The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  “Yes, I am queen of this realm, and I tell you that I will not be bullied by my own Council over a matter that touches me so nearly! And as if that were not enough, what can you possibly be thinking that you would want the Earl of Devon to rule this land? I asked you if you thought me deaf and blind, but now I must ask the same of all of you. Who amongst you is unaware of the earl’s devastating shortcomings? In case there are some who are laboring under a misapprehension where the earl is concerned, allow me to enlighten you!

  “He is dissolute, reckless and unreliable; I have come to regard him in this short time since his release from captivity with the utmost contempt. He has proved himself over-proud in the worst way, his manners are gauche, and he has made it a point to surround himself with sycophantic self-seekers who flatter him and tell him only that which he wishes to hear. On top of that, he has no knowledge of weapons or armor, he completely lacks martial skills, he cannot ride, indeed, he is afraid of horses. He appears to have no social graces. Already he has aligned himself with the most unprincipled English courtiers, and with the French and the Venetians who seek to exploit his inexperience and gullibility to their own ends, and to the detriment of this realm.

  “Regardless of who is at fault for all of the earl’s shortcomings, the fact remains that they are his shortcomings, and these appear to be so numerous and so serious that there is no remedy for them. His callow swaggering is as transparent as glass and I am frankly surprised that all of you have not recognized it as such; or recognizing it, that you would even consider suggesting him as a companion and helpmeet for your queen.

  “In short, my lords, the earl has demonstrated in a very short time that he is an obstinate boy, unstable, a decided political liability, and unfit to be king. I will not even consider marrying him. He would be worse than useless.”

  With that, Mary calmly sat down in her chair, which had been righted by her gentleman usher, and folded her hands. Not one of the men of the Council, at that moment, dared to meet her eyes.

  “Now then,” she continued. “Let us discuss the matter of the queen’s marriage in a different light. Let us discuss it as the state matter that it is.”

  Still no one dared to look up; they stared into their wine cups, out the window, they studied their hands.

  “It is the duty of a prince,” said Mary, “to make a marriage that results in some beneficial alliance, or that is in some way advantageous to the kingdom. This is, I am certain that you will agree, the customary practice. My marriage is only different in that instead of myself departing to some foreign land, my husband will come to England. There is clearly much to discuss in that regard.” She noted a slight guffaw emanate from her Lord Chancellor at that statement, but continued on as if she had not noticed. “But there is precedent; one has only to consider the negotiations that finally resulted in the marriage of my grandparents, the Most Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabella, who married and realized a united Spain.”

  “As you know, I have received a proposal of marriage from the Emperor Charles, for a match between myself and his son, my cousin, Philip of Spain.” Still no one looked up or spoke. Had they all gone mute, she wondered?

  “There are many advantages to such a match,” continued the queen. “An alliance with the Hapsburgs is one that would perpetuate both my grandfather and father’s foreign policies; the marriage of my Uncle Arthur to my mother, a princess of Spain, and later to my father, proved to be sound politics. May I remind you that although England has fought many wars with France, that we have never fought one with the Holy Roman Empire?”

  Finally Gardiner, the Lord Chancellor, spoke; he was the leader of the Council and all looked to him to challenge the queen. “A trend that is likely to continue, Your Grace, if you marry a Hapsburg!”

  “Well, what of it?” snapped Mary. “I am not afraid to call Henri’s bluff, so why should you be? He has neither the men nor the money to back such a threat. The king of France…”

  “If Your Grace will forgive me, that is a rash statement,” retorted Gardiner. “What if Your Grace is wrong? England has neither the men nor the money to counter such a threat should it come to fruition.”

  Mary decided to overlook the interruption; the issues were too important to carp on a mere breach of etiquette. “But we should have the might of the Empire to draw upon, should we not?”

  Gardiner adopted an attitude of one speaking to a child. “And what quid pro quo would England have to give up for that? No, Your Grace, a foreign marriage is out of the question. The people will not abide it. Especially not one with Spain.”

  Mary struggled to remain calm in the face of opposition. If her previous watchwords had been forgiveness and clemency, now she knew that patience must be her new goal.

  “And what, pray, is wrong with Spain?” she asked. “My mother was one of the best queens this country ever had, and through her I am half Spanish. But that is not the issue. Let us consider the prospect dispassionately.” She raised a white hand and began to tick her points off on her fingers. “Philip of Spain has considerable experience of govenment, having ruled Spain these many years on the emperor’s behalf; he has his own financial resources; and in time he will also rule the Low Countries, an area vital to English trade. And lastly, he is my own family and can be depended upon for that reason alone.”

  Gardiner was prepared for these arguments. In subtle mockery of the queen’s gesture, he raised his own plump, white hand and said, “His Grace has not a word of English; he has other realms to govern, which means he would not be able to spend much time in England; the English people abhor foreigners and are not likely to accept the match without much grumbling; and despite Your Grace’s sanguine outlook, it could mean war with France. But these are not the only reasons that I oppose the match.” Having run out of fingers upon which to count, he then switched to his other hand in as ostentatious a manner as possible. “His Grace is eleven years your junior and would bring with him to these shores the dread and fear of the Spanish Inquisition.” There! He had said it.

  Patience, she thought. I must be patient. When a man displays temper, men quake; when a woman does so, they are bound to call it weakness and lack of self-control. The remark about the Inquisition she ignored; for she should never agree to such a thing.

  Mary leaned back in her chair. “A foreign match would greatly raise England’s stock abroad.” The other things that she viewed as advantages of the match with Prince Philip she kept to herself; he was known to be a devout Catholic, and he was Charles’s choice.

  Not to be distracted from the fact that he had had the courage to bring the issue of the Inquisition to the table, Gardiner continued as if the queen had not spoken. “The reason that the people of England fear a match with Spain is her reputation for heavy-handed tactics when it comes to managing religious dissent. We will not tolerate such here, I assure you!”

  “A valid point; but I have given much thought as to how England should be brought back to the Mass and to Rome; the Inquisition plays no part in that plan,” said Mary. She knew what they were really concerned about! Many of them now held what used to be church lands and would be loath to give them up; and they were afraid of being replaced by hoards of foreigners come to court with her new husband.

  Gardiner regarded the queen through lidded eyes. Exactly what they all had feared, and what her father had fought so hard to avoid! Women were governed by the caprices of the moon and therefore were apt to be unpredictable, impulsive and their judgment unsound. This was known to be true, no matter how able they were or how good their intentions. And unless he missed his guess, Mary Tudor was no Isabella of Castile!

  Mary leaned forward once again on the table, scanned each of their faces, and then said, “My lords, the queen’s marriage must be treated as a political matter; you know this to be true. But have you not conceived what such means to me personally? After living my life as a virgin, I am now expected to take a man to my bed to produce an heir for England. Do you think th
at I have not considered this? At my age marriage and childbed could very well be my death warrant. Care you not for that? And yet here I sit telling you that I am willing to risk my very life to marry a stranger for the good of England and the protection of her fate. Would any of you, if you could, do as much?”

  The question had been asked calmly, but once again the men could see the Tudor temper lurking in the queen’s eyes. She felt it herself; she was queen, her word was law. Why could they not comprehend that what was good for the queen was good for the country?

  “Trust you not my judgment?” she asked. “In the short time since I took the throne I have dealt with the issue of the debased coinage and I have paid both my father’s and my brother’s debts. Many a pensioner now has me to thank for his daily bread, after hungering for so long! The price of which has fallen by at least a third due to my careful fiscal policies! Think you that these self-same people shall not support my choice of husband? Can you speak for them? Or do you speak only for yourselves?”

  “Your Grace…” said Gardiner. But it was too late.

  “I will hear no more!” cried Mary. “Are you my Council, or my jailors?” She stood once again to make her final point. “The choice of husband shall be mine and mine alone! I will marry where I will, despite your dire predictions. If you should force me to marry where you would instead of where I would, I tell you I should be dead in three months! If the devil of a foreign match is in the details, then work them out! Is that not why I have a Council? If I am willing to marry and risk life and limb for the good of this realm, I expect no less from all you than to support me in my decision! I can only trust that God will keep me safe. He has brought me this far, and I do not believe that he has done so only to strike me down. But God helps those who help themselves, my lords, and that I fully intend to do, with your support or without it! I will marry Philip of Spain or no one!”

  For a long moment the room was caught in a stunned silence and then all eyes swung onto the one man who had shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

  “Her Grace is right,” said Sir William Paget.

  Gardiner guffawed, this time loudly enough for all to hear. Paget could always be counted upon to take the opposite view from his own, if only to be contrary.

  Mary recalled at that moment a tale that she had heard whilst sitting in on one of Edward’s lessons. It had to do with Caesar and his crossing of a river in Italy called the Rubicon. He knew if he crossed it and was not triumphant in battle that he would be executed. It was a point of no return. Well, she had just crossed her Rubicon; with her declaration that she would marry Philip of Spain or no one she had as good as made her decision. So much for her vow not to marry anyone she had never met! Now all she could do was to hope that her decision proved to be a sound one.

  # # #

  Council meetings always left her feeling hollow, drained of all energy, but that evening’s conclave left her feeling uncommonly weary and sapped of strength. She leaned heavily on Dodd’s arm as he escorted her back to her apartments. She could not help but wonder what awaited her there; if her women should make one more reference to the virtues of Courtenay…! But then perhaps her utter exhaustion was a good thing; her fatigue would be too overwhelming to allow another such outburst as the one she had just visited upon her Council.

  As they wended their way slowly down the dark corridors of the palace, Mary noticed that the moon, waning Gibbous, was bright enough to make dead white stripes at intervals on the stone of the floor. Passing one of the tall windows, she looked out at the yellow-white disc. Never had she been so desirous of her bed, but she must attend Compline. Perhaps she would simply pray at her private altar instead; she rarely missed a service, but the idea of meeting yet another public obligation, for the abbey would be crowded with monks and her own retinue, caused such an overwhelming feeling of lassitude to engulf her that her knees became weak and she stumbled. Dodd held fast her arm and righted her without a word. Good Dodd! There were few who understood her as well as her oldest servant.

  As they approached her apartments the halberdiers righted their weapons and each grasping a handle, opened the doors to her chamber. Her ladies had been alerted to her imminent arrival; a fire crackled on the hearth, her bed curtains had been pulled and tied, and all was ready to prepare the queen for attendance at Mass.

  As soon she entered the room, Mary became aware of an odd tension. She looked around her at the faces of her bedchamber women. All of them seemed fit to burst with some unnamable emotion. No one spoke; it was for Mary to address them first.

  “Well, Frideswide?” asked Mary. “What is afoot?”

  Frideswide Strelly, the oldest and most reliable of her women, bobbed a curtsey and said, “Your Grace, a…well, a parcel of sorts has arrived for you…”

  “A parcel?”

  Frideswide bobbed again. “Of sorts.”

  Mary could see that her ladies were excited about something; if only she had the energy left to participate in the mystery.

  Mary stood in the center of the room, and Jane began the evening ritual of redressing the queen for Mass by first removing her headdress. “I shall attend Mass before my own altar this e’en,” she said. Instantly Jane backed away and placed both the headdress she had just removed and the one she had been prepared to place onto Mary’s head, into a trunk at the foot of her bed. Then she went to the door and called for a page; Mary would need her confessor to hear a private Mass before her own altar.

  While Jane informed the page of what was needful and sent him on his way, Susan and Frideswide proceeded to disrobe the queen and dress her in her night clothes. Mary was aware of the excited glances that passed between Susan, Frideswide and Mary Kempe. What on earth had them so animated, she wondered?

  “All right then,” said Mary. Already she felt better now that the weight of her bejeweled gown and headdress had been lifted from her. “Where is this parcel?”

  Frideswide’s eye’s strayed to the queen’s privy chamber. Mary slowly made her way in that direction; from the outer chamber she could see that several candelabra had been lit and placed about the little room she used as her private office; and in addition to their light, the pale glow of the moon added a soft luminosity. The room was still not bright, however, and in the dim areas outside the light of the candles Mary could just make out an unfamiliar object. It stood man-high, and was covered with a gold-fringed red velvet pall.

  Wearily Mary signaled for Frideswide, who stood nearest, to remove the covering. She did so, and there standing before Mary was her long lost love. How could it be? Had she fallen asleep? Was she dreaming? No, she was awake and this was real.

  “Leave me,” she whispered, without taking her eyes off of the man before her.

  Her women silently filed out, and Frideswide gently closed the door behind them, leaving Mary alone in the room.

  Was it some trick of the uncertain light, she wondered? The portrait was life-size; it was that and her over-tired brain that had at first mistaken the painting for a live person. But how could it be? Her Philip had been dead these many years. And yet here he stood before her. It was so strange, almost eerie, and the moonlight, which vied with the dancing shadows, lent the whole thing a mysterious air.

  And then she realized that this was not her Philip, but someone who greatly resembled him. There was the blond hair, the lovely blue-gray eyes; the elegant proportions of his figure. No, this was not her Philip, but someone who was so like him that she had felt her heart skip a beat when that velvet pall had fallen in folds at his feet. It could only be Philip of Spain. So Charles had taken to heart her concern at marrying a man she had never met, and had provided the next best thing; a life-size portrait. Suddenly tears sprang up in her eyes, and in the soft light, the colors of the painting shimmered and it seemed again as if the man, and not just his picture, stood before her.

  She clasped her hands over her breast and was seized by a sudden desire to approach the painting, to touch it. She moved
cautiously forward. She reached out a tentative hand and touched the lips, rendered so full and life-like. No, it was not her Philip, it was Philip of Spain, the man she had not an hour since vowed to marry. She had been aghast at the impetuousness that had caused her to make that statement; she had prayed to God in that instant that she would not live to regret her hasty words. And God had answered her again! No, this was not her Philip, but a man who was very like him, and for that alone she could love him.

  She placed both her hands on the painting, on the shoulders of the man who stood so regally before her. If only they had allowed her to marry her Philip all those years ago, she would now have, if God had been generous, a son of an age to rule England, or close to it. She and Philip could have ridden forth in triumph to claim their kingdom, and been regents until their son reached his majority. He would have been the grandson of Henry VIII; that coveted male heir whom her father had moved heaven and earth to get. At this, she spared a thought for her poor brother, dead at so young an age. Yes, her father had thought that with Edward he had solved his problem; he could not have known that Edward would die so young and without issue. But she and Philip would have had a son, and together they would have ruled a happy England! But alas, it had not been meant to be. Still she stood with her hands pressed against the portrait of Philip of Spain.

  It was true that as Queen Regnant, the role that her husband would play was not immediately clear; it was evident that her father had given the matter a great deal of thought and did not like what he concluded on the subject. That had always been the issue, and the one that he had worked so hard to avoid. Well, God had seen fit to overrule her father, despite all his machinations, because here she was, Queen of England. And here, before her, was Philip, the man she had just vowed to marry, and whom she had prayed God would be a sound choice. How could anyone look upon that wise countenance and not be convinced that here was a man who knew how to rule and be a good king? Had he not been a good king in Spain these many years? She had heard naught but good things about her cousin. Here was the man, she was now convinced, that God meant her to marry and who was to rule England by her side.