The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  I leave you now in the care of my generals and the Lord Mayor, and expect that you will stand by them in the safeguard of this, your city, from spoil and sack, which is the only aim of this rebellious crew. Wherefore, good subjects, pluck up your hearts! Stand with me now just as you did when Northumberland threatened this mighty land with his false lies! Like true men, stand fast to your lawful sovereign against these rebels, and fear them not…for I assure you, I fear them nothing at all!”

  For a moment the hall was so silent that it might have been empty, and then all of a sudden a deafening roar arose to the very rafters of the vast building. It carried and was echoed outside by all those assembled.

  And then went up the mighty cheers of “God Save the Queen!” and “God Save Your Grace!” But the cheer that most warmed Mary’s heart was the one that said, “God Save the Prince of Spain!” Caps were thrown into the air and tears streamed down the faces of the people in the Guildhall.

  She had prevailed once before with only the help of her own people and she would do so again. And men always fought with particular fervor when they were fighting not only for their sovereign, but for their own homes and families. She had spoken to them as a wife, as a mother, in purely feminine terms; she had played upon their fears, and in doing so had touched their hearts.

  She had done it again; they were with her to a man.

  Whitehall Palace, February 1554

  She had dropped off to sleep that night exhausted, but secure in the belief that London, and her throne, would be safe. Not all shared her sanguine outlook; but perhaps they had never had their faith as sharply tested as she had. Her life had been hard at times, it was true, but did not God the Father try those most whom he loved best? Her faith in God had never wavered, not for an instant; and she had been repaid a hundredfold for her unshakable fidelity.

  During the two days after her speech at the Guildhall, the number of recruits to the royal cause swelled to twenty-five thousand. Her generals, the earl of Pembroke and Lord Clinton, had been busily deploying these men around the city in preparation for the arrival of Wyatt’s Kentish rebels. That Wyatt would come she was in no doubt; the only question was when.

  The rebels arrived in the pouring rain in their thousands at dusk on the second day following her speech at the Guildhall.

  Upon receiving word of the arrival of the rebel army, Mary had boarded her barge and sailed to London Bridge. There she had seen for herself the massive encampment of the rebels in Southwark, on the opposite bank of the Thames. The bridge was drawn up against them and they could not cross; but Wyatt had his cannon trained on the London side of the river. She noted with considerable satisfaction that there were only two cannon, despite the numbers that Wyatt had seized, both from the ships in the Medway and from the duke of Norfolk. Only two cannon, after all that they had stolen! So she had been right about the slog through the mud!

  “Your Grace,” Sir Nicholas Poynings, the custodian of the Tower ordnance, had asked, “the Tower cannon are mighty and ready to be fired. May we not…”

  “For pity’s sake, no!” cried Mary. “Forsooth, along with the rebels, think of all the innocent citizens who would perish, their houses and goods destroyed, were we take such a dastardly step!”

  Sir Nicholas seemed taken aback, and something indefinable moved behind his eyes as he replied. “Your Grace, in time of war, people die, many of them innocent.”

  Mary had met his gaze without flinching. “Mayhap so, my lord, but not by my hand!” With that she turned and went back to her barge.

  So the rebels could not cross at London Bridge, nor at any of the bridges on the London side of the river, which were all strongly defended. But she knew, as did her men, that it was only a matter of time before Wyatt reached London.

  But the news was not all bad; some of it, in fact, was downright…there was no other word for it…humorous. Just before Vespers that evening word had arrived that the duke of Suffolk had, indeed, been run to ground by the faithful earl of Huntingdon; he had been found hiding in a hollow tree, soaked to the skin and starving. He had been committed to the Tower. She knew that Frances was on her way from Westhorpe to plead once again for clemency for her beloved husband, but this time, there could be none. She was dreading the interview. On that thought she fell asleep.

  Mary awakened to a dreadful noise, and donning her robe, lit a candle and went to the door of her chamber, Jane trailing behind her. When she reached the Queen’s Presence Chamber, all was pandemonium. Her entire Council was there, as were all of her women, some in their night-clothes, others fully dressed. At the sight of the queen, everyone suddenly went silent; and then everyone began to talk at once.

  Mary could sense their panic, especially that of the women, who were weeping and wailing and wringing their hands; they must be gently handled. She held up her hand and after a few moments, all was silent again.

  Turning to the Lord Chancellor she said, “Bishop Gardiner, what is to do? What hour of the clock is it?”

  To her dismay, the bishop struggled down onto his knees and raised his clasped hands to her in supplication. “Most Gracious Majesty, I beg you, you must hie to Windsor. Or if you must stay in London, I beg of you to seek the safety of the Tower. The rebels decamped under cover of darkness and marched upriver; they have crossed the Thames at Kingston. Wyatt and his army will be here soon; they may even be approaching the palace as we speak! For pity’s sake, Your Grace! Your Grace is defenseless here at Whitehall! There is none here to protect you save the palace guard! You must not stay!”

  Mary placed a calming hand on the bishop’s shoulder. “Nonsense!” she said. “My lord of Pembroke and my lord of Clinton have substantial forces with which to protect the city, and as for the palace, well, as far as we know, the rebel Wyatt knows not at which palace I abide; he will not know to come here to Whitehall then, will he? Forsooth, for all he knows, the queen will have succumbed to the pleadings of the Council, and departed for Windsor, or to some other likely place far from London; or at least to the safety of the Tower. And even if he does know where I am, he will not win through my generals, in whom I place the utmost faith, and so should you! But should the rebels win through, we have the palace guard and gentlemen pensioners to protect us. What hour of the clock is it?”

  “Oh, but Your Grace!” wailed Lady Kempe. “Shall we stay only to be murdered in our beds? Oh, do heed the words of the good bishop!”

  Mary searched the room and her eyes lighted upon Frideswide. There at least was one dependable woman who would keep her head! “Lady Strelly, those who cannot fight should fall to prayer; take the ladies to the chapel, if you please.” That would give them something to do to take their minds off of the situation. Frideswide nodded and began to gather the queen’s ladies.

  With the ladies gone the room was calmer, but the men were still animatedly debating the issue of the queen’s safety, the current position of the rebel forces, when they might arrive in the city, and the likely effectiveness of the men who had volunteered to defend the city after the queen’s speech.

  Paget agreed with the Lord Chancellor, probably for the first and only time; he felt it his duty to speak.

  “Your Grace, I am sorry, but I must agree with the bishop,” he said. “We cannot risk…”

  Mary held up her hands and in an instant all conversation ceased. She waited in the silence, eyeing each of them as her gaze made its way around the room.

  “My lords,” she said. “The ladies are by now occupied in prayer and we must now get down to cases. I appreciate your care of me, but I assure you, further argument is futile. Let us not waste time. And speaking of which, will someone kindly tell me what hour of the clock it is?”

  Renard, who had been keeping to a corner and trying to remain unobtrusive, said, “We are in the second hour after midnight, Your Grace.”

  Mary inclined her head at Renard and then turned back to address the men in the room. “My lords,” she said again. “Let me tell you once and
for all that I will set no example of cowardice to my people. If my generals prove true to their posts, I will not desert mine. Now, will all of you please disperse and ensure that the barricades are set up about the palace, that the palace guard is on the alert, and that the gentlemen pensioners station themselves so as to calm the ladies’ fears? Sir William!”

  “Here, Your Grace,” replied Paget.

  “How stands the armory here at Whitehall?”

  “Well, it is not so well-stocked as the Tower, Your Grace, but there are arms aplenty,” he replied.

  Mary nodded. “Arm any man willing to fight. Servants too.”

  Paget nodded. It made sense. All who were not praying should be prepared to fight. “Forthwith, Your Grace,” he said, and turned on his heel.

  It had been raining again for a full day at this point; the roads must be dreadful. She did a quick reckoning; Kingston Bridge to the walls of the city… “The rebels cannot, considering the state of the roads, possibly arrive for at least another two hours. Go now, heed my orders, and ensure that all is in readiness.” Then she turned and looked about the room. Just as she suspected; Jane Dormer, who alone of her women had remained calm in the hubbub, had stayed behind when the ladies went to the chapel. “Jane,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Fetch me some armor.”

  # # #

  The queen’s Guildhall speech had been read out constantly in every corner of the city since she had made it; her heralds had not ceased their crying of it, with the result that men had been pouring in to the royal palaces, volunteering to defend the queen. Those who had not were prepared to defend their own homes against the rebels, for fear of sack and rapine. Wyatt may claim his good intentions, but he was no soldier and the people knew full well that he might not be able to control the rabble that made up part of his army. In any case, the people of London were taking no chances; doors were locked and barred, the women, children and infirm consigned to the nether reaches of each dwelling, the men standing steadfast clutching whatever weapon they chanced to possess.

  No armor could be found at Whitehall to fit the queen; in the end a fast courier had been sent hieing to the Tower, and Mary gazed with satisfaction at that with which he had returned, strapped securely to his saddle. It was the breastplate that her lord father had worn as a boy, fetched from the Tower armory along with his helmet and gorget.

  The rain was pouring down so hard that it was difficult to tell the dawn of Ash Wednesday from the dusk of the night before; it had taken Wyatt and his men longer to reach the city walls than even Mary had reckoned. But even so, when the news of their arrival came, the palace was once again thrown into panic.

  The courier, soaked to the skin and breathless, reported that the rebel force, thousands strong, had reached St. James’s. Kneeling before Mary as she was fitted into her breastplate, he said, “Your Grace, Wyatt’s men by all accounts are exhausted and hungry. The earl of Pembroke is engaging them as we speak with his cavalry, as is Lord Clinton with his infantry. The fighting is said to be fierce.”

  “Oh, Your Grace, please, you must listen to our good counsel!” cried Bishop Gardiner. He knew that there were some on the Council who might wish the queen ill, but he was not one of them; she was the daughter of the king and England’s rightful queen, and a Catholic. She was their sovereign lady and must be protected at all costs. He turned to Renard, hitherto whom he had resented and reviled, and begged his assistance. “Your Excellency, I implore you, speak sense to Her Grace!”

  Before Renard could respond, Sir Robert Rochester, Sir Edward Waldegrave and Sir Francis Englefield stepped forward; perhaps Her Grace would listen to her trusted household servants.

  As the senior amongst them, and very much an avuncular figure to Mary, Sir Robert spoke up. “Your Grace, when the rebels were afar off it may have been deemed advisable for your royal person to remain in London; but with the rebels almost at the door…”

  Mary was always very gentle with her servants; even in this extremity she forbore to speak harsh words. “Sir Robert, and all you gentlemen,” she said. “I am gratified and touched by your concern and care for my person. But I must tell you that I will do naught but tarry to see the uttermost. Nothing you can say will change my mind; your energies are better spent on defense of the palace.”

  The royal order was clear; they had all had their say but Renard.

  “Good Renard,” said Mary. “What is your counsel?”

  Renard looked about the room and regarded the anxious faces. From elsewhere in the palace he could still hear the weeping and wailing of the frightened women, and their screams every time gunfire in the distance was heard. The smell of gunpowder filled the air; the rebels were less than half a mile away, with only a handful of trained soldiers to hold them at bay. The men who had volunteered were armed, but had no training. But then perhaps most of the rebel army was in like case. He had no wish to advise the queen in a manner he knew she would resent; he knew that she would go her own way regardless of his advice. No harm would be done, and much good might result, if he simply agreed with the Council. He must walk the thin line between pleasing the queen and not alienating the Council, while still performing his duty as Imperial ambassador. “I agree that Your Grace is better placed by staying here in London with the people. I would be easier in my mind if Your Grace were in a place that could be better defended.”

  Mary bristled. If one more person mentioned fleeing to the Tower…! But she must be patient, and above all, she must keep her temper and her head. “My Lords,” she said. She resisted the urge to swivel her head to fit the gorget more comfortably. “As I have already said, I fully intend to tarry here until the end.”

  As if to underscore the danger of such a decision, the sound of slamming doors and shrieking women became louder. Suddenly a courier appeared at the door accompanied by a halberdier.

  Mary cried to him above the noise, “What news? What news?”

  The courier knelt before the queen and said, “A message from my lord of Courtenay, Your Grace.”

  Mary waved an impatient hand. What could Courtenay possibly have to say to her?

  “My lord bade me tell Your Grace that…” he hesitated.

  “Yes, yes, what of my lord of Courtenay?” asked Mary.

  “My lord of Courtenay bade me say that all is lost, and that Your Grace must surrender.”

  If ever her patience had been tested, it was at that moment. Her temper boiled to the surface, but she fought it down. Courtenay was a fool and a knave and she marveled that he had had the temerity to send such a message.

  A tumult in the corridor outside the presence chamber distracted all attention. A bloody guard burst into the room. “Your Grace, the gates have been breached. The men are retreating into the palace.”

  Gardiner shouted, “A barge! A barge! Your Grace, now you must go. There are enough men to get you safely to the river and to the Tower you must go!”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Mary. “I am certain that we shall hear better news anon. My trust is in God, whom I know will not desert me. You, what is your name?” She addressed the bloody guard, who had fallen to his knees when he addressed the queen and had not arisen.

  “T-Thomas Cartwright, Your Grace.”

  Mary regarded the young man. “You are a White Coat?”

  Even on his knees he straightened his spine and held his head high. The White Coats had been reviled for the defection to Wyatt of their fellows at Rochester, and most unfairly in his estimation; why should they all be condemned because of the dastardly actions of only a few of their number? “That I am, Your Grace.”

  “Very well, then,” said Mary. “You are familiar with the lay of the land. You shall lead me by the fastest route still open to us to the palace gates.”

  The room went silent and the faces of the men blanched. No one spoke. A loud cannon blast broke the spell and once again Bishop Gardiner dropped to his knees.

  “I beg of Your Grace, do not
do this,” he said. He was as close to tears as he had ever been in his life.

  Mary ignored him and said to the soldier, “Lead the way.” By way of explanation she turned to the men in the room and said, “It may hearten the men to see me. To let them see that for which they fight. And it might even turn a rebel or two from their purpose. I must go.” With that she swept from the room.

  All the men followed; it ill became them to be reluctant to face danger when the queen was so willing to do so.

  At the entrance to the courtyard Mary spied Lord Clinton. “What news?” she shouted above the din.

  His face was smutted from smoke and streaked with sweat; he drew his arm across it, smearing it even worse. “The main force has made for the Ludgate, Your Grace,” he shouted back. “This,” he waved his arm at the men fighting in the area between the palace gates and the stone wall that protected the inner courtyard, “is a splinter group sent to…”

  Suddenly there was a fearsome blast, a mighty roar, and then all went silent. All the men stopped fighting in their shock and surprise. The only way one could tell friend from foe was that Wyatt’s men were all covered in mud from their long march. Suddenly they all laid down their arms.

  Into the silence came a cry, but no one could make out the words. It came closer; the sound of pounding hooves could be discerned.

  Tom Cartwright’s young eyes squinted in the downpour and said, “It is Sir John Gage!”

  The Keeper of the Tower! Here! What was afoot, Mary wondered?

  Sir John was old, but sat his horse smartly; he galloped full tilt to the gates, where all, friend and foe alike, fell back to let him pass. He clattered to a halt at the entrance to the courtyard.

  Mary stepped forward.

  “Your Grace!” cried Sir John, genuinely surprised to see her. The day had lightened considerably, but he had not at first recognized the queen in her armor.

  “Well, man!” she cried. “What news?”

  Sir John was almost as old as the duke of Norfolk, but he had the same determination to show his mettle. He had not stayed in the Tower, but had joined the forces defending the city. “The rebel Wyatt, Your Grace, believing your gracious majesty to be seeking refuge in the Tower, made his way to the Ludgate thinking to breach the city walls there, but he was not able to do so. Failing in his purpose there, he made his way back down Fleet Street to the Strand, making for the Charing Cross. My lord of Pembroke met him there and when he tried to retreat, he was cut off from his main force. Your Grace, Sir Thomas Wyatt has surrendered; yea, and all his men. It is over.”