Mary sighed and gazed out over the surrounding countryside, of which she had an excellent view from the top of the curtain wall. Framlingham Castle and the area surrounding it actually had three moats, in concentric circles, all fed from nearby natural water sources; the outer one surrounded the hills beyond the forest, the second encircled the town and the third the castle itself. The rains may have made her camp a quagmire for days on end, but these moats were full to brimming and provided excellent protection against attack. If only the Imperial reinforcements would arrive, so that they could set forth and meet the enemy! For she had no desire to visit the evils of war upon the people of Framlingham.
As her eyes wandered the landscape, they rested upon the woods to the west of the castle, through which she and her vast party had first come to Framlingham from Kenninghall. Somehow, the people had known she was coming and had gone into the depths of the forest to greet her, and to cheer her on. She had arrived at dusk and had made her entry into the castle by torchlight. The people had brought, or promised, support for her cause in the form of men, money, provisions, cattle, what arms they possessed from wars gone by; swords that had graced hearths for many a day, morris-pikes, bows and arrows…all to be wielded either by the proud old men who owned them, or the sons who had succeeded them. It was not until the next morning, in the full light of day, that the magnitude of the people’s generosity had become fully apparent. The mounds of weapons were piled man-high in some places. True, many of the weapons were little better than farm implements, but no man would go forth without some type of armament.
Since that day, all that could be done had been done, and now they must prepare to fight. Rochester, Jerningham and Waldegrave, her faithful servants, were not fighting men, but they had each done their part; they had ridden far and wide announcing her claim to the throne, mobilizing her affinity and gathering money and promises of support. She had only to look below her to see the response to their efforts; the ground teemed with men going this way and that, practicing their sword-play, or teaching others how to fight. When the time came, they would be ready, of that she was supremely confident. But would it be enough?
The wind had picked up and a gust caused the flag anchored atop the tower to snap in the breeze. She looked up and regarded her colorful royal standard. She was queen; she had a right to fly her flag atop whichever residence she happened to be in. She recalled how proud she had been at the moment, not many days ago, when that flag had first been hoisted. Present had been all of her followers and the people of Framlington. (She must remember that her dear Sir Robert Rochester seemed to possess a hitherto latent flair for show; she would need someone with that sort of ability in the weeks to come. For she would succeed. In everything that had happened thus far she could see the hand of God; she would prevail, she had no doubt). Mary had not expected to see her colors flying atop the castle; she had simply not thought about or considered the impact of such a detail. There was a brief moment when the entire assembly, hundreds of people, had fallen silent as the flag made its way up; and then another such draught had unfurled it and it waved in the hot, sultry air in all its magnificence. And then suddenly a deafening cheer went up. No one saw the tears that welled up in her eyes at that moment, but it had been an emotional one for her; the culmination of years of wretchedness, profound sorrow, worry and anxiety. Nothing could possibly have meant more to her at that moment, unless it was the fact of her coronation, which was still, God willing, to come.
And the momentum that had manifested itself since that day had continued, unstoppable; towns that had either hesitated in confusion or had openly declared for Jane wavered and then changed their allegiance. Support for her cause had poured in from the people of England, in a burst of spontaneous love for their princess, and the rightful heir to the throne, Catholic or no. She must capitalize on this swift response to the righteousness of her cause, and with the help of her closest supporters had indeed done so.
But where was the support she had expected from Charles? Perhaps he was not yet aware of the turn events had taken, so much in her favor. Perhaps communication had been curtailed; Dudley was many things that she disliked intensely, but even she must admit that he was an effective ruler. He would not hesitate to move against her and that included restricting Scheyfve’s ability to send word to his master. There was nothing for it; if Imperial help did not arrive in time, she would have to move without it. And perhaps it was better that way; the English loathed foreigners and it might not be such an auspicious start to her reign to gain her throne with the help of an Imperial army. She had heard that Dudley had appealed to Henri II for troops in exchange for the return to the French of Calais and Guines; if that rumor were true, the duke had made a damning tactical error. For to cede these possessions of the crown was treason. No, she decided, it could not be true.
Just as the chapel bells rang the hour, she observed the great host below her begin to arrange itself into a semblance of order. Men were lining up, checking their weapons. Those who were mounted stopped to polish a buckle, or had their squire straighten a girth; those on foot pulled on their tabards, tied colors to their halberds and pikes, and shined their gorgets.
It was time to review her troops.
# # #
Mary descended the narrow spiral staircase, holding her gown above her booted feet. There was no rope to hold onto, and she had to take each step cautiously. The stone of the wall was cool to the touch; she realized that her face was burning, perhaps with trepidation, perhaps with a little dread of the ordeal to come. She pressed her cool hand to her cheeks. She was unused to addressing multitudes; but if she were successful in her bid for the throne, she must expect to find herself in many such situations in the days to come. She would have to accustom herself and be glad of it!
At the bottom of the steps stood her faithful servants; Rochester, Waldegrave, Jerningham; her dear Susan Clarencieux, Jane Dormer, and others of her ladies.
Susan clasped her hands together and exclaimed with tears in her eyes, “Oh, but Your Grace is lovely! And the men so eager to see you!”
It was true that Mary loved her clothes and jewels; when her father had stripped her of her finery in the dark days of the ascendancy of Anne Boleyn she had sometimes been ashamed to realize that along with missing more important things, she had sorely missed her sumptuous attire. On this day when she was to show herself to her army, she had dressed with the greatest care; although red and sometimes blue were her favorite colors, she had dressed in a most opulent purple gown, which was sewn stiff with gems. Purple was the color of royalty and she wished to make a statement. Precious stones glinted from her ears, her neck, and from every finger; her headdress was cloth of gold sewn with pearls. And under it all she wore the boots of a common soldier. She almost laughed out loud at the thought of it, but even a queen must walk in the mud!
She squared her shoulders. “Come,” she said, in a firm, clear voice. “Let us go.”
The royal party walked through the dark corridors of the castle, Mary striding man-like and determined at their head. In the inner courtyard she mounted her white palfrey. Waiting for her there were Sussex, Bedingfield, Southwell, Cornwallis, and all the rest; her commanders.
“Is all in readiness?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Sir Henry Radcliffe, the Earl of Sussex, her Lieutenant General. He was her second cousin, a fine soldier, and could be trusted absolutely. “The men are eager for the sight of Your Grace.”
Mary nodded, and the bailiff opened the gate. It had been Rochester’s idea for Mary to review her troops; it was no less than a king would have done before battle, so why not a queen? And it would give the men a chance to see what they were fighting for. It was a clever idea, but Mary had at first shrunk from it; she was inherently a shy person and was not clever with the spoken word. Still, she recognized that this was needed and agreed to do it.
As soon as she cleared the stone archway the first cheers went up, but almost im
mediately they were drowned out by the report of the cannon. The cannons were fired every few seconds for a full minute, and all the time Mary made her way slowly down the line of men. She smiled; she waved; she glinted in the brilliant sunshine.
Finally, the cannon ceased firing and the cries of “God save Your Grace!” and “God save Queen Mary!” could be heard in a deafening roar. The men beat their swords on their shields, pounded their pikes onto the hard ground; those who were mounted rattled their harness. Mary had never before seen so many armed men in one place at one time and was overwhelmed by their show of love and support.
Suddenly the cannon began to boom once again, and this time her mare shied. Mary was an expert horsewoman, and she was as one with her mare when mounted; but the horse would not be still and finally she decided to dismount and continue her journey up the line on foot. Fewer men would be able to see her, but she would be better able to speak with those who could.
Master Dodd took her reins and she continued down the line, pausing to shake a hand here and there and to thank the men personally for rallying to her cause. Mary had never seen a man cry before, with the exception of her father, on two occasions; one was in utter chagrin when speaking of the birth of Elizabeth, and the other with unreserved joy at the birth of Edward. But these men, as she made her way down the ranks, had tears in their eyes. The thought that they had volunteered to be here, to fight and perhaps to die for her, moved her immensely, and her own eyes filled.
The line stretched for almost a full mile, and at the end of it she was weary, but yet she felt a strange exhilaration. It was finally happening. And as she made her way down the long line of men, she came to a decision; she would not wait for her cousin, but would send her men forth if not on the morrow, then on the next day. Her scouts had reported that Robert Dudley, cheated of his prize in Cambridge, was making his way towards Suffolk. Very well. If battle there must be, then she would let her own commanders choose the place and time, to their advantage.
She mounted her horse once more, and rode back up the line at a hand gallop, standing in her stirrups and with her hand waving in the air. Still the cheers rang in her ears. And as she looked out over the multitude, another thought seized her. Her own personal funds had long since run out; Rochester could make tuppence do the work of a groat, but for how long? How on earth was she to maintain her army when the money that had been given or lent ran out? How would she feed them, arm them properly, pay them?
Back at the gate to the mighty tower from which she had ridden forth, she turned and addressed the men of her army. Standing in her stirrups with her arm raised, this time asking for quiet, she said, “My good men! As ye mindeth the surety of my person, so do ye mindeth the surety of your country. Prepare yourselves! Ye are joined with me in a righteous cause; we shall prevail, because if God be for us, who can be against us?” At this the rousing chorus of cheers began again, the cannon boomed, and to the cries of “God save Queen Mary!” and “Long live Your Grace!” she rode back into the courtyard.
No sooner had she laid her booted foot on the mounting block and swung herself out of the saddle than Sir Robert came bustling into the courtyard. He was an emotional man, and Mary never knew whether the tears in his eyes boded good or ill.
“Well, Sir Robert? And how did the review of the troops go, think you? And where is my stirrup cup?” She laughed; a stirrup cup was usually a farewell offering, not a greeting. But good Jane Dormer had anticipated her mistress’s needs, not for the first time, and had made provision for a wineskin. “Ah!” she said, taking the skin from Jane and withdrawing the cork. It was unladylike not to drink from a cup, but Jane was a practical girl; the wineskin made more sense. It was a hot day and she was thirsty after her long march up and down the lines. She took a long draft from the goatskin and handed it back to Jane, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Your Grace,” said Rochester with a bow. “You have a visitor from court!” His eyes danced and Mary wondered what was afoot.
But from court! This was a surprise. And then it crossed her mind that perhaps Frances had had a change of heart; it had wounded her deeply to know that her cousin had allowed her daughter to seize her throne.
Sir Robert waved a hand in the direction of the archway leading into the castle. From its dark recess a man appeared.
For a moment Mary was too surprised to do more than gape, a very unroyal thing to do, and in a flash she regained her composure and said, “Why, it is Sir Edmund!” Sir Edmund Peckham was Master of the Mint…and Keeper of the Privy Purse.
Sir Edmund knelt, and Mary held out her hand. He brushed it with his lips, and then placed into it a small velvet purse.
Surprised, Mary exclaimed, “Why, what is this?” She drew the string on the bag and upended it; out fell a handful of golden sovereigns. Too bad he had not made off with the treasury! “Thank you, indeed, Sir Edmund!” she exclaimed. It was not much, but every bit she could scrape together would be needed in the days to come. This brought back to mind the dire straits she was in financially.
“With Your Gracious Majesty’s leave,” said Sir Edmund, who had risen to his feet, “this is but a token. I have placed into Sir Robert’s hands for safe keeping the entire contents of the late king’s privy purse.”
For a moment the sun seemed to go dark and the noise of the army outside the gate receded. Merciful God, she was going to swoon. But in another moment the sound came back and the light filled out again, replacing the little pinpoints that had been dancing in front of her eyes only seconds before. Many times she had been tempted to despair; only moments before she had been worried about money and feared that the lack of it might spell her defeat. But God…and Sir Edmund! ...had provided. She had learnt her lesson; she must never, never despair, and she must never give up.
Cambridge, July 1553
The rain came down in sheets and the wind, which was coming in sharp gusts, blew the waters of the deluge sideways and into the faces of the bedraggled company. The rain was pelting them so hard that it felt like needles on the skin. The horses knew to follow the road, and it was a good thing; Dudley, who was in the vanguard, could barely keep his eyes open, lest he feel its sting. He had hoped to make it to Newmarket, but the day was dark and closing in, and the foul weather showed no signs of slackening; indeed, if anything, it was getting worse. And not a hope of shelter in sight. Must they camp on the soggy ground, then, with no fire to warm them? He was a soldier; he was used to hardship. But somehow this seemed all wrong. It was as if God had abandoned him.
He had set forth from London confidently at first. The muster of troops at Tothill Fields had gone well. The numbers he had gathered were more than he had been led to believe could be mustered. Still, from what his spies had told him he had fewer men than the Princess Mary. But his men were battle-hardened and tested; there was no need for the winnowing of his forces, as God had instructed Gideon to do!
And he had heard that Mary’s forces were ill-equipped; many of her men were armed with weapons that were little better than farm implements. Her men were led by a few country squires, most of whom had never seen battle, or London for that matter; and her men were an untrained, ill-equipped rabble. He had mounted knights, Welsh archers, trained foot-soldiers; and his soldiers were equipped in full battle array. In addition, many of his men had harquebuses, a modern weapon, a kind of hand-cannon; this would give him a distinct advantage in a pitched battle. He had enough powder to blow them all to Cambridge, and he had so many gun-stones that he had had to leave some behind. They had weapons and ordnance to spare; his was a fighting force to be feared.
“Your Grace! Your Grace!” came a shout through the banshee-like whistling of the gale-force wind.
Dudley turned into the teeth of the storm to see the squire of his son Ambrose, who was stationed back up the line. There was a large gap between the forward party and the rest of the troops. Dudley had wrapped his sumptuous red cloak around his head to keep off the worst of the wet a
nd to block the wind; he was certain that he did not make a very dignified appearance! “What is it?” he shouted back. “What is amiss?”
The squire cupped his hands about his mouth and Dudley leaned over in the saddle as far as he could, to be better able to hear. “Two of the cannon are stuck fast in the mud, Sire,” he cried. “We cannot free them in this tempest.”
God’s toenails, thought Dudley, what else was going to go wrong? He nodded, raised his hand in a signal to the vanguard to stop. He turned his horse and galloped back up the line. What he saw appalled him. Why had no one told him sooner? The entire company was in a shambles. He took charge immediately, riding fast and barking orders as he went.
“Hi, you there, hitch that horse and put your shoulder to that wheel! You, yes, you, secure that tarp! We must keep the powder dry at all costs! Are you daft? Pull it the other way!” He felt much like a mother hen trying round up a batch of chicks all intent on running in different directions. Finally, he reached the rearguard. “Ambrose!” he shouted. “What has happened?”
Ambrose, grey-faced, soaked to the skin and up to his knees in the thick, gooey mud replied, “Sir, Father, I fear that the axle is broken. We are exhausting the horses. We should rest them, and try again later.” The anguish that shone in his father’s eyes went to his heart, but he knew that he was right, and so did Dudley.
Dudley nodded. In any case, the day was getting on; it was late afternoon, the sun was a mere dream and it would be dark soon. There was nothing left to do save make a wet, dreary camp in this godforsaken stretch of land between Cambridge and Newmarket.
It had been well-nigh impossible to pitch the tents whilst the wind blew, but after a while the fearsome storm finally died down and resolved itself into a steady grey drizzle. It was impossible to light any fires, but at least those with tents were under shelter for the night. About the common soldiers for whom sleep was usually gained in a haystack or rolled in a blanket in a nearby meadow he refused to think.
The Baker's Daughter Volume 2 Page 27