The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Frances eyed her husband assessingly. She had discovered that she was, for the most part, incapable of love, but what affection she was capable of feeling she reserved for her husband. She knew that people thought him a weak fool, but that actually suited her quite well; he was as easily led as a puppy, and no other sort of man would have done for her.

  Although she was as different from her mother as night from day, Frances possessed none of the ethereal beauty of the elder Mary Tudor, she had one thing in common with her, and that was the need to lead a man around by the nose. Her mother had moved heaven and earth to marry her father, Charles Brandon, a commoner raised to the eminence of Duke of Suffolk by virtue of being King Henry VIII’s greatest friend. When still a young woman, her mother had been forced to marry Louis XII, the aging King of France. When the old king died, her mother had bullied her father into marrying her right there at the French court, but even so, ever after she had been known as the French Queen, rather than the Duchess of Suffolk. It was a monumental achievement for an otherwise helpless royal pawn; and yet her mother had accomplished it.

  Frances’s marriage to Henry Grey had been arranged; there was no great passion there as there had been for her mother and father. Frances knew even then that her father was a weak fool, and it pleased her to know that her husband was as well. She would rule her roost as her mother had done. It had all worked out for the best.

  For her children, Frances had little maternal feeling; they were royal pawns to be used as needed, and tolerated until they could be so used. Her daughter Jane was headstrong and stubborn; Frances almost looked forward to the day when an opportunity would offer itself to break that haughty spirit. Catherine was as amenable as a kitten, and alone of her children had inherited the blonde, pink-and-white beauty of the elder Mary Tudor. Little Mary was…there was no other word for it…as homely as a batch of soap.

  Dodd had appeared so quietly and unobtrusively that Frances gave a start when she came out of her thoughts and saw him standing at Mary’s side. He handed her cousin a sealed letter, bowed, and departed.

  Anne had begun another of her endless sewing projects, this one a tapestry piece to be used as a cushion cover; Frances’s husband and daughter were absorbed in their game of chess. “Well,” said Frances, nodding at the letter. “What is it?” Never anything but a straightforward woman, she had little use for subtlety.

  Mary held up her hand, to sign to Frances that she wished to finish reading the missive before responding. Finally, she laid the parchment aside and reached for her mug of mulled wine. “It is from the Imperial ambassador,” she said. “The Duke of Somerset has been found guilty and shall be executed three weeks hence.” The drama had begun back in October, when the duke of Somerset was arrested, for the second time, on charges of high treason and various felonies. The duke had then been made to cool his heels in the Tower for two months before his trial began in December.

  “Ach, der poor man!” exclaimed Anne. As one who had come close to the axe herself during the time when she had been queen, she felt an instant affinity with the condemned man.

  Frances snorted. “Edward Seymour was ever a fool and an inept ruler. He ought to have let himself be guided by his wife!” She had a great deal of respect for Anne Stanhope, the Duchess of Somerset; they were of an age and both ruled weak husbands in high places. It was the duchess who had first put the idea into her husband’s head to petition the boy king to make the Protector a duke; Frances had likewise pushed her husband to press Dudley for promotion. Was she not the first cousin of the king? Had not her mother been a queen and her father Duke of Suffolk? Why should not her husband then be raised to the eminence of duke by right of his wife? And so he had been. What would these men do without their wives, she wondered? Although in the direct line of succession herself, Frances had no desire to rule England; ruling her husband, her children and her servants was enough for her.

  The duke of Suffolk was losing the game of chess to his bored daughter Jane, who viewed him as no challenge. To Henry Grey, it was perfectly natural to take his lead on political issues from his wife and her relations; many men would not have dreamed of doing so. But he knew that Frances was clever, much cleverer than he was, and he relied upon her conversation for something to say when he was in male company. He secretly agreed with Frances’s opinion that Somerset should have allowed himself to be guided by his wife, although he would never have admitted as much to his contemporaries.

  Frances drained her cup of wine and set it down with a bang. “All knew that Somerset was rabble-rousing the populace and inciting them into a fury of hatred for Dudley. But I must admit I was surprised at the accusation that Somerset was plotting to murder him! Hold a banquet and then behead the man at the dinner table! Only a fool would have dreamt up such a scheme!”

  Mary arose, took up Frances’s wine cup, and walked to the fireplace. She filled the cup and spiced it, then seized the red-hot poker she used only for mulling and thrust it into the mixture. “But the commons and the guildsmen are squarely on the duke’s side, despite his shortcomings,” she said. “They still see him as the man who tried to ease their lot with various laws upholding their rights against the landed gentry during his time as Lord Protector. I still have the derelict fences on my lands to show for that! The people insist on declaring him wrongly accused and innocent.”

  “Yes,” said Frances. “His stock has always been high with the common people.”

  “It duss not help matterss,” declared Anne, “dat effen widout der feelings off der commons for der duke, dat dey hate Dudtley unt call him tyrant.”

  “I agree,” said Mary, setting the freshly mulled cup of wine down on the table next to Frances. “I can never look upon Dudley as anything but a bully and an oppressor. Somerset was never that. But the poor harvests have meant soaring prices and widespread discontent, and have given the ignorant an opportunity to blame all of the country’s economic woes on Dudley’s policies. As much as it pains me to admit it, that is unfair.”

  “All dat iss besside der point,” declared Anne with a wave of her hand. “Plotting a murdter iss von thingk. But hiss compatriotss haff given up much more dan dat in order to safe dere own neckss. I haff heardt dat der confessionss off Palmer unt der odders haff revealedt dat der duke meant to seiss der Great Seal of Englandt, unt effen der Tower itself.”

  “I believe,” said Frances, “that Somerset has been bent on revenge against Dudley ever since his ouster. None ought to be surprised at this turn of events. But this time, Somerset has cooked his own goose!”

  It was hard to argue with that; All in all, there seemed little hope that Somerset should expect to receive a second reprieve from his royal nephew.

  Anne shook her head and declared, “Der Lordt only knowss vot vill happen next!”

  A fair question, thought Mary. But the idea that she would be thirty-and-six in the coming New Year ate at her peace of mind. She had given up hope of ever being queen, or marrying and having a child of her own. The vista of her life appeared before her now as a long march to the grave, alone and lonely. It was no wonder that despair was said by some to be the deadliest of the Seven Deadly Sins; it sapped one’s strength and stole away the very will to live. She should take consolation in her faith, and she did try to; she had once remarked to Frances that life is but a pilgrimage from this wandering world, and we in it simply exiles from our own natural country of Heaven. A profound thought, but it was one meant only for the comfort of saints. For those who must arise and live from one day to the next it offered little consolation.

  Greenwich Palace, June 1552

  “Oh, look, Cousin!” cried the Fair Geraldine. “There he is!” She clasped her hands to her breast as Edward cantered confidently onto the titlyard, in full panoply and on a charger that Mary feared was far too much horse for him.

  Mary did not particularly enjoy watching the joust, because she could not discern with any real clarity that which was happening. It was all just a colorful
blur, at the expense of dust in the nostrils and all over one’s clothing. But one thing she did know; she disapproved heartily of Edward participating in any dangerous sports. As much as he might try to emulate their larger-than-life father, there was no denying that Edward, physically at least, was more Seymour than Tudor. He was small of stature, and not meant for the rough-and-tumble even of the seemingly benign quintain, and the running at the rings. Neither sport involved an armed opponent; they were more precision sports than combative. But even a fall from a horse…and beside that, Edward had only recently recovered from smallpox, and was, in Mary’s opinion, not sufficiently recuperated for the press of activities that Dudley had planned for him over the spring and summer.

  And there lay the crux of the problem; Edward had a boy’s natural pride, and in addition, that of a king. Dudley was nothing if not obsequious where Edward was concerned, and a shameless flatterer. And if there were one thing to which all Tudors were extremely susceptible, it was flattery. Mary suffered from the same malady herself, although she liked to think that such self-knowledge was, at least in part, a mitigation of the effects of such a flaw. But as far as she could see, Edward lapped up Dudley’s fawning sycophancy like mother’s milk, and there was no steering him right. She had tried, albeit subtly, several times, but to no avail.

  Unfortunately, Edward was overly sensitive, and Mary thought she knew why. He had known his father for many years before King Henry’s demise; Edward held up that august mirror to himself and did not like what he saw. But facts must be faced; Edward may have a formidable intellect, there was no denying that, but physically he would never be the equal of the mighty King Henry VIII. Edward often lost his temper, as anyone of Tudor blood or Plantagenet descent was bound to do; but his was the bleating of a sheep compared to the lion’s roar that had characterized their father’s truly frightening royal rages.

  Edward’s remaining uncle, the Duke of Somerset, had been executed in January. With Edward Seymour’s demise, Dudley’s dominance over the young king was all but complete. And so Dudley tried in all manner of ways to convince Edward, to make him believe that it was he, and not Dudley, who was in charge of affairs and who wielded the royal power. It was a subtle tactic indeed, but by encouraging Edward in the sports that he loved, Dudley gave Edward the false impression that he was like his father in that respect. And it was true that Edward was quite good at rushing the quintain and seizing the rings; but he exhausted easily in comparison with his father, who could tire out a dozen horses of an afternoon and still dance into the wee hours without breaking a sweat. And Edward had been ill…far too ill to be out hawking, hunting, shooting arrows, reviewing troops and attending entertainments, let alone participating in them himself.

  It had pained Mary to know that Edward was suffering from such a dread disease as the smallpox. But she had refused to attend court, on principle, whilst her servants were still being detained in the Tower on her behalf. Dudley and the Council dare not risk offending her cousin, the emperor, by arresting her, and so at the time of Edward’s illness, Rochester, Waldegrave and Englefield still languished in the Tower, having spent a miserable winter there. For form’s sake, Dudley had kept Mary informed of Edward’s condition. The windows of his rooms were hung with red cloth to prevent the disfiguring scars that the pox inflicted, and beyond that, there was nothing she could have done had she been there.

  And then suddenly, almost coincident with her brother’s recovery, her servants had been released. Two of them were ailing themselves, and it was probably deemed unwise to detain them further lest something more evil than imprisonment should befall them. Waldegrave had been so ill that he had had to recuperate in London for weeks before he could make the journey back to New Hall and to his duties as steward.

  With Edward recovered and her servants released, there was no longer any excuse…or reason…not to attend court, but Mary dreaded it. It would be yet another round of disputing and squabbling about her religion, and she was not looking forward to it, even to see Edward again.

  She had ridden down from Essex on a lovely spring day. The weather had been holding back, cool, cloudy, wet, in turns. The sun had teased and played as coy as a tipsy wench at a Harvest Horky, just enough to coax the willing buds on the trees to swell, but no more. And then on the day of her departure, the sun had burst through and in its warmth every bud had unfurled to reveal its promise. It was as if her cavalcade rode through a wonderland of blossoms, all waving her on in the warm breeze.

  She was surprised to be met on the outskirts of the city by an impressive host, sent by Dudley and the Council to greet her. Heading the welcoming party was Dudley’s son John, now Earl of Warwick since his father’s elevation to Duke of Northumberland; beside him rode Lord William Howard, an uncle of Anne Boleyn. If any recognized the irony in that, they kept it to themselves. She had been greeted as the princess she was, with all the pomp and ceremony due to the sister of the king and the heir to throne. What did it all mean, she wondered?

  She was escorted with great respect and deference, to the cheers of the crowds of people come to welcome her to London, all the way to her house at the Priory of St. John’s at Clerkenwell. There she stayed, resting from her journey, before continuing on to Greenwich to pay her respects to the king.

  She was again surprised, delightfully so, to be informed by an excited Dodd that the king had sent his own barge to convey her down the Thames to the palace. She had again been escorted by members of the Council and their entourages, with great spectacle and colorful splendor, to Tower Wharf, where the royal barge awaited her and her ladies. There was no better way to show herself to the people than a journey by barge on the river; and the people did not disappoint. Both banks of the river were teeming with well-wishers ten deep, cheering themselves hoarse for their princess.

  The ostensible purpose of her visit was for her to officially see Edward off on his Royal Progress; she would not be joining him and neither would Elizabeth. Her sister was conspicuous by her absence; Elizabeth had stayed at Hatfield, at the king’s behest, where she was concentrating on her studies.

  All the while Mary was prepared, indeed, had steeled herself to face, another onslaught concerning her religion, but curiously it never came. Perhaps Edward, having been so very ill, had had a change of heart, even if only a temporary one. The entire visit had gone remarkably well, with even Dudley and the Council being affable, and no mention of religion had been made.

  Her last duty would take place on the morrow. Edward was to depart for Guildford on the first leg of his journey around the southwest counties and it was the king’s pleasure that Mary should see him off. Unless some sort of confrontation took place that evening, she would have concluded her visit to court without any unpleasantness, something that had not happened in years. She had certainly come to court expecting a haranguing; further religious reforms had been passed by the Parliament in March, and were expected to be in force by November. And yet no reference to anything to do with religion had been mentioned during her visit. But there was still the morrow to get through; she would reserve judgment until she was back on the road to New Hall.

  # # #

  Dudley was seated in the royal box, two rows up from Mary. He could see her profile, and was able to observe her without anyone realizing that he was doing so. He knew she was puzzled; he wondered if she had figured it all out yet. Most likely not; he had known the princess long enough to conclude that she was not adept at dissembling. In fact, she was so straightforward that if she ever did, God forfend! …come to the throne, he doubted that she could be a successful ruler. A monarch must be able to say one thing and mean another, and do so convincingly. She would be wondering why her visit had been such a pleasant one, unmarred by the usual disagreeable confrontations about her stubborn refusal to abandon the Mass. It was the only way to put her off her guard; but her very forthrightness would prevent her seeing through it for the tactic it was.

  The recent Act of Uniformity had imp
osed upon the English church the second version of the Book of Common Prayer. This version was much more stringent than the first attempt; many ardent Protestants had been dismayed to discover that the first version still adhered to many tenets of Catholicism, and in some cases, had refused to use it. But this new version! It was everything he had hoped for and more. It plainly stated as fact the belief of justification by faith alone; all of the fables and dangerous deceits of the old religion had been struck from its pages. It denied the possibility of Transubstantiation utterly and completely; no more would the English people be called upon to subscribe to the belief that the wine and the wafer changed miraculously into the body and blood of Christ. Everywhere altars were being stripped and replaced with plain Communion tables; images were being whitewashed; the riches of the Roman church, where they still remained, were being seized. The gold plate was melted down and the jewels adorning the destroyed images of saints were being sold, and the money used to prop up the bankrupt treasury. A much better use for England of such wealth!

  All this had been accomplished by John Dudley, His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland; it was in his view the greatest achievement…so far… of Edward’s reign.

  And all of it was in jeopardy of being lost. Because if anything should happen to Edward, this woman seated below him would come to throne and proceed to undo all that he had done. It was unthinkable.

  Dudley had had a bad scare early in the spring when Edward had been laid low with the smallpox. The boy could have died. And although Edward’s death would have saddened him greatly, his personal feelings about the king were as nothing compared to the dire consequences for England of such a calamity.