The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Chapter 35

  “I utterly defy the Duke of Northumberland for the most errant traitor to God and to the realm [of England].”

  - Mary Tudor

  Wanstead, August 1553

  The journey west from Framlington was made at an easy pace, the first such leisure that Mary had known in as long as she could remember. The weather was fine, if warm, and she was enjoying the out-of-doors in a manner that she had not been able to do for quite some time. The jingle of harness and the thud of hoof no longer indicated to her ears the impending horrors of war and battle; now they filled her mind with pleasant thoughts, contemplations of what it meant that she had triumphed and was now queen. The birdsong sounded more cheerful than it had done when she was constantly worried about what the future held, and the wind sighing through the trees whispered to her now not of fear and the deaths of men but of a profound relief…all should now be well. It was true that her most difficult tasks lay before her, but she was prepared; indeed, she had been preparing for this moment all her life.

  As she rode southward toward Wanstead, she was accompanied by a great multitude. But alongside her there also rode a whole host of people whom no one could see. Her mother’s ghost rode with her; so did that of Lady Salisbury, her murdered governess. And there were other, less pleasant companions as well. Her father; Cromwell; Anne Boleyn.

  Thoughts of Anne had been assailing her mercilessly for days. Try as she might, she simply could not dismiss her nemesis from her mind. She knew why; it was because of Elizabeth. The question of what to do about her sister had become a difficult matter recently, and one that had her sore perplexed. Elizabeth’s behavior had, on the face of it, been exemplary during the succession crisis just past, but there were questions, undercurrents, that must be dealt with. It was not simply that Elizabeth was Anne’s daughter and therefore repugnant to her in some way; if only that were all of it!

  She had at last come to grips with the fact that gone was the precocious, charming little sister whom she had so loved, and in place of the intelligent, fascinating child was a shrewd, clever, cunning woman whom, she knew, looked to rule England when her own day was done. If one viewed the situation from Elizabeth’s point of view, she supposed that was only fair; Elizabeth’s arguments were, after all, Mary’s own. Elizabeth was heir presumptive by tradition, by law, and by the terms of their father’s will. Unless…unless she could marry quickly and provide a Catholic heir to the throne, then all would be lost, before she had even begun her work of restoring England to the true faith.

  And there was more besides. She had given a great deal of thought to the fact that Elizabeth’s future prospects, and probably her life, had very much depended upon the outcome of Mary’s own bid for the throne. What would have become of Elizabeth, after all, had Jane’s bid for the throne been successful, instead of her own? Both of the Tudor sisters would have presented an untenable threat; at best they would have been imprisoned in the Tower for the rest of their lives, but it was far more likely that they would simply have been executed. Had they been allowed to live, there was no doubt that many would have risen up in either of their names at the first hint of dissatisfaction with the Grey-Dudley regime. Dudley was a realist; he should not have allowed them to live. He was clever, though; he would not have had them killed overtly. They should simply have quietly vanished, just as their great-uncles, the Princes in the Tower, had done.

  Then there was the school of thought that said that Elizabeth, a known Reformer, could have made her own successful bid for the throne if Mary’s attempt had failed. Why not? Elizabeth was certainly a better candidate than Jane, who had only met with success because of the driving force of Dudley. Elizabeth had sent her a warm letter of congratulation when it was evident that she had won the day. That was only right and proper; but it was not lost on Mary that the letter had not been written until it was certain that she had prevailed. And where had Elizabeth been whilst she was struggling to gain her crown? Had her sister come to Framlington in support of her cause? Had she offered up her own affinity to assist the troops that had flocked to Mary’s banner? She had not. Her clever sister had stayed at Hatfield, hedging her bets. On the surface of it, blameless; excusable.

  But now Mary knew the truth. It had been driven home to her forcefully with Elizabeth’s latest tactic. For Elizabeth had, on the very day that she had written her letter of congratulation to Mary and sent it to Framlington, departed Hatfield with her own retainers, a thousand strong, and ridden into London. Oh, should she have begged Your Grace’s leave to go to her home in London? But Somerset House was hers, after all, was it not? Edward had given it to her, had he not? There was no harm in going on to London, now that the danger was past, was there?

  No, on the surface of it, no harm…except that the reception accorded Elizabeth by the people of London was so enthusiastic, the crowds were still celebrating Mary’s accession, that it seemed as if it were she, and not Mary, who had just prevailed. The girl had ridden into the city in a white dress, on a white horse, with her pale skin and her red hair flowing down her back. The people had gone wild for her. And in the process, her sister had stolen the thunder of her own triumphal entry into London, which was planned two days hence.

  It was too much to believe that Elizabeth had unwittingly made such an entry into London, hard on the heels of the people’s wild celebration of Mary’s success; Elizabeth had never done an unwitting thing in her life. She had known exactly what she was doing. But Mary had not forgotten her vow; forgiveness, clemency, were her watchwords now, and that magnanimity must include Elizabeth.

  And so now she must keep Elizabeth very close to her, whether she would or no; it was the only way to curb the girl’s natural high spirits and to prevent her from making another end run around the Queen of England. In that spirit, Mary had invited her sister to meet her at Wanstead so that they might make the state entry into the city together; the queen and the heir to the throne. This was, after all, a reason for great gladness; together they represented the restoration of the direct Tudor line and the recognition of their father’s will.

  All well and good. But she would have to watch Elizabeth very, very closely from now on.

  Whitechapel, London, August 1553

  “Ach, but Your Grace iss luffley!” exclaimed Anne, as Susan Clarencius placed the bejeweled headdress onto Mary’s head, and Jane Dormer twitched into place the train of her violet velvet gown.

  The gown she had chosen for this momentous occasion was in the French style, its sleeves very wide and sewn with pearls. It was the same gown in which she had reviewed her troops that fateful day at Framlington. Had she believed in luck at all she might have said that the gown was lucky for her. Under the gown, richly embroidered with intricate designs in golden thread and glittering with diamonds, was a kirtle of sumptuous purple satin. Lady Gertrude, the Marchioness of Exeter, held the elaborate golden chain that Mary was to wear around her neck, and Lady Bramston, in whose Whitechapel manor house Mary and her party had stopped to change into their finery for her ceremonial entry into London, held the ornamental baldric, studded with pearls and precious gems, which she would don over it all.

  Elizabeth eyed her sister speculatively. It was true; Mary did look lovely. Flushed with the anticipation of the moment and still basking in the glory of her miraculous success, Mary’s sparkling eyes and pink cheeks belied her natural pallor and did much to contribute to the illusion of youth and beauty. But it was just that…an illusion. There was no getting around the fact that Mary was getting old, and was worn out by her years of tribulation. How long would she last as queen? Long enough to beget an heir? Elizabeth almost snorted her derision aloud. It was well known that Mary was amenorrheal and if she was not yet past the age of child-bearing, was at least near to that state. To Elizabeth’s nineteen-year-old eyes, her sister was a sick, aging woman and the idea of her marrying and begetting an heir was ludicrous.

  Elizabeth smiled; the transition from her scowl, for she
had been scowling, was remarkable. “Yes,” she agreed, “Indeed, Sister, you look well. The purple suits you.”

  Mary hesitated. Was that an innocent remark, or one of the clever quips, the double entendres for which her sister was well known? Mary beat the devil down that caused her to think such things. Today was a happy day and she wanted nothing but to be joyful and glad. But the issue would nag. Purple was the color of royalty; queen and heir to the throne they might be, but both she and her sister were still, according to the laws of England, bastards. In her own case, an aberration, considering her royal pedigree; but in Elizabeth’s case, no more than the truth. She had immediate plans to repeal any and all of her father’s statutes that had made her mother’s marriage illegal, which would therefore restore her own legitimacy. But such was not and never would be the case for Elizabeth. She was a bastard and a bastard she should stay. I must marry quickly, quickly, quickly… there must be a Catholic heir; Elizabeth must never…

  “…because after, all, she has given her home to Your Grace for this momentous occasion?” asked Lady Gertrude.

  Lady Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter, had been a great friend of her mother’s, and had taken on in the past weeks the role that Mary had missed so sorely, with Lady Salisbury gone these many years; that of lady governess. As if she needed a governess at her age! Mary smiled benignly at the old lady. It was, indeed, wonderful to have someone filling that role again. But as she had not been listening to a word Lady Gertrude said, it was best just to agree.

  “By all means,” Mary replied, wondering what it was that she had just agreed to.

  With that, the door opened and an assembly of children, ranging in ages from two to twelve, was herded shyly into the room by their own lady governess. So that was it! The children wanted to see the glittering figure who was now their queen. She was standing on a small raised wooden platform, the better for her women to see the effect of her ensemble, and which must have made her diminutive figure seem quite tall. The children gaped at her in wonder, especially the girls.

  Mary regarded her reflection in the glass. Thirty-seven this year! At that moment she glowed in her happiness and could have been just a girl herself. But if one looked closely enough, one could see the tell-tale lines about the eyes, the sag of chin; add to that the careworn expression that was her normal mien and she certainly looked her age; or older! Whom would she marry? And would he love her for herself, as Philip had once done, or would he love her only because she was queen, and offered a kingdom?

  She smiled sardonically back at her own reflection. What did it matter, as long as whomever she married provided her with a son to rule a Catholic England after she was gone? Love was not for such as she. Why had she not learned that lesson after all this time?

  Her attention was arrested by one of the children, a boy; he was cherubic, being still in possession of his baby fat, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed and enchanting with his soft, yellow curls. God send her such a one, and soon! He was holding an object up to her. Mary reached down to retrieve it; it was a small posy of red roses, tied with a golden ribbon. Overwhelmed, Mary nodded her thanks and secured the posy to her baldric with one of the many glittering pins already attached to it.

  Elizabeth raised an unseen eyebrow. Her sister certainly had no flair for the dramatic! Had it been she who had received such a gift, she would have made some apropos comment about her new reign being just as the young child, new and full of hope and promise for the future, or some such flowery prose. Mary had not even voiced her thanks. The people might be cheering for her sister today, caught up in the thrill of the moment, but how long would that will o’ the wisp excitement last? A day? A week? And then the enthusiasm would inevitably fade and all England would be left with was an aging, half-Spanish Catholic queen, who was likely to marry a Hapsburg Catholic. And how long would it be after that before the dreaded Spanish Inquisition arrived on English shores to threaten the fledging Reformed faith? Were conduits flowing with wine for a day and the spectacle of a glittering queen worth such things? Elizabeth thought not.

  “Are you ready, Your Grace?” asked the Marchioness of Exeter. A tall woman, she held up her hand to assist Mary in her descent from the platform on which she stood.

  Mary smiled. “Quite ready, Lady Gertrude.” She took Lady Gertrude’s hand and as she was stepping down, caught her sister’s eye. Elizabeth fought to keep her face inscrutable, but failed. The reflections of the emotions that flitted across her countenance ranged from derision, to envy, to something that Mary could not quite place her finger on but that could have been pity, and finally settled, in less than an instant, into a warm, benign smile.

  “Your Grace is truly dazzling,” said Elizabeth, and she extended out to her sister a pale, slim hand with extraordinarily long fingers.

  Mary hesitated for only a moment before grasping it; it was cool to the touch and gave her own hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. In an instant, Mary knew where she had seen that hand before, and it was all she could do not to recoil from it in revulsion. It was Anne Boleyn’s hand, seen many a time by Mary, plucking the strings of the lute with which she had bewitched their father. At that moment, on that knife edge of time before she was about to set forth in triumph to claim her kingdom, Mary recognized her sister as a bitter enemy; one that she would have to be doubly wary of, since her enemy was encased in the guise of a beautiful young woman, daughter of their father just as she herself was, and the hope of the reformed faith in England.

  # # #

  The great host that was to accompany Mary on her triumphal entry into the City of London was finally assembled, and the cavalcade ready to set forth. In front of Mary were seven hundred men; knights, squires, the lords of the kingdom, sergeants-at-arms with their bows and javelins, all dressed in their finest clothes. Just in front of her were the royal trumpeters, dressed in scarlet trimmed with gold tinsel, their instruments shining golden in the sunlight and from each of which hung Mary’s colorful royal standard.

  She had elected to ride instead of sitting in a litter; that way she would be higher up and more of the people would be able to see her. Her palfrey was white with just a hint of black at the bottom of each of her four dainty legs, and she was trapped in cloth of gold. Just behind Mary, in the royal chariot, were Elizabeth and Anne of Cleves, clothed in white satin trimmed with cloth of silver tissue. Following on horseback were her ladies, all dressed in crimson velvet and satin as indication of their royal service. Following behind her ladies were the gentlewomen and the peeresses of the realm, and beyond them, stretching back as far as the eye could see, was a glittering host of hundreds. It was a fantastic display, but none on that golden summer’s day shone brighter than the queen herself.

  At a nod from Mary the trumpeters blew the first of many clarion calls and the cavalcade took its first steps. The road into London was lined with well-wishers, shouting, cheering, weeping in ecstasy for their queen. Mary smiled and waved; the people seemed mad with joy at the sight of her.

  A pageant had been set up just outside St. Botolph’s Church. A hundred children, all dressed in red and with charming little blue caps, sang hymns in praise of Mary’s accession. The trumpeters, who had been continually blowing their fanfare, ceased their playing that all might hear the children singing. At the end of the performance, Mary smiled and nodded and then signaled to the trumpeters to lift their instruments once more. They blew a mighty blast and the procession continued on, this time toward the city gates, which were hung with gaily colored streamers from top to bottom. Just outside the Aldgate Mary was met by the Lord Mayor of London, mace in hand, who presented her with her ceremonial scepter of office as a token of the people’s loyalty and homage. The mayor joined Arundel, who carried before him Mary’s sword of state, and together they led the queen through the gates and into her capital city.

  Mary looked up and about her; the scene was incredible, and the shouts and cheers so deafening that they all but drowned out the call of the trumpets and the p
ealing of church bells. Everywhere there were people; her people. Lining the streets, perched on top of walls and rooftops, hanging onto steeples and leaning out of windows, every one of which had been hung with bunting, cloth of gold or tapestries.

  At Leadenhall Street, the street of the guilds, the procession halted again by the assembly of the guildsmasters, all dressed in their livery hoods. Chief amongst them was the goldsmith’s guild, by virtue of its stock-in-trade the wealthiest of them all; Mary nodded to her own goldsmith, who pushed forward a young child, another angelic-looking boy, who shyly approached Mary’s horse and held up a red velvet bag. Mary smiled and reached down to retrieve it. She drew the strings and upended the bag; into her hands fell a solid gold heart inscribed with the words, “The Heart of the People”. Overwhelmed, she nodded her thanks with tears in her eyes.

  The cavalcade moved forward once again to the sound of the trumpets, and the cheers of “God save the queen!” and “God save Your Grace!” As they progressed, Mary noticed that the streets had been cleared of the mounds of debris usually to be found there, and that the road had been strewn with fresh gravel. She chanced to look to her right and spied a small church, for London was a city of churches, and her heart twisted at the sight of it. Some of the stones had been taken, presumably to be used for other purposes; the doors were gone and there were no lights on the altar, no friendly candles burning inside. As the procession made its way towards the Tower, Mary passed many such churches and convents, all ruined; naves gutted, windows broken, shrines demolished. The statuary had been stolen or destroyed, never to be fully recovered. Despite the heat of the day and her heavy gown, she shuddered. God had spoken by giving her the crown; she must answer by restoring his church.

  She had already taken the first fledging step, unbeknownst to anyone save Dodd. Her old messenger had insisted on carrying the letter himself, despite his advanced age. It was a secret that if known, might have caused a great deal of trouble. For Mary had written to the pope from Framlington on that fateful day when she had learned of her miraculous victory, beseeching him to lift the Interdict from the English church and to help her in restoring it to the true faith. With that action she had been immensely satisfied, but now she saw that there was so much more to be done. Where to start? As she passed ruin after ruin on the narrow streets on her way to the Tower, the enormity of her task became apparent. But God would show her the way. Had He not always done so?