The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  “My lady,” said Cecil, “I think it high time that you returned to court.”

  Elizabeth was of two minds on that subject. She appreciated the quiet…and safe…life in the country far from court. The corollary to that was that she missed the hustle and bustle of court life and the entertainments, although these were fewer at Mary’s court than they had been at her father’s. “Why?”

  Again Cecil admired Elizabeth’s ability to simply address a subject without a lot of chatter. “There are those there who speak against you,” he said. “They poison the queen’s ear.”

  The wind had picked up and although the deciduous trees were bare as a tinker’s hearth, the evergreens were full and swayed in the breeze. She closed her eyes, tilted her face up to the sun and let the wind caress her face. After a few moments, she lowered her head, opened her eyes and said, “Renard. He hates me and wants me in the Tower.”

  “Yes,” Cecil replied. “While it is true that Her Grace allowed you to accompany her on her triumphal entry into London,” he paused and regarded her with a gimlet eye, “and gave you a prominent role in the coronation, her motive was simply to make a show of Tudor unity, nothing more. It was a public rebuttal of any but the Tudor claim to the throne, which was a decided advantage to her own claim.”

  Elizabeth knew the reason for the stern look; Cecil had not approved of her own entry into London that she had made just before Mary’s. No words had ever passed between them on the subject because Elizabeth knew that had she asked Cecil his opinion of such a display, he would certainly have advised against it; and Cecil was astute enough to know that that was precisely the reason why she had not asked.

  “Forsooth, my sister has been decidedly cool to me ever since,” said Elizabeth. “And we both know the reason why. But what is to be done?”

  Cecil knew the reason well; Mary expected the heiress presumptive to the throne of England to be a good Catholic and that Elizabeth could never, would never, be. Her question, then, was a good one. What was to be done, indeed? This was a situation in which Elizabeth’s talent for dissimulation could be put to good use.

  “My lady,” he said, “it would be most useful if you could return to court, play the penitent, and ask for Her Grace’s assistance in matters of religion. Appear eager to learn, but make no commitments. Simply confess that your upbringing has been confusing and faulty, ask for instruction, and tell Her Grace that you earnestly desire that your conscience will permit you to convert.”

  There were those who insisted, despite her obvious physical traits, that she was not the daughter of Henry VIII, but the whelp of Mark Smeaton, or another of her mother’s alleged lovers. Sometimes, in a fit of pique, Mary, her own sister, had even been known to make such allegations. It was disgusting and insulting, but Elizabeth bore it with admirable fortitude, never letting on the hurt that such assertions caused. But looks notwithstanding, there was another characteristic that she shared with her royal father; not just the ability for, but a sheer love of, mummery. She had heard the stories of how, in his youth, her father had played the starring role in many of his own productions, even designing his own costumes. This talent was strong in her, too, and the thought of rising to such a challenge made the blood race in her veins. And if the goal of it was to fool her sister, so much the better!

  “Yes,” replied Elizabeth. “I see. Yes, I will do that. I am well aware that the coolness of my sister’s attitude to me is based in the differences between us where religion is concerned. But will she believe me? I bent to Edward’s will and am known as a Reformer.”

  “It will buy time, my lady, and right now, that is of the utmost importance.” Cecil stopped and his horse began nibbling the grass at the side of the path. Elizabeth also stopped, and turned to face him. “The queen wishes to exclude you altogether, my lady, from the succession. There are many at court who recognize the danger in this. It is true that Her Grace wishes to dismiss you on grounds of religion; she cannot conceive of a Protestant heir to the throne. It negates everything she stands for and everything that she is trying to accomplish.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “She cannot do that! I am heir by the terms of my father’s will and by law according to the Act of Succession.”

  “Yes, all of that is true, and she will not succeed. Paget particularly recognizes the importance of keeping the succession as it is, unless and until Her Grace produces an heir…”

  “She never shall!” cried Elizabeth. When angry, her pale skin turned very red, almost as red as her hair. “She is old and sick!”

  Ignoring her outburst and the interruption, Cecil continued on. “Paget’s opinion carries particular weight with Her Grace because he was the only one to initially support the marriage with Philip of Spain, and the Hapsburg alliance it represents. But his firm stand on the succession, and in particular, your rights, my lady, greatly vexes both Her Grace and Renard. But that is by the by. The real issue is that there must be no possibility of another succession crisis in this country.”

  Elizabeth clicked her tongue at her horse, Sir William followed suit, and without a word, they began the walk back to the palace. Parry, who had been watching them from a distance, turned back, and now they followed him, whereas before he had been following them.

  “So, my lady,” said Cecil. “It would be most advisable for you to beg permission to return to court, having searched your conscience these many weeks, to ask for religious instruction. And whilst you are there, there is another thing, most urgent, that you must obtain.”

  Elizabeth looked over at him expectantly.

  “You must obtain from Her Grace a promise,” said Cecil. “You must beg her indulgence for a vow that whatever the circumstances, that Her Grace will listen to no gossip where you are concerned, and if any should accuse you of aught, that Her Grace will not condemn you without allowing you the opportunity to present your side, and to defend yourself directly to Her Grace. And when that has been done, you must return here with all speed. You must not be where you can be easily seized and placed in the Tower.”

  Elizabeth stopped in her tracks and her eyes grew wide. “Why? What is afoot?”

  Cecil searched Elizabeth’s face and assessed her expression. The corollary to the princess’s great talent for dissimulation was that her closest advisor may not always be able to discern when she was telling the truth. In this instance he judged the wariness of her countenance to be genuine. She truly did not know, then.

  He glanced up the pathway. Even though Parry was far ahead of them and they were out in the open downland, and there was no possibility of anyone overhearing what he was about to say, still he paused and looked around him.

  “There have been rumors of a plot,” he said. “But the rumors have taken on life of late. My lady has heard of the haranguing that Parliament gave the queen on the subject of her Spanish marriage?”

  A veil seemed to come down over Elizabeth’s eyes. Even with him she was cautious; that was good. She said nothing.

  Cecil shifted in his saddle, he had stopped by the pathway once again, and said, “A cabal has formed at the instigation of Edward Courtenay and Sir Thomas Wyatt, the ostensible purpose of which is to thwart the Spanish marriage.” The veil lifted from Elizabeth’s eyes and her innocence shone out at him. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What manner of conspiracy?” asked Elizabeth. “And what do you believe to be its true purpose?” The princess was backlit by the sun, and behind her a large flock of geese was making its way south. It was November; the weather had been unusually fine that autumn, and so the birds had not begun their winter migration as early as usual. But now they could be seen flying south in droves. Another indication of bad weather coming!

  “An uprising,” replied Cecil. “The conspirators swear that the purpose is only to convince Her Grace to reconsider her choice of husband, but in reality…”

  Elizabeth’s eyes began to smolder. “Yes?” she said coldly.

  Cecil drew a breath and puffe
d it out through his cheeks. “Courtenay plans to marry yourself and seize the throne.”

  “God’s teeth!” exclaimed Elizabeth. Her oath was spoken with such vehemence that her horse shied, and she had to lean over and pat the mare’s neck to calm her.

  “Quite,” said Cecil dryly.

  Elizabeth’s face turned red with fury once again. “Is the man daft? This is exactly the type of thing of which I live in constant fear! Anyone, Sir William, virtually anyone, who takes a fancy to do so may commit treason in my name! Am I to be exploited yet again by a self-seeking rogue, intent on enjoying the pleasures of kingship without a thought for its awesome responsibilities? I seem to be at the mercy of any bold scoundrel who takes a fancy to call himself king!” She used her knees to cavort her mare in her agitation. “Has anyone warned my sister?”

  Cecil shook his head. “There is as yet no proof. And the queen is quite deaf to any words that defy her now ardent wish to marry Philip of Spain.”

  “Fool!” she cried. “Oh, Sir William, I shall never, never, marry! Neither Courtenay, nor anyone else!”

  Sir William snorted. “Easier said than done, my lady. Your marriage with Courtenay has already been mooted and it was the queen who refused to consider it. Paget proposed the match to Her Grace as a method of neutralizing your position. Marriage to a Catholic…forsooth, it would be excellent politics but the queen is no politician, I fear me. She rules with her heart, and a stout one it is, do not mistake me; but it were better that she ruled with her head.”

  “I see,” said Elizabeth, now thoughtful, assessing the strategy logically. “Yes, that would have been a good counterpoint to her own marriage, and might have quieted the people’s fears. But would not such a ploy have held its own dangers for my sister?”

  “Indeed, yes,” said Cecil. “Had Her Grace not been so much against the idea herself, Renard most assuredly would have taken steps to convince her against it. But the result of all of this posturing is that Courtenay has decided to act on his own. And a most dangerous situation is brewing, my lady, as a result.”

  “Merciful Christ!” hissed Elizabeth. “I was the victim of Thomas Seymour, who wished to use my royalty to his own ends, just as my cousin Jane is the victim of Northumberland’s vile plottings. What shall I do, Sir William? What do you advise? My sister is disposed to think of ill of me, that we know; am I always to live in dread, and the shadow of the axe?”

  Sir William leaned over and placed a soothing hand on Elizabeth’s and then clicked his tongue to start the horses walking again. The dew was now dry on the grass, and it was almost dinnertime. Elizabeth looked as if she ate practically nothing; she was as slender as a willow wand. “My lady, if you will do as I have bid you, go to court, speak with Her Grace, get her promise, and hie you out of London as quietly as possible once you have it, that is as much as can be done for now.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I will do as you advise,” she said, calm now that the shock had passed. “I suppose I must accustom myself to living in peril as long as my sister wears the crown.”

  Sir William thought in that moment that Elizabeth also had a rare talent for understatement.

  Allington Castle, Kent, November 1553

  The weather had turned bitterly cold and at the top of the great tower in which Sir Thomas Wyatt sat, the wind whistled through the wind-eyes. The only decorative window in the room, for this was a heavily fortified castle, was glazed and its shutters drawn closed, but that did little to affect the ability of the fire on the hearth to warm the room.

  Sir Thomas was impervious to the cold, even though he had spent a great deal of his youth in Spain, a very warm country compared to England. His father had been sent to that country with a delegation representing the English crown, and young Thomas had accompanied him. He had found Spain stiflingly hot and decidedly unpleasant. Give him a good English mist any time! The hot, dry, dusty plains of Spain held no allure for him. But his hatred of that country had been increased a hundredfold when he had been forced to witness an auto-da-fe, or “act of faith”, in which the Spanish Inquisition had burned a dozen heretics. The very act itself had been repugnant to him; the cries and pitiful screams of the victims, the nauseating smell of burning human flesh had made an indelible and decidedly unpleasant impression upon his young mind. And then the matter, to him, was made even worse when he had come to find out that many of the victims of such cruelty were condemned not for any real breach of faith, but so that a neighbor, perhaps even a friend, who had bribed the officials, might profit from their deaths. The very idea that such a thing could happen, that such a thing could exist in a civilized country, had disgusted and revolted him. Never had he been so glad to see the back of any place as he had Spain, and he had not rested easy until their ship had at last sailed from Corunna for home. He had kept his feelings to himself, because to reveal them even to his father might very well have placed the entire English delegation in danger; another thing that sickened him about the Spaniards was their slyness. They had spies everywhere; no one could be trusted.

  And now the queen proposed to marry a Spaniard! It was simply not to be borne. The queen’s Council had failed, the Parliament had failed, to persuade Her Grace otherwise. Very well then, mayhap the direct action of the English people themselves would convince her. Since persuasion had failed, the marriage with the Spaniard must be stopped by force. And if that did not work…there were other ways to ensure that his beloved England should never be subject to Spain and the Empire; never be made the unhappy victim of the injustices and terrors of the Inquisition.

  The fire on the hearth had reduced to glowing embers with a delicate covering of gray ash. He did not mind the cold, but the sound of a step on the spiral stone staircase leading up to the very top turret room, the safest place for that which was about to take place, reminded him that he must stoke the fire. He arose, added some logs, and worked them with the poker into a blaze. When he turned it was to see his fellow conspirators, breathless from their long climb.

  Wordlessly he walked to the great oaken door, a door stout enough and thick enough to withstand a siege. When the last man was through he closed and barred it. It made a hollow, final sound.

  He noticed that of all the men, Courtenay alone went directly to the table and sat himself down. The rest of the men huddled about the hearth, which was large enough for a man to stand up in. Courtenay had lived for years in the Tower with few comforts and was used to the cold; but more than that, Wyatt knew that he longed to get his revenge on the queen for denying his own suit in favor of the Spaniard’s. He was a man scorned and was impatient to begin the planning that would see an end to the woman who had rejected him, and more important, who had cost him a crown.

  Wyatt knew what motivated many of these men to plot what could only be viewed as treason. Courtenay wished to overthrow the queen, marry Elizabeth and make himself king; Suffolk thought to put his daughter Jane back on the throne. The others had not thought it through beyond a desire to wrest the Catholic queen off the throne…they were all staunch Protestants…and cared little who wore the crown as long as it was not Mary Tudor.

  Wyatt only knew that somehow, some way, the queen must be stopped from opening the Pandora’s Box that she now held in her royal lap. The marriage treaty was being negotiated; when an agreement was reached, she would lift the lid and the terrors of Hell would be released upon poor England. Not if he could help it! Let these men each have their own reason; all he knew was that they were all willing to rise up and support his cause.

  Courtenay had said nothing, but several times already had drained his wine cup. Wyatt approached him and asked, “Was your journey tolerable, my lord?”

  Courtenay smacked his lips, placed his cup on the table and poured himself another measure. “Tolerable, no more,” he replied.

  The men began now to take their places. Wyatt felt a little thrill of fear creep up his spine for what they were about to do; his blood seemed to have turned to ice water in his veins an
d his stomach felt as if it had been turned inside out. He wondered if any of the others felt the same. If they did, they did not show it.

  When they were all settled he looked about the table at them. The room was silent. “You all know why we are here,” he said quietly. His eldest son, young but a man now, had been taken into his confidence and guarded the entrance to the staircase that led up to the turret. No one was to be allowed up; it was impossible that they might be overheard. The time was now. “How shall we proceed, then?” he asked. “I shall be responsible for raising Kent. But we must have a circle of risings, all prepared to converge on London at the right moment.”

  “Indeed,” said Suffolk. “I shall raise the Midlands.” The Midlands were, he knew, vital to the effort; he was based in Leicestershire and had many loyal adherents. The key to his ability to participate in the planned uprising had been his release from the Tower, where he had been incarcerated since Jane’s reign had collapsed. He had disliked fooling his wife; it was certainly the first time he had ever succeeded in doing so. He relied on Frances absolutely, but there came a time when a man must be a man. This was his time. He had bribed a guard to raise the hue-and-cry that he was poisoned; the apothecary, also in his pay, had supported the story, and before he knew it he was on his way to Sheen, a free man once more. Frances had had a bad scare and had been as putty in his hands ever since. He knew that her complaisance was not likely to last, and so he was eager to move forward. He had observed Dudley lording it over all, and had stood no chance of usurping the position of the power behind his daughter’s throne whilst Northumberland lived; but Dudley was gone and there was nothing to stop him now. They would raise the people and would succeed in ousting his wife’s tedious, papist cousin from the throne. From there he could rely on Frances; she always knew what to do.