The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Elizabeth was there; but as a bastard princess, she was denied a place under the royal canopy. She sat on a velvet-cushioned stool below and to the right of the king. Her sister! It was hard for Mary to credit that this was the girl she had been as a mother to almost all the girl’s short life. Mary had not seen Elizabeth since she had been sent away in disgrace from Sudeley, at the time of Catherine’s death. In that time, her sister had become a woman. She was handsome rather than beautiful, striking, actually, with her long, flaming red hair and inscrutable eyes. Mary met that frank gaze and was the first to look away. She knew why Elizabeth seemed so confident in her brother’s support. She had conformed without protest to the new form of worship, and was held in high favor by the Protestant court. Indeed, why should she not conform? Her mother had been an outspoken advocate of religious reform. But even Anne Boleyn would have stopped short, Mary was certain, of denying the Mass.

  Edward shifted slightly, and all eyes immediately turned to him. It was obvious to Mary that he was weighed down by the royal regalia that he wore, the heavy scepter that he held in his pale little hand.

  Mary had expected a private audience with the king. This public reception did not bode well. She had been asked to court to attend the Christmas revels, but upon her arrival had been told that she must appear before the king in his presence chamber as if she were a visiting dignitary, attended by the new Imperial ambassador, Johannes Scheyfve. Scheyfve was still an unknown quantity to her; she took it on faith that as her cousin’s representative, she could trust him completely, but beyond that, she had spent little time with him since his appointment.

  Edward drew breath to speak and again all eyes swung like a beacon to the child in the too-heavy crown.

  “Well, sister,” he said. “You have been summoned to court because you continue to break our laws…” He stopped abruptly. He was thirteen now, and his voice was changing and unreliable. He had started out in his high, thready voice, but that had suddenly betrayed him and the second part of what he said had come out in the deep voice, so like Mary’s own, that would be his until he died. He seemed discomfited by this unpredictable change in timbre.

  Mary sought to save him further embarrassment and responded immediately, her own voice deep, booming, carrying to every corner of the presence chamber.

  “I was under the impression, Your Grace,” she said distinctly and clearly, “that I had received an invitation to court,” she emphasized the word invitation, “to celebrate Christmas with my beloved brother and sister.”

  Unexpectedly, Edward, who was as pale as his mother had been, flushed a bright red. So he had been coached! She might have known that he would never have said such a thing of his own accord.

  Dudley, who was standing just behind Edward and to his right, cleared his throat loudly. It must have been a signal of some sort, because at that sound, Edward shook off his awkwardness and said, “You have broken our laws. You are our beloved sister, but you are also our subject; so great a subject that you cannot be permitted to continue doing so with impunity. The very greatness of your estate makes your fault all the greater, yea, and your nearness to me by blood. No more shall you be suffered to break the laws of England by which even the humblest of our subjects must abide. You must cease the hearing of the popish Mass and the practice of your idolatrous religion.”

  So it was to be the same old argument. All right then, she thought. “Your Grace, Catholicism is the religion practiced by all of Christendom outside of this realm,” she said. “And I shall not waver from it.”

  Edward shook his head emphatically, forgetful of the golden crown, forcing Dudley to violate strict etiquette by ascending the dais to right the thing on the king’s head, where it had slanted askew. The slipping of the crown seemed symbolic to some, and comic to others; many in the chamber stifled a laugh or sought to hide a grin. It detracted greatly from Edward’s next words, when he finally spoke them.

  “Not true!” he exclaimed. “The number of Protestants on the Continent grows daily.”

  “Then they are as misguided as you are, Your Grace, as I have said a number of times,” Mary retorted. “I will pray for their immortal souls, as I pray for yours.” She paused for effect, but not long enough to allow Edward to reply. “It has ever been, and still is my contention, that no man has the right to change my father’s laws whilst the king is in his minority. This is the very purpose of appointing a council of trustworthy men to raise up the king until he is of an age to take such august decisions as the changing of religious policy.” By her tone she conveyed that the Council now in power had failed miserably at their task. But even as she spoke the words, she knew that Edward mightily resented her constant reminders that he was still a minor and incapable of knowing his own mind.

  This time Edward was ready. His voice had taken on the high, thready quality once again, and he practically shrieked his reply. “I resent your condescension, sister, but even more your disobedience! I am the king, and I shall have no popish Mass said on my shores!”

  Mary stayed silent for a moment. It was difficult to believe that this was the baby she had held in her arms, wishing for all the world that he was her own; the child that she had held in the icy water, the tears streaming down her frightened face, desperately trying to break his fever, when he was so little. The little boy who, until the death of their father, had loved her like a mother.

  “Your Grace,” she said quietly, so quietly that now people seemed to lean forward, the better to hear her words. “I am Your Grace’s loving sister and loyal subject. I will obey your laws and statutes with a free will and a glad heart. But only where in doing so, I do not offend God or my conscience.”

  And then suddenly a thought struck her with a violence so great that it took her breath away and made her knees weak. She must have swayed on her feet, because Scheyfve looked over at her curiously, as if ready to catch her should she fall. For she had realized that Edward would never change now. When he was older, nothing would be different. In fact, once he attained his majority, things were likely only to get worse.

  Without warning, so suddenly that no one was more surprised than Mary herself, she burst into tears. Once it began, it would not be stopped; she stood before her brother, before the Council, before the entire court, and sobbed brokenheartedly. She made no effort to wipe her eyes, in fact she did not move at all as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then a collective gasp as Edward rose from his throne, removed the crown from his head and placed it upon the cushioned seat alongside the bejeweled scepter. He shook off the heavy robe of state, far too large for him, and before Dudley could reach for it, it slithered to the floor of the dais in a vast scarlet heap. Almost in slow motion an expressionless Edward descended the three steps to the floor of the presence chamber. He approached Mary, and as he did so, many were surprised to see that he was almost at eye level with his diminutive sister.

  The only sound in the great room was that of Mary’s sobs, which had subsided into hiccoughs. Edward reached out his hand, grasped Mary’s and said, this time in his deep, booming voice, “This will not do!” With that he tugged at her hand and Mary, as if in a trance, followed along behind him.

  Scheyfve knew better than to follow, but Dudley knew no such compunction; he only knew that it was vital that brother and sister not be allowed to meet alone. God alone knew the damage which could be done by that! The princess, wily and convincing, the king, young, sentimental and as impressionable as clay! He made to follow and Edward turned, Mary’s hand still clasped in his own.

  “Begone, Sir!” he said. “I wish to speak with my sister alone.”

  It was a side of Edward that Dudley had never seen before. But he must obey, or undermine the very source of his own power. He bowed and backed away.

  # # #

  “There now,” said Edward. He reached up and used his thumb to wipe a tear away from Mary’s cheek.

  For the first time,
Mary seemed aware of her surroundings, but she was uncertain how she had come to be there; her tortured mind had wandered far, oblivious to the effect that her outburst had had on her brother. It was a small room but comfortably furnished and warm. A fire danced on the grate. It was the robing room behind the throne.

  “Forsooth,” said Edward, taking her by the shoulders. “Sister, if you do not stop crying, I shall cry myself.”

  Mary blinked and looked her brother in the eyes. Jane’s eyes, so gray as to be almost colorless. “God’s blood!” she exclaimed. “Brother, you are already doing so!”

  Edward withdrew his hand and placed his palm on his own face. He was startled to find it as wet as Mary’s.

  As spontaneously as the sun bursting forth from behind a cloud, Mary opened her arms and Edward fell into them. They cried and clung together until they had spent their tears.

  When they finally let each other go, Mary felt a strange exhaustion. She felt behind her for a chair, and Edward quickly pulled the closest one closer that she might sink into it. Without a word, Edward walked to the sideboard and poured them both a goblet of wine. But Mary found that she could not drink; she felt so weak she could not have lifted the heavy golden cup to her lips. She nodded her thanks and Edward placed the vessel on the table beside her chair.

  Edward sat across from her, sipping from his own cup. After an appreciable silence, he said, “You remember my mother.” It was not a question, merely a statement of fact.

  “I do indeed,” Mary replied. “I loved her like a sister. She was a gentle soul, the kindest and best of women.”

  Tears welled in Edward’s eyes. “I wish that I had known her.”

  Mary leaned an elbow on the arm of her chair; she placed her brow upon her palm. “And I,” she whispered. If only Jane had lived…if only her father had not died when Edward was so young. How different things might have been!

  Edward peered at her with concern. “Are you well, sister?”

  Mary drew a ragged breath. “I am just so very tired,” she said, almost on a sob. How long could she hold out against the Council? For she knew that Edward, good sweet child, who wished only to please, was naught but a willing puppet in the hands of wicked men who sought to usurp the royal authority for their own ends. And in doing so, had endangered the very soul of her brother. She could not now believe that all the hurtful letters and dire threats, signed by Edward, had actually been written by him.

  Mary lifted her head, covered her mouth with her hand, seeking to stifle a sob. “Your mother,” she said, almost in a whisper, “would have been very distressed by all of this.”

  Where in the company of others Edward might have bristled, alone in this room with only his sister, he simply sighed. “I am what I am now,” he said with a desolate shrug. “I fear me I cannot change. I must be true to that which I have been taught, as surely as you must. It is all I know, you see.”

  Mary leaned forward and took her brother’s hands into her own. “I understand, Edward, truly, I do. It is just that I fear for your soul. And can do naught about it.”

  Edward’s grip on her hands tightened. He looked at her earnestly and said, “I beg of you, dear sister, have patience with me until I have more years. Then I promise you, I will remedy all.” He withdrew his hands and gripped the arms of his chair. “What a heavy burden is a crown!” he cried bitterly. “I cannot fathom why men covet it so!”

  Poor child, she thought. So much responsibility, so much pressure on one so young. She must not add to his burden. She longed to use this opportunity, this intimate moment, to try once more to convince him that he was being used as a tool by the Council, but she could not. He would not acquiesce, and there was no sense in abusing him further on the subject. Had she done so, she would be no better than the men she derided and despised.

  Mary sat up and reached for her wine cup, took a long draft, and set the cup down again. “All I ask, brother, is that you do not believe those who would seek to heap calumnies upon me, and to turn you against me.”

  “That I promise,” he said.

  But both of them knew that it would be a difficult promise to keep.

  London, March 1551

  The sky had been uncertain all day, at times threatening rain and at others displaying great yellow sunbeams that pierced the clouds. Many of the lowering gray clouds seemed to possess an eerie golden lining, and Mary expected at any moment to see the archangel Gabriel burst forth from the heavens with a host of trumpeting angels behind him. She wondered blandly if such a thought, such a flight of fancy, were blasphemous. If it were, she was certain that God would forgive her. Was she not likely to become one of his martyrs before all was said and done?

  The miles between her manor house at Havering and London were such that an early start was warranted. It was March and the mornings were cool and brisk; one never knew what the day would turn into. She set out before dawn with a host of followers. For the coming confrontation she felt that a show of strength, which she had avoided until now, was both needed and fully justified.

  Before her as her escort were fifty knights in full panoply, leading the cavalcade. Every harness had been polished to a sheen, every saddle soaped and buffed. Behind her followed eighty ladies and gentlemen, all in their finest velvets and furs, their jewels glittering in the pale yellow light afforded occasionally by the shafts of sunlight playing through the clouds. It was a colorful pageant, and as it made its way along the great northeast road, south towards London, the common folk lined the roads to cheer for her and wish her well. It was inexplicable how word of her presence spread so quickly, so that by the time they were on the outskirts of the city, literally hundreds of people followed in her wake.

  The support of the people was like balm to her soul. Their love for their princess was shown in many ways, but mostly by the many offerings that were pressed on her as the procession made its slow way towards the capital. A basket of dried fruit; a garland; a bouquet of wildflowers, limp but still colorful, handed up to her by an awestruck child. These were her people, they were England, and she would not fail them.

  Colorful banners flew from the ceremonial lances carried by the knights, and the people following on this day, which had turned comfortably warm after midday, waved their scarves and bandanas. The ladies and gentlemen in the procession wore a variety of colors, from rich reds to deep purples to bright blues and greens, their jewels, winking in the pale sunlight, as colorful as their clothing. From every neck golden chains gleamed.

  But the most remarkable piece of gear, worn by everyone in the procession, was the rosaries, from each of which hung a large black crucifix with a rendition of the Savior in silver. For Mary meant the forthcoming confrontation with the Council and the king to leave no doubt whatsoever about her position: she would not waver from the Catholic faith, no matter what laws they passed, nor how many times they summoned her to court to be grilled and berated.

  Mary had left the court at Christmastime directly her interview with Edward ended; there was no reason to stay. She could not have enjoyed herself after the emotional scenes in front of the court and then privately with Edward. She would not, under the circumstances, have been able to hear Mass. She had departed the next day for her estate at Writtle, where she passed a quiet Yuletide. But she had done so in the comforting belief that she and Edward had reached an understanding.

  And so her shock had been the greater when she received, barely a month later, a stinging rebuke from Edward, this time an entire letter written in his own hand and bearing his signature and privy seal. In it he repeated all of his usual admonitions and reproaches against the hearing of the Mass by her and her household, and ended the letter by once again forbidding her, henceforth, to practice any form of worship except that which was mandated by English law. She had been stunned, and hurt beyond belief.

  She sent a desperate appeal to her cousin, the emperor, through Scheyfve, begging his assistance. But while she awaited a response, a curious thing happened; in
stead of the usual miserable, downhearted hopeless despair that such admonitions occasioned, she became angry. Her anger simmered day after day until it grew from mere resentment at the way she was being treated to a blistering wrath, and finally, to a white-hot fury. Charles may do what he liked, but she would not be bullied any further. She would take matters into her own hands once and for all. She had summoned her household, told them of her plan, and then had sent messages to those whom she knew to be her loyal followers. They would make a demonstration, and it would be one that the Council, and her misguided brother, would not soon forget.

  Whitehall Palace, March 1551

  By the time Mary’s cavalcade reached the City of Westminster, the crowds were so dense that it was hard to move. This slowed the procession, and by the time it reached Mary’s house at St. John’s, it was nearing sunset. The sky was hung with lowering clouds but as the sun reached its nadir, it gleamed for a few moments just above the horizon, bathing everything in a strong, golden light. For just a few seconds the clouds turned purple and the sky near the horizon glowed apple green. Then the sun sank and it was suddenly fully dark. The wind had picked up considerably. Those who had them lit torches, lending the scene a touch of the macabre as the flames danced wildly against the night sky.

  With the religious fervor of the crowd, the procession had taken on the flavor of a pilgrimage. It was a stunning demonstration of loyalty for Mary as heir to the throne, and for the old religion. This was only appropriate in Mary’s estimation; she was there for nothing less than to do battle with the Council, and that battle had taken on the magnitude of a great struggle, far beyond just the political. It had become a contest between powerful opposing forces, placing Mary and Edward on either side of a great gulf, on two opposing sides of religion and sovereignty.

  Diplomatic relations were already strained to the breaking point between England and the Empire; they had been brought to the brink by an unpleasant incident at the Imperial court at Brussels. Wishing to drive home his point, Dudley had instructed the English ambassador, Sir Thomas Chamberlain, to apply for leave to use the new Anglican liturgy at the official residence. Sir Thomas was to point out that Scheyfve, and Mary, enjoyed a similar privilege in England. Mary of Hungary, Charles’s sister and regent of the Netherlands, was scandalized by such a request; her answer was an emphatic refusal. There was no parallel at all, she said, between practicing the true religion at a heretic court and granting permission for heretics to pollute a Catholic court with their heretic service.