The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  She turned back to see Dodd just settling down beneath an oak tree so old that its lower branches required wooden stakes to support them. He looked very small in the distance between them. When Mary was satisfied that Dodd had begun his doze, she strode man-like down the hill, out of his sight, and towards the pond. The day was clear and the puffy white clouds and blue sky reflected mirror-like in the water. Once again her thoughts turned to the constant gale that would now be blowing at Sheringham. But here in the midst of Essex, the wind was calm, and the temperature was comfortable, if not warm.

  At the bottom of the hill, where the grass met the edge of the pond, a willow wept delicate, yellow-leafed tendrils into the water, reaching for some unknown thing. Weeping; just like me, she thought. Her heart knew for what it ached: Philip, but he was gone, never to be recovered. She still wished for marriage and a child of her own, but what chance was there of that now? Thirty-and-three three this year... and not even the slightest prospect of a match. Even if there were, what man could possibly replace Philip?

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back. That way led only to despair, and that, she knew, was the deadliest of sins. But the tears would not be willed away. A silent drop rolled down her cheek. Her mother, gone these many years; Philip, dead on some far away battlefield; Elizabeth, all but lost to her now; her religion, the very saving of her soul, poised to be taken away and denied her by her own brother. What was there left to live for? The water seemed to beckon. She took a step forward, unconscious that she had done so. Suddenly the sound of voices brought her out of her reverie. Then she heard the sound of pounding hooves; getting closer.

  # # #

  Mary shook off her dolor, and turning, strode back up the hill. Whoever it was, he had stopped to speak with Dodd, who had presumably sent him in the direction of the pond. Her ears told her that it was a man on horseback, in a hurry; probably a messenger. But what could possibly be so urgent?

  Upon cresting the hill, the sun was full in her face; she squinted, raising her arm up to shield her eyes from the glare. It was no use; objects that were close up she could see quite clearly, but what was at a distance could not be discerned. It was a man on horseback, but he was backlit and she could not make him out. He approached quickly, but as he neared he slowed his horse. When he finally reined to a halt a few yards away, great clods of earth flew up in the air from the great horse’s flailing hooves. The man leapt with cat-like grace from the saddle and in a trice was kneeling at her feet.

  Jehan!

  “Good Jehan!” exclaimed Mary. “What brings you? Is all well with the king? With François?” She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Jehan was breathless from his wild ride, his horse was lathered, and he was spattered with mud despite the dry day.

  Jehan looked down at his doublet and breeches in dismay. “I am sorry to appear before Your Grace in such wise,” he said. “But the matter is urgent.” To her questioning eyes he replied, “A watersplash, Your Grace. If there is mire to be found, Arvel here will surely find it!” He arose and patted the horse’s neck. Then he became serious once again.

  “I have outridden the Council’s messenger, Your Grace, at the behest of van der Delft. His Excellency has been ill, and could not ride thus,” Jehan nodded to the swift, spirited stallion. “He bade me give you the news before you received the Council’s missive.”

  Mary was bursting with curiosity, but a lifetime of training in royal demeanor came uppermost. “You must drink first, Jehan, and catch your breath. Here, let us sit.” The fall had come late again that year; the grass was still soft and green. Mary sat down and spread her skirts, and Jehan fetched the wineskin from his saddlebag. When he had sat and drunk his fill, Mary nodded and said, “Now, then.”

  Jehan drew a deep breath and said, “Your Grace is aware of the state of things with the Council and in the country, of course,” he began.

  A flock of geese flew by on business of their own, their V formation nearly perfect; they were the first that she had seen that season to begin their journey south to warmer climes. Even if the cool temperatures had not boded it, this was evidence that the fall was well and truly here, and winter on its way. If only she could escape what was to come simply by flying away! Mary nodded. “Go on,” she said.

  Jehan ran a hand through his black hair, hesitating. “Well,” he said. “The Council had become truly alarmed by the duke of Somerset’s instability, his…what is the word?” he asked, almost to himself. His English was fluent, but at times, highly individual in its expression. Suddenly his eyes brightened. “Ah! I have it, Your Grace. His ineptness.”

  Mary snorted at the understatement. The sun was now high in the sky and her cloak was almost too warm; she loosened it at the neck and turned her face up to the sun. Perhaps Jehan would feel more comfortable imparting what must surely be bad news… van der Delft would not have sent him ahead of the Council’s messenger had this not been the case…if she did not peer at him so piercingly.

  “Yes,” said Jehan. “Ineptness. The Council has deposed the Protector on those grounds.”

  Mary was so startled that she gasped and her eyes flew open. “They have what?” she expostulated.

  “It is so, Your Grace,” said Jehan. “His Grace the duke of Somerset has been cast down and his regime has collapsed.”

  Her mouth a round “O” of surprise, Mary finally recovered herself and asked, “And what was the Protector’s reaction to that?”

  Jehan grinned. “Well Your Grace might ask! The duke reacted to the coup by riding post-haste to Hampton Court…the Council was at Westminster when the edict was issued…and securing the person of the king, His Grace, before any realized his intentions. The duke then issued a plenary summons to all men to gather at his command at Hampton Court, armed, and ready to defend the king.”

  “Defend the king?” she cried. “Against what?”

  “The duke…he is no longer called the Protector…announced publicly to all and sundry from inside the gates of the palace, and there was quite a multitude, Your Grace, that there was a dangerous plot against the king’s Grace, and that the men of the realm must be prepared to defend him. The duke accused the Council of plotting to do away with His Grace and rule in his stead.”

  At this, Mary was on her feet and pacing back and forth, her hands behind her back, her face flushed red and her expression a study in indignation. Jehan noted that she looked so much like her father at that moment that the resemblance between them, always obvious, was truly astonishing.

  “How dare he!” she shouted. Then she grimaced. “The duke must be mad,” she said. “How absurd!” Had Somerset forgotten that he was only an overseer? He had seized power, bitten off far more than he could chew, and then had botched it as surely as his blustering brother Thomas had done. The fool!

  “I am afraid there is more, Your Grace,” said Jehan, who had risen when Mary did, as it was not meet for him to stay seated while Her Grace the princess was on her feet. She noticed the white line about his lips and the fatigue evident on his face, and waved a hand to indicate that he should sit; Jehan sank gratefully back down onto the grass. “The duke went on to say that if he himself were harmed in any way, he would…”

  Mary turned in her rapid pacing, she had been facing the palace and had her back to Jehan, “He would what?” she asked, her voice deadly quiet.

  “He would…he would…kill the king, Your Grace.”

  Tears of anger welled in Mary’s eyes. “The knave! The rogue! How dare he threaten an anointed king! Oh, poor Edward!”

  Jehand nodded his head. “The king was frightened out of his wits, from all accounts,” said Jehan. “And then the duke, later under cover of darkness, spirited the king’s Grace away to Windsor Castle. And there he has barricaded himself and the king.”

  No wonder the Council had written without delay to inform her, the heir to the throne, of what had occurred as a result of their actions against the Protector! The idiots! Did they not thi
nk to secure the king’s person themselves before taking such a decision? And these were the men that her father had left in charge of her brother! He must be spinning in his tomb at Windsor Castle at this very moment at this turn of events!

  “God’s blood!” she exclaimed. “What remedy, then? What is being done to help the king?” Poor little boy!

  “At least the duke took Archbishop Cranmer and Lord Paget with him,” said Jehan. “They can be trusted to look after His Grace in these dire circumstances, and ensure that no harm comes to him at the hands of the duke. All are certain that the duke’s threats were idle, and borne of his frustration and anger. Surely he would not actually harm the king? His own nephew and his blood?”

  Mary sighed. No, the duke would stop short of that, she was sure. But what a quandary!

  “The earl of Warwick has brought troops to the castle,” he said, “and parleys with the duke through a messenger. It has been this way for a day and a night. I know nothing more, as His Excellency sent me to inform Your Grace at once of the situation. And to warn Your Grace.”

  Mary’s eyes flew to Jehan’s face. “Warn me? Of what?”

  Jehan met her eyes. He sighed. “England is rudderless and divided, Your Grace, even more so now that the government has collapsed. Society is only maintained by religion and laws, Your Grace. But the old religion is now forbidden and the new is not universally accepted. The law is almost nowhere used. The duke’s Scottish and French wars have bankrupted the Exchequer. On the other hand, Your Grace is very popular in Norfolk and in all of East Anglia. There is the same old talk of your complicity in the recent rebellions.”

  Mary stopped her pacing. “That is untrue, and the Council knows it. Besides, Kett’s Rebellion was not religious in nature, its object was to protest the enclosure of common land. Popular I may be, but my fences were torn down with the same contempt as any landowner’s!”

  Suddenly Mary blanched. “God’s wounds!” she cried. A warning! “Do they now mean to deny me the Mass after all?” She had many times eschewed the request of her cousin Charles for written assurance confirming permission for her to continue to worship in the old way, she and all her household. She preferred verbal agreements, because to put it in writing seemed to lend credence to the so-called new laws. Had she been mistaken? Should she have also lent her voice to that of her cousin and van der Deflt for such a writing? She was aware that the Protector had viewed her religion as much less of a threat than other members of the Council, such as Lord Paget; the duke of Somerset had been heard to say that she should be allowed to go her own way, as long she heard her Mass quietly and without scandal. Paget, on the other hand, had been an advocate of committing her to the Tower once and for all. A dangerous man! And now the Protector, as unstable and unpredictable as he had been, was deposed, and she was at the mercy of men like Paget! It was a lesson learned…Better the Devil one knows!

  “No, no, Your Grace. It is not that,” Jehan said quickly. “No, the Council are so much distracted by this turn of events with the duke that I doubt they have given a second thought to your celebration of the Mass since it all began.”

  Mary looked at him in puzzlement. “What, then?”

  Jehan looked Mary squarely in the eyes and said, “His Excellency is convinced that the Council will ask you to take up the position of regent for His Grace, the king, your brother. A power struggle has already begun for ascendancy over the Council, Your Grace.”

  Mary had little doubt about who would emerge victorious. Dudley! The Seymour brothers may have been bumbling and inept and hardly worthy of the eminence to which they had been raised by their sister’s marriage to the king, but Dudley was no fool; he was a very dangerous man. She knew him; he had once served as her Master of Horse.

  “I have been approached by the Council a number of times asking for my support of this or that issue,” said Mary carefully. “I have always refused to take sides or become involved. I see no reason to change that position.”

  “That is as well, then, Your Grace,” said Jehan. “For His Excellency is convinced that any such offer would be a trap that could land Your Grace in the Tower, or even on the scaffold.”

  Mary snorted. “I know it well,” she said. “No, as tempting as such an offer would be, I should have to refuse it. Taking up such an awesome responsibility would do my cause no good. I should be ruling in Edward’s name, and as such, would not be at liberty, any more than is the current Council, to enact religious laws, to restore the old religion. The best I could hope to accomplish would be to restore the Act of Six Articles, and that I could not in good conscience do, even as an interim measure. Nor would Edward, as misguided as he is at this point, permit such a thing. He may be very young, but he has a mind of his own. I fear me that he cannot be turned from his present path, any more than I can from mine.” She sighed. “No, van der Delft is right; if I were to accept the regency, I should be inclined to want to reverse the Council’s religious reforms, and I would land me in the Tower, or worse! But Jehan, I am so worried about Edward! Poor poppet! Would that there was something I could do!”

  “Wriotheseley has assured van der Delft that you will be allowed to continue to practice your faith unmolested, as long as you do not interfere with the current situation in any way,” Jehan said.

  The warning was clear; she must do, say, nothing.

  “You may assure His Excellency that my intention is to remain as far from the maelstrom as possible,” said Mary. But poor Edward! What would become of him? Only God knew; the only thing she could do was to pray for him, thanking God fasting that she was still allowed to do so in her Catholic Mass.

  Woodham Walter Manor, June 1550

  It was a warm, clear, starlit night; the breeze softly caressed Mary’s face with gentle fingers as she turned her face up to the bright, full moon. Jehan would be fretting over that yellow moon; but there was far worse to come, did he but know it. Mary sighed. She hated disappointing him, but there was nothing for it. After an agonizing period of indecision, she had made her choice, and she would stand by it. She knew it was the right decision because of how hard it has been to make it.

  The world was silent except for the rustling of the leaves on the trees, and every so often, the hoot of an owl. The wind was gusty, not steady. Jehan would be happy about the wind. That took her thoughts back again to how much she hated disappointing him. But whereas before, when she could not decide what to do, and that had put her in a near-hysterical frame of mind, now she was calm and nothing, not even Jehan’s dismay, would be able to shake her.

  She leaned back on the stone bench in the garden and closed her eyes. There was something so secret, so intimate, so mysterious about the dead of night, and to be out in it alone heightened her senses. It was almost like being drunk.

  As a princess of England, decorum was essential; but once she had allowed herself to drink more than was seemly, just to see what it felt like. It had given her a sense of exhilaration, of uncontainable excitement, a feeling that there was nothing she could not do. She had felt almost as if she were flying. In that instant she understood why some drank themselves into such a state. But the aftermath had been terrible indeed. The price, a heavy head, the desperate nausea, and finally, the tossing up of it all into a chamber pot, had not been worth it. She had been alone, a rarity, so no one ever knew that she had done it. And she would never do it again. But tonight, on this knife edge of time, waiting there in garden for Rochester to sneak Jehan into the grounds of the manor, she felt something akin to that sense of invulnerability that the wine had once instilled in her. She laughed to herself; she would never make a toss-pot, but she understood them much better now for her adventure with the wine.

  As she waited she thought back over the events of that fateful fall. For two uneasy months the political situation had hung fire while the power struggles precipitated by Somerset’s downfall had played themselves out. She had been right; John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, had emerged triumphant. He had taken his
victory quietly and without show, but that only seemed to underline the peril that she now felt at his ascendancy. She was far more apprehensive of Dudley’s quiet manner than she was of Somerset’s noisy bluster.

  Van der Delft had been completely taken in by Wriothesley’s promises that even with the change in power, she would be allowed to keep practicing her faith unmolested. It was small comfort, but she had been right that Dudley in power over the king and the Council would be but the beginning of her troubles. The handwriting was on the wall; and it did not take long for Dudley to show his true colors.

  After a craven Somerset had surrendered and been put in the Tower, Edward had ridden in triumph back into London, a thousand loyal men at his back. The crowds had cheered themselves hoarse for their little king. The country had been snatched back from the brink of civil war. Surely all must now be well.

  Dudley had refused the title of Lord Protector and had elected instead to call himself Lord President of the Council. To emerge as king in all but name, Dudley had made many promises and had befriended men that had the more astute members of the Council scratching their heads in bewilderment. For it would not have been possible for the earl of Warwick to emerge triumphant without the support of the conservative Catholic faction.

  But Dudley had lied to Wriothesley and Arundel; and as soon as he had gotten what he wanted, he threw them off the Council. These men and others like them who had believed that with the removal of Somerset the Protestant enactments would be reversed and the old religion restored had not figured on Dudley’s Machiavellian character. Once firmly in power, Dudley had issued a blistering statement in the king’s name against the Mass. Everyone had been shocked except Mary.