The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  After the conflict at the time of the rosaries, the Council had served writs on her chaplains for saying Mass. She had rounded on them smartly, reminding them that her chaplains shared her immunity from the law. Indeed, how could they not? If she were allowed to hear Mass, and her arguments in their earlier confrontations had left that point in no doubt, then how could the very men who said the Masses for her not be exempted? The Council were nothing if not determined; their rebuttal had been that no such religious immunity had been extended to Mary’s entire household. Oh, she retorted, then they admitted that permission had been given for her to hear Mass? On and on it went.

  On the strength of these arguments she tried repeatedly to have Sir Francis Mallet, her imprisoned chaplain, released from the Tower, but to no avail.

  Dudley’s next ploy had been to summon her controller, her chamberlain, and her steward before the Council to be berated on her behalf; it was a clever ploy. If they could not get Mary to back down by direct confrontation, perhaps they could get to her through her loyal servants? The three had been sent back to her with instructions to convince her to give up her religion. At this suggestion she had not been able to contain her mirth; they were fools indeed if they thought that she was not mistress in her own house. The men were the servants of a royal princess and heir to throne; rather, it was her place to instruct them, as she had been doing for the better part of fifteen years.

  The men had returned home and then, a week before, had been summoned again. At first she had refused to send them back, for fear of the pestilence raging in the city; but Dudley had insisted and off they went again. And now, instead of her servants returning, as she had expected, with more councilor threats, here were these three. It was all most strange and she wondered what it meant.

  If she did not invite the trio to sit, nor did she invite them to speak. The silence was becoming awkward; protocol prevented them from taking the initiative. Finally Mary sighed. Might as well get on with it, then. But she could do no less than treat them with the contempt that they deserved.

  “Well, gentlemen,” she said acidly. “To what so I owe the dubious honor of your presence here at Copt Hall? Have you turned tail and run from the plague, and think to find asylum here?”

  At this insult, Sir William bristled visibly. Let him! she thought. She still had not forgotten that he had come to her house at St. John’s after the dreadful interview with Edward and the Council in March, after the demonstration of the rosaries. Despite the fact that she had been very ill, and that the Council had actually taken a rather conciliatory tone after Charles’ threat of war, he had harangued her about her religion almost to distraction. It had finally been left to poor old Dodd, an authority figure because of his years if not his rank, to dislodge the unwelcome intruder so she could rest after her ordeal.

  Lord Rich had a thicker skin than Sir William; he spoke as blandly as if he were remarking upon the weather. “We have been sent to inform Your Grace that Mass must be said no more in your household.”

  Would this persecution never end, she wondered? “My lords,” she replied, just as blandly, “methinks that God has visited this mighty plague upon us as a sign that he is displeased with such interference with the practice of the true religion, and at the misguided religious policies of my brother’s Council.”

  Lord Rich raised his eyebrows.

  Of course, thought Mary, the man cared not for such things; he was a born cynic, and a man with no religion.

  “We are come, Your Grace, to inform your chaplains and the members of your household that henceforth, if they say a Mass, or hear a Mass, they shall be tried for treason and if found guilty, shall be burnt or beheaded at the king’s pleasure, as much as any other traitor to England’s laws.” Lord Rich bowed and Sir William and Sir Anthony followed suit. “With your gracious leave, we shall go now and inform them of such.”

  It was Mary’s turn to bristle. “My chaplains are exempt from such laws,” she said. “How many times must we suffer this argument? The Council has admitted implicitly in a number of ways, ways which I have pointed out several times, that permission was in fact granted for me to hear the Mass and to continue the practice of my faith. How, may I ask, am I supposed to do that if my chaplains are forbidden the privilege?”

  It was Lord Rich’s turn to look smug. “Yes,” he said. “That is a dilemma for you. Nevertheless, your chaplains may say no other service than that mandated by English law, or be subject to the appropriate judicial penalties.”

  Mary stood up abruptly and strode to the door of the small room where she had received the delegation.

  “Dodd!” she called. Dodd was ever close by, even if one could not see him; he appeared as if out of nowhere. “Call together the house,” she said.

  When all were assembled, Lord Rich had expected to address them but Mary forestalled him. She singled out her chaplains; Mallet was still languishing in the Tower, poor man, and one of the remaining five was sick abed.

  “You are dismissed,” she said.

  Lord Rich and Sir William seemed shocked. “You are dismissing your chaplains, Your Grace?” asked Sir William in astonishment.

  “I would dismiss them sooner than see them forced to say an Anglican service,” she said. Mary turned to address the rest of the household. “Henceforth no Mass shall be said for you here, nay, nor in any of mine dwellings, on pain of the penalty of law,” she said. She turned to the three councilmen and addressed them in a clear, strong voice. “But neither shall any other form of worship be allowed to be said in any house of mine. Should that occur, I will leave by the door and not return. I will hear no other religious service save that which my father always heard.”

  They had got what they wanted, but they were bewildered; something was not quite right.

  “And I should be much obliged, sirs, if you would be so kind as to inform me where is my controller, whom I miss most sore, having to count my own loaves and fowls, which as a royal princess I was never meant to do; and also my chamberlain and steward?” Sir Robert Rochester, Sir Francis Englefield and Sir Edward Waldegrave had been summoned to London and had not returned.

  Lord Rich’s long eyelids lowered as he raised his chin haughtily. “They are in the Fleet, Your Grace, but will be in the Tower by nightfall.” He waited for the tears, the emotions, the hysterics to follow on these words.

  But he was to be disappointed; for Mary met hauteur with hauteur and said quietly, “Then they are good, honest, loyal men, who will not be intimidated, as I will not be, by wrong-thinking evil doers. Any man who supposes he may have my servants rule me in my own house is a fool.”

  Lord Rich’s hooded lids practically obscured his eyes as he narrowed them. “You dare to call your king and sovereign lord a fool, Your Grace?”

  Mary snorted. “God’s teeth, man! Of course I do not. My brother is every bit as much a victim of the Council as I am. No, I refer to yourselves and to the other men of the Council, who should show more favor to me for my father’s sake, who made the more part of you from almost nothing! My father cared more for the good of this realm than all of the council members put together!”

  There was not much that could be said in reply to that. Lord Rich eyed the princess blandly. A change of subject perhaps.

  “Sir Anthony,” he said, waving the man forward, who had not, until that moment said a word. “Madam, having detained your men in the Tower, we the Council have graciously appointed Sir Anthony Wingfield to, as you put it, count your loaves and fowls. Henceforth he will act as your controller.”

  Mary stood up so abruptly that her chair overturned behind her. “He shall not! I shall appoint my own household officers, thank you very much!” They must think she was demented; how else explain that they expected her to accept without demur what amounted to Dudley’s spy in her house? Mary looked the men up and down contemptuously. “You have my leave to withdraw,” she said. “All the way to Hell!” She turned her back on them, which was the gravest of insults, and
did not turn around again until she knew they had gone. A small smile curved her lips.

  For only she knew that her sick chaplain, by virtue of his absence, had not received the direct admonition from the three men against the saying of the Mass; and therefore he would do so for Mary, in secret, for the next two years. She had outwitted them again, but at great cost; the members of her household who craved the Mass would have to be excluded from it for the time being, and all the people who came from miles around. If before she had been worried about winning all the battles and yet losing the war, now she had new concern. She had triumphed once again that day over the Council, but when all was said and done, it was a Pyrrhic victory; she may have won the argument, but at a very great cost.

  Chapter 31

  “This natural life of ours is but a pilgrimage from this wandering world, an exile from our own country [of Heaven].”

  – Mary Tudor

  Durham House, London, October 1551

  The woods surrounding Durham House were ablaze with autumn leaves. There were red, gold, burgundy, ocher, yellow, orange, the pinkish-copper of the beeches; every color of the artist’s palette could be seen, if one looked carefully enough. There were even some green leaves left on the trees, making an interesting contrast. The spectrum was completed if one raised one’s eyes to the sky, which was pale turquoise on the horizon and at its apex, a bright, hard azure; these were the blues of a day on the edge of summer, sliding downhill into fall. The breeze blew warm for October; puffy white clouds scuttled by on their errand of adorning a perfect sky.

  # # #

  An indulgent grandparent, Dudley had one child, the younger, a girl, by the hand; his grandson ran ahead on the path, which was thickly carpeted in the jewel tones of the fallen leaves. The girl was the daughter of his eldest surviving son and namesake, another John, now Earl of Warwick.

  That thought made Dudley smile to himself. Had he been a more expressive man, he might have laughed out loud. It was almost checkmate; his most recent move had been a decisive one. He had it all planned out, as was his wont. He would bring down the king’s uncle, the Duke of Somerset, once and for all. But he had never been one to rush into things and hope for the best. No, careful forethought, clear, objective reasoning was his method, and had always stood him in good stead. His last move but one had been completed the night before.

  Seeking to consolidate his position, he had persuaded the king to bestow on his humble servants some new titles. He had marked his time and paid his dues; Edward had agreed that Dudley’s support as Lord President of the Council could not be faulted. The boy now looked on him almost as a father. Dudley’s reward for such loyal service was the dukedom that he had coveted for so long, and for which he had waited so patiently. And this morning, this glorious, exciting morning, he had awakened not as Earl of Warwick, but as His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland. It was a defining moment. He was the first man in the history of England to hold a ducal title who was not of the blood royal, or married to someone who was. It was true that he had an aristocratic ancestry, but he had no royal connections at all; even the Duke of Somerset could claim some distant Plantagenet descent.

  But his friends, his family, even his enemies, were so blinded by the achievement itself that they failed to understand the underlying reason why his elevation was essential, and not merely the just desserts of a faithful royal servant. The simple reason was that there was no other duke in the land, except the Duke of Norfolk, and he was in the Tower these many years; and as merely the earl of Warwick, Dudley had not the authority, even as Lord President of the Council, to bring Somerset down. But as a duke himself, as an equal…then he could put his plan into play.

  Dudley knew that Somerset was plotting against him, just as he was plotting against Somerset; he had his spies everywhere. But rumor, opinion and supposition were not sufficient to his purpose; he needed proof. He needed evidence of wrongdoing. And so he had been doling out yard after yard of rope to Somerset, who had not an inkling that the new Duke of Northumberland knew exactly what he planned to do, and when and where he was going to do it. It was almost too easy.

  Making himself a duke might have caused some jealousy, even amongst his friends and allies, so Dudley had magnanimously convinced the king to shower a number of men, mostly his own cronies, with new titles. The husband of the king’s cousin Frances, born to inherit the title of Marquis of Dorset, was created Duke of Suffolk by right of his wife, Frances Brandon; William Paulet, Lord St. John, was made Marquis of Winchester; and Lord Herbert, the husband of Catherine Parr’s sister, Anne, and Dudley’s great friend, was created Earl of Pembroke. But once again, everyone had missed the significance of the fact that Dudley had petitioned not just for his own elevation, but also for that of others. When the time came, and it would be very soon, there would be no wavering; all three men knew to whom they owed their new eminence and could now be counted upon to support him. It was a point of supreme irony that the Duke of Somerset himself, as chief peer of the realm, had participated in the ceremony that had raised his nemesis to his own level.

  Dudley’s grandson came running back up the leaf-covered path, in his little hands a clutch of autumn leaves that resembled nothing so much as an assortment of precious gems.

  “Look, Grandfather!” he exclaimed. “I have one of every color. May we show them to Grandmamma when we return to the house?”

  Dudley smiled indulgently. He might be a stern ruler, but his family loved him for his tenderness to them, which was genuine and heartfelt. “Of course we shall,” he replied. “Here, put them in the creel.” They had been to the lake earlier, but had caught no fish; the creel was dry and empty.

  His granddaughter, a precocious minx, had no words yet, but possessed a strong will and a bad temper; she squirmed and fussed, apparently wanting to touch the colorful leaves before they were placed out of sight into the creel. Ah, well, he thought, my tender Jane may be the grandmother of this little girl, but her other grandmother is the redoubtable Anne Stanhope, the Duchess of Somerset, and a more unpleasant shrew one should never hope to meet. He was convinced in himself that the better part of Somerset’s troubles were caused by his wife. This formidable lady’s daughter was his eldest son’s wife. His daughter-in-law was a gentle soul, probably because she had spent her young life trying to please her termagant of a mother. But blood will out, and this child looked to be the spit of the Duchess of Somerset in more than just appearance. He laid a calming hand on the girl, wiped away her fruitless tears, and distracted her by pointing to a flock of birds swooping this way and that in the sky, their birdsong as sweet and varied as the sounds of a lute.

  If only his enemies could as easily be diverted!

  It was time for his next move; this would be the relocation of the court from Hampton Court to Westminster. And then he would strike his mighty blow, his first as the Duke of Northumberland; but certainly not his last.

  New Hall, December 1551

  “Mary!” cried Frances. “I shall not tell you again!”

  Mary Grey was only six years old, and was fascinated by the fire. The mighty Yule log in the hearth was almost as tall as she was. Quaking at the sound of her mother’s angry voice, the girl withdrew her hand; she had been about to thrust it into the dancing flames.

  Mary regarded her little cousin and namesake, whose chin had begun to tremble. She caught the little girl’s eye and patted her knee. Little Mary walked over to her and laid her head down upon that knee, certain of finding comfort there. Mary stroked absentmindedly the little girl’s honey-colored curls.

  “Ach!” cried Lady Anne. “So vass I much captivatedt unt charmedt by der flamess ven I vass but unt childt.” She smiled indulgently at Mary Grey and shook her head. “Vonce I put mine handt into der flame off unt candle. Dat vass der cure! So hot.” She shook her head. Anne was such an expert needlewoman that she could stitch while barely even looking at her work; she was hemming the edge of an altar cloth. When chided by Frances for her “popi
sh activity”, as Frances, who was staunchly Protestant, had called it, Anne sniffed and said that she was not aware of any laws that had been passed in England against sewing.

  Mary recalled the time when she had tried to hold her own hand in the flame of a candle, to see if she could bear it. It had not been the enigma of the flame that had prompted her experiment, but curiosity borne of the heretics who were at that time being burnt at the stake by her father. If one could not bear the pain of a single candle flame, what must it be like to be consumed by fire, and helpless against it? She shivered, despite the heat in the room. She glanced over at the exquisite altar cloth, which Anne had completed and was smoothing out on her ample lap. Anne had been sharing Mary’s secret Mass; it was one of the reasons she had come to New Hall to celebrate Christmas.

  As if she had read Anne’s mind, Frances’ eldest daughter, Jane, who was reading her beloved Plato in the window seat by the waning light of the pale afternoon sun, suddenly sat up straight and snapped her book shut. Fiercely Protestant herself, Jane had not wanted to come to New Hall for Christmas. She suspected that Mary would be hearing Mass there; although her cousin now made a big secret of it, whereas before Mary had been quite outspoken about it. Jane had never much liked her cousin. With a dark look at both Anne and Mary, Jane said, “Father, would you fancy a game of chess?”

  “Of a certainty,” replied the duke, yawning and stretching. “Fetch the board and the chessmen, daughter.” Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, now Duke of Suffolk, had been nodding in his chair, oblivious to the idle chatter of the womenfolk. Of his three daughters, Jane was his secret favorite. So like her mother! Neither Jane nor little Mary possessed the great beauty of his mother-in-law, the Mary Tudor who had been sister to King Henry the Eighth; that boon had been granted by God only to his middle daughter, Katherine. She was the spit of her elegant, charming, lovely grandmother. Dorset had been a little in love with the elder Mary Tudor himself; but had dutifully married her daughter, Frances, as he was bound to do.