now. So much for love! The tremendous excitement, the feeling of elation, of almost unnatural exhilaration, the sheer delightful enchantment of it; all to be paid for in the dreadful coin of utter misery, devastation, heartbreak, and the depths of despair. Never had she felt so alone, so abandoned by God and man. For how could a loving God have let such a thing happen to her? No. She could not blame God. This was the Devil’s work, and who had let Him in the door? Flitting through her troubled mind went memories of her trysts with Thomas in the gardens at Hampton Court, at Chelsea…the wages of sin were upon her now, in the form of this living death.