The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Mary read the letter through again. “I demand that our right and title to the crown and government of this realm be proclaimed in our City of London…” And how dare they keep the death of her own brother, and the king to whom she was heir, a secret from her, that she must rely on a self-seeking Protestant to learn the news! For that was what Sir Nicholas Throckmorton was; now that she was queen, he sought to ingratiate himself, and she did owe him a debt of gratitude for sending to her her goldsmith, a man whom he knew she would trust, to inform her of the events of which she had every right to know, but that the Council…and Dudley…had kept from her!

  She folded the letter and lit a stick of sealing wax. She watched as the blobs of red dripped onto the fold, then she sealed the wax with an impression of her ring. If Dudley thought to usurp her throne, he was in for an unpleasant surprise! For ever since that day at Bury when Sir John had proclaimed her queen, men had been flocking to her banner. Not only had her household been waiting for her at Kenninghall, having gone straight there from Cambridge, but the earl of Sussex, Sir Henry Bedingfield, Sir John Mordaunt, Sir Richard Southwell, and many, many others, most of the lords of Norfolk and Suffolk, had heard the news and come with men, arms, provisions and money to fight for her right to the throne. If she had had any doubts about the people of England’s love for her after the disappointing events at Cambridge, they were dispelled now.

  All that remained was for her imperial cousin to inform her, through Scheyfve, what help he would be sending to support her claim to the throne. For now she had the unquestioned support of the people; they had demonstrated their love for her and their belief in the righteousness of her cause, and continued to do so daily; the defection to her camp of the ships at Orwell was just the latest in a series of confirmations of the loyalty of England for her right to its crown. After so many years and so many troubles, surely Charles could not fail to help her win her throne?

  Chapter 33

  “Wherefore, good people, as ye mindeth the surety of my person, the honour and surety of thy country, being good Englishmen, prepare yourselves in all haste with all power to repair unto my armies…making your prayers to God for my success.”

  - Mary Tudor

  London, July 1553

  The Dutch merchantman had been sitting much lower in the water earlier in the day, but by the time Scheyfve arrived at dusk she had been almost entirely relieved of her cargo. The customs men sat at a wooden table on the dock at the end of the gangplank, and nothing got past them without the proper stamp, after payment of appropriate duty. Wine merchants, cheese mongers, drapers and representatives from many other of the London guilds had been arriving throughout the day to claim their purchases, argue about tariffs, and finally carry their goods away.

  Scheyfve had been ready to settle in for the night after a long day in the saddle, but upon arriving at home found a message that the ship had arrived a day early on a swift wind and that he must hie to the docks posthaste to meet the emperor’s special envoy. No time even to change his clothes! What an impression he would make!

  The idea that the emperor would send a special envoy rankled. What need was there for such, he wondered? Did the emperor feel that he, Scheyfve, was not adequately performing his duties as Imperial ambassador? Did Charles V perhaps feel that he was not up to what lay ahead, now that the politics of England were about to change so drastically? Either way, Scheyfve was not well-disposed towards the arrival of this special envoy, and feared that it boded him no good.

  He was just about to approach the customs men to enquire as to the whereabouts of the special envoy when a figure appeared at the top of the gangplank. Scheyfve had never met Simon Renard, but he knew him instantly. He was tall, slender and yet powerfully built; he had dead black hair that was shoulder length and combed back. The setting sun was full in Renard’s face as he paused at the top of the gangplank, surveying the scene below him. The golden light rested upon his olive skin like a caress and the breeze that often struck up just at sunset slightly lifted his hair.

  And then the piercing black eyes, seemingly as dead as his hair, rested upon Scheyfve. They were so black that one could not see the pupils, giving their owner an ominous, other-worldly look that left Scheyfve feeling slightly uneasy. He raised his hand in greeting and Renard’s gaze fixed onto him with a force that almost made him sway where he stood. Why the man should affect him so, he knew not; but already he felt extremely uncomfortable, and they had not even greeted each other formally yet.

  Renard descended the gangplank with a smooth, cat-like grace. He wore a long black robe and no ornamentation of any kind save his chain of office. Scheyfve noticed that Renard’s muscles rippled against the fabric of his robe as he moved; the man seemed to glide rather than walk.

  As Renard approached him Scheyfve realized just how tall he was. Scheyfve had never felt quite so inadequate, or so absolutely short and round.

  Renard inclined his head and asked, “Have I the pleasure of addressing Monsieur Scheyfve?” His voice was smooth, silky, belying the eyes that were as hard and dark as river rocks.

  Scheyfve bowed and replied, “Your Excellency, I am indeed honored to make your acquaintance.”

  Just then the sun dipped below the horizon and an eerie twilight settled upon the scene. The gulls, who moments before had been wheeling on the wind and keening their lonely cry, disappeared. All that could be heard was the lapping of the water against the mighty hull of the ship beside which they stood, the muted sound of ship’s bells carrying on the wind, and the distant, indistinguishable conversation of the customs men as they dismantled their makeshift wooden table and stowed their dog-eared ledgers. Their movements were hurried; one, the younger, was impatient for the pub and his mug of ale, the older man longed for his hearth and his supper.

  As Scheyfve longed for his! He could have been settled beside his own fire by this time, his belly full and a glass of schnapps to hand.

  Renard’s voice intruded upon these thoughts; the sound of it seemed to Scheyfve to be what a cloud must feel like to the touch. Scheyfve shrugged this fanciful thought aside. What a strange effect this man was having upon him!

  “We must talk,” said Renard. “The matter is urgent. We must have privacy.” As he said this he eyed the boats moored all along the north bank of the river. It was almost dark now and all of the boatmen had lighted their little lamps. The water ferries bobbed and weaved with the tide as they made their various ways up river, down river, and back and forth between the north and south banks of the Thames. In the uncertain light of the gloaming they resembled so many fireflies, sailing on the warm, velvety night air.

  Scheyfve, for the first time, realized the error of judgment he had made earlier; he cursed himself for a fool. In his haste he had ridden his horse instead of taking the carriage. Best to smooth that over and make it sound intentional.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “my horse is in livery and may remain there for as long as needed; the liveryman knows me. The evening is fine and the journey not far; would you care to take a boat?” Chelsea, where the Imperial ambassador’s residence was located, was little more than seven miles upriver.

  Renard hesitated. “What of the boatman? My business is urgent, and the matters we must discuss are of the utmost secrecy. Can we not hire a carriage?”

  It was Scheyfve’s turn to hesitate. “Excellency, I would trust a boatman to know no other language but his own before I would trust a carriageman. It would not surprise me to learn that carriagemen ply a thriving trade in the secrets they hear as they drive. But boatman are a different ilk, my lord. They none of them speak any language save their own, and that not very well!” Scheyfve laughed, but seeing that Renard did not join him in his mirth, he stopped.

  Renard considered. The river stank, but a boat ride appealed to him better than a carriage ride through the stinking city. And except for the boatman, there would be no chance of being overheard by anyone. “I think I have a means by which to test your theory
,” he said. He walked over to the pier and approached the first boat. “Je souhite un tour, mais ne peux pas payer le tariff.”

  The boatman eyed him suspiciously. “Eh?” he said.

  Renard smiled, and it was as if the sun had risen again. Scheyfve once again tried to shrug off the strange impact Renard’s personality was having upon him.

  Renard tried again. “Deseo un paseo pero no puedo pagar la tarifa.”

  The boatman squinted in his confusion. “What say?” he croaked.

  “Ich wunsche eine fahrt kann den fahrpreis zu entrichten.”

  The boatman, not wishing to miss out on a fare, replied, “I have never heard of such a place but if your grace could tell me where it be, I can take you there.”

  Renard bowed and said pleasantly, “Sed volo non possum solver naulum eros.”

  The boatmen looked helplessly at Scheyfve, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  Renard nodded, satisfied. “I have just told this good man in French, Spanish, German and Latin that we want to ride but cannot pay the fare, and still he is eager to serve us. I am satisfied that he speaks nothing but English and will not understand our conversation. Let us embark, shall we?” He held out his hand, inviting Scheyfve to board the little boat.

  Scheyfve was not a good sailor on a large boat, and small boats made him even more nervous. But he made no demur and boarded the little vessel as best he could on unsteady feet.

  Predictably, Renard boarded as easily as if he had been a slithering snake.

  “Now,” said Renard. “Kindly direct this good man to our destination and then let us have our discussion.”

  # # #

  Renard sat with his back to the prow of the little boat, facing Scheyfve. That meant he also faced the boatman’s lamp, and by some eerie trick of the light, it made his eyes glow almost yellow. Scheyfve shivered. There was something simply uncanny about the man. Renard was from the Franche-Comte; perhaps that was it. Scheyfve by birth and by instinct mistrusted all Burgundians.

  Scheyfve waitied for Renard to speak; after all, the presence of this special envoy of the emperor to the court of England had been imposed upon him. He would not make Renard’s mission any easier by volunteering information.

  Renard sat with his back straight and his hands, which were quite large, resting on his knees. His gaze bore into Scheyfve.

  Scheyfve suddenly realized what Renard reminded him of. In the Tower of London there was a zoo, with many exotic animals from different parts of the world. The lions, of course, impressed everyone who beheld them, they were part of the coat of arms of England; but the animal that had most impressed Scheyfve was a big, black cat called a panther. The panther did not roar like the lions did; he was quieter, more subtle, and Scheyfve was willing to bet, in the wild, more stealthy. Renard, although his name meant “fox”, which also suited him, for Scheyfve would be surprised indeed if he did not find Renard very sly on closer acquaintance, was the human embodiment of that terrifying panther.

  When Renard finally spoke, it was in German. “And what is the current state of affairs in England?’ he asked.

  Despite the fact that Renard had spoken quite softly, Scheyfve jumped, startled out of his thoughts and back into the boat that glided so smoothly with the tide. It would not take them long to reach Chelsea.

  Scheyfve, despite his confidence in the lack of linguistic skills of English boatmen, glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “The king is dead,” he said. “But the Duke of Northumberland and the Council keep it a secret. They shall not be able to do so for much longer. Too many know of it.”

  Renard did not seem surprised. “And the princess?” he asked.

  For once Scheyfve felt that he had one up on the special envoy. “You mean the queen,” he replied, with eyebrows raised in an impossible arch.

  The planes of Renard’s face shifted subtly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But having the right to the throne and actually wielding the power is not quite the same thing, is it?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Scheyfve.

  “I mean,” said Renard, “that according to my sources, the watch on the city has been doubled, the Tower of London is locked down, and the duke of Northumberland has summoned the nobility loyal to him back to the capital. I am told that he has seized the treasury at Winchester. Things are stirring. Even from the deck of the ship where I spent the better part of this afternoon I can see that there are signs of increased military activity. Not to mention that there are at least twenty warships anchored along the river at various strategic points. I saw them as we sailed up the estuary. Northumberland is obviously preparing the fleet for war.”

  Scheyfve gaped as though he had been pole-axed. How in the world had Renard gained that much intelligence? Who were his sources? Not to be outdone, Scheyfve crossed his arms and said, “My sources have informed me that the French ambassador has asked the duke to commit to join France in the war against the Empire, in return for French support of the Protestant succession of the Lady Jane. The duke declined.”

  Renard smiled his mysterious smile. “The duke may change his tune before all is said and done.”

  Finally, Scheyve could contain himself no longer. “Why are you here, Monsieur?”

  Renard did not seem even mildly surprised by the question. “I am here at the behest of the emperor to counsel the princess in the coming crisis. For crisis there is sure to be.”

  The corollary question lay unasked between them; was that not what Scheyfve was in England to do? Was that not what he had been doing for the past three years, and van der Delft before him? Yet he dared not ask the question for fear of the answer. The best he could do was to make clear what he had already done, and what he knew.

  “Your Excellency,” said Scheyfve, “I have been convinced for years that the Duke of Northumberland has had it in mind to seize the crown of England for himself. Only his tactics have remained obscure. At one point I was certain that he thought to divorce his lady wife and marry the princess Elizabeth. But the Princess Elizabeth should not be underestimated. I am positive that the princess would have none of such a scheme, and so the wily duke, for he is wily, had to think of some other way. And so now we have the Lady Jane in the Tower, married to his son, and unless I miss my guess, the announcement of her accession to the throne is to be made no later than on the morrow. We must be prepared to…”

  “…do nothing,” concluded Renard.

  Scheyfve was not accustomed to being interrupted; he was, after all, the Imperial ambassador. But he must be cautious; Renard’s very presence in England indicated to him a certain lack of confidence in himself on the part of the emperor; why, he did not know, but instinct told him that it would do him no good to get on the wrong side of Renard.

  So calmly, expressionlessly, he asked, “Nothing, Your Excellency? But the queen has been most clever…she has feinted to the south, then bolted to the east; she is raising an army of supporters loyal to her cause as we speak.”

  As the boatman rowed and they made their way towards Chelsea, there were fewer and fewer boats. It was full dark and in the yellow light of the boatman’s lamp, which swayed with every stroke of the oars, Scheyfve could see nothing but Renard’s face, which seemed to hover as if disembodied above the black robes that blended into the darkness around them.

  The silence grew until Scheyfve found it uncomfortable. Finally Renard drew a deep breath and said, “The emperor does not believe that the princess can prevail. Her Grace has little chance of gaining widespread popular support, because of her religion.”

  Scheyve at first could not believe his ears. “Little chance…? But my good man, have you not heard what I’ve been saying? Before the duke closed off the roads to the east I received messages daily informing me of the numbers of men flocking to the queen’s banner!” And why did Renard insist on referring to Mary as princess? The king was dead, this was certain, and she was his heir; no amount of shady dealings on the part of the duke of Northumberland or the Council
could change that. Declared or not, supported or not, Mary was now the queen of England. What was the emperor playing at?

  Renard had a habit of blinking his eyes very slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded, deep-set and long; his eyelids came down most deliberately and the motion was as paced as were all of his careful movements. Almost in a whisper he said, “It is not likely that the princess can prevail without Imperial reinforcements.”

  What was he missing, wondered Scheyfve? Was this not as obvious as the noses on both of their faces? “Certainly, that is so,” agreed Scheyfve. “When will such reinforcements be arriving, and where?”

  Renard regarded him owlishly, his eyes still glowing that peculiar yellow color lent to them by the boatman’s lamplight. “It is not the emperor’s intention to provide military aid to the princess,” he said.

  Scheyfve was so non-plussed that he stuttered. “N-not…?”

  “No,” continued Renard. “The emperor is not intent on bolstering the princess’s claim to the throne…per se. Rather, my mission is to ensure that Imperial interests are served. If such coincides with the princess’s ability to win the crown, well and good. If not…” He spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. Scheyfve was still too stunned to speak, so Renard continued. “The emperor’s primary concern is to neutralize French influence in England. The emperor is very much aware that Dudley…” Scheyfve noted that Renard had a habit of placing the emphasis on the last syllable, “has been approached by the French ambassador with offers of military aid. The duke has demurred for the present, but mark my words, that will change. On no account must we allow that to happen. Let the French once get a foothold…well, you can see that that would be completely unacceptable, can you not? I am instructed to ensure that the princess does nothing rash; that she promises anything to gain the throne, such as that she will marry an Englishman, and that she will make no immediate changes to the religious settlement. All lies, of course, but if it gains her the crown, so much the better. But diplomacy is to be the only weapon used on the duke.”