The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Could she expect just one more miracle, she wondered? She had just passed her thirty-eighth birthday…what hope had she of conceiving, and if she should be granted such a boon, could she hope to survive the birth of her child? Had she done enough to warrant such favor from God? Was anything lacking? Perhaps; and Mary was a person who paid her debts. She was greatly indebted to God for his favor, and if she were to expect any more miracles, she must pay what she owed. Her mind was now firmly set upon the path of bringing England back to the true faith. There must be no more leniency where religion was concerned. From now on she must redouble her efforts to root out heresy and to bring forward the day when the pope would lift the interdict and bring England back into the fold of Roman Catholicism. Indeed, her focus now was quite narrow; provide a Catholic heir for England and bring her country back to righteousness.

  But first she must deal with the vexing question of her sister. As queen, she must face facts; what if she were not able to give England the Catholic heir she so desperately needed? Elizabeth was heir but she was a heretic, she knew that now; no amount of equivocation on her sister’s part could convince her otherwise. Her other Grey cousins were also heretics, and Mary of Scotland, although a Catholic, was out of the question as heir to the throne of England because of her strong French affiliations. That left her cousin Margaret…a devout Catholic, and royal. But it pricked at her conscience to go against her father’s will. She had invoked the sanctity of Henry the Eighth’s will in support of her own cause; it would be hypocritical in the extreme to ignore it when it came to Elizabeth’s rights.

  These thoughts whirled in her brain like a maelstrom and always she was brought back to the same place; she must marry as soon as possible, and she simply must give England an heir. It was the only way. Once she had produced an heir of her body, she would marry her sister off to some foreign prince and send her to some distant land.

  The room suddenly became very quiet and Mary realized that the men were waiting for her to speak.

  “How now, My Lords,” she said. Her eyes alighted on Bishop Gardiner. “My Lord Chancellor, you have had adequate time in which to question the princess and the rebel prisoners. What news?”

  Gardiner pursed his lips and folded his hands, then he blew the air out of his cheeks. “Your Grace, we have had Ashridge and the dwellings of all the rebels thoroughly searched.”

  “With nothing to show for it!” said Paget scathingly.

  “Sir John,” said Mary, addressing Sir John Gage as Constable of the Tower. “Have you been able to discover anything in the Tower?”

  Sir John shook his head. “Nothing, Your Grace.”

  “Have the prisoners yielded any information at all?” Mary knew she must tread lightly on this question; she had no wish to know by what means such information had been obtained, if indeed there were any.

  Gardiner lifted his wine cup and tossed back its contents. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. “No, Your Grace. I fear me that Wyatt still sings the same song.”

  “Yes,” said Paget. “The one in which Sir Thomas sought only to stop the Spanish marriage, that the princess knew nothing of the plan to place her on the throne as Courtenay’s queen, and that has as its chorus that the earl of Devon was the prime instigator of the entire rebellion!”

  Mary noticed that at this assertion Gardiner blanched and his knuckles went white against his empty wine cup. “That will do, Sir William,” she said blandly. She was fully aware that Gardiner was walking a thin line between his love for Courtenay and his hatred…and fear…of Elizabeth.

  “I beg Your Grace,” pleaded Bishop Gardiner. “The boy is innocent!”

  Mary banged her fist down upon the table. “That he most certainly is not!” she shouted. “There is ample proof that my cousin Courtenay thought to usurp my throne and marry my sister into the bargain! He is a false traitor and he deserves to die.” At this Gardiner’s eyes went wide and swam with tears. “But I have had enough of dead men…and dead cousins!” she said quickly. She wanted no more deaths on her conscience, regardless of their guilt. Wyatt could not be spared; he must die. But she would not let him be executed until she was certain that he would not implicate Elizabeth.

  “What is to become of him, then?” asked a cowed Lord Chancellor.

  Mary sighed. Lady Gertrude had come to her in a state of dread and hysteria on the day of Jane’s execution to plead for her son’s life. Her errand had been wasted; Mary had no intention of executing Courtenay, indeed, she had no intention of even bringing him to trial.

  “I have promised Lady Gertrude that banishment will be my cousin’s lot, and so it shall be; as soon as the arrangements can be made, he shall be placed on a boat and sent across the Channel, never to return to England.” It was a compromise; Charles had forced her hand when it came to Jane, but Jane had already been tried and convicted of treason, thanks to her own father-in-law; and now, thanks to the girl’s own father, she, Mary, had simply carried out that sentence, albeit reluctantly. And with that, she had had enough of her hapless cousins!

  Bishop Gardiner breathed a sigh of relief.

  Renard had been sitting quietly in his now usual place at Mary’s left hand. “Your Grace,” he said. “The emperor is willing to allow the prince to come to England only when all threat of conspiracy has been eliminated. There can be no peace in this country and your throne will never be secure while the princess lives. Why do you hesitate? What of the letter to the French king? What of the fact that the rebellion was raised in the princess’s own name? That the conspirators are loyal to Her Grace is not remarkable; they thought to put her on the throne in Your Grace’s stead! How could the princess have been so placed and not be aware of their intentions?”

  It was a sound argument, and one that haunted Mary in the darks hours of the night when sleep eluded her. Everything pointed to Elizabeth being privy to the aims of the conspirators. What was not at all remarkable in her estimation was that her sister had managed to evade any overt participation in the conspiracy. Was she not her clever mother’s daughter? Her sister’s character was always what she feared it would be; she knew Elizabeth to be crafty, wily, cunning and sly, just like Anne Boleyn before her.

  But still Jane’s execution haunted her. There was no doubt of Jane’s guilt; she had reigned as queen of England for nine days before she had been deposed. But nothing, not a shred of evidence, had been found against Elizabeth. And even if there were such evidence, she knew that she would never be able to bring herself to murder her own sister, regardless of how far apart they had grown. All she wanted was to know the truth, and then she would know what to do with her sister. But what was she to do with her in the meantime?

  “All true!” expostulated Gardiner. “The princess must have known. Her Grace should be arrested, placed in the Tower, tried, and executed!”

  Paget frowned at Gardiner. “Then how much more so his Grace, the earl of Devon, of whose guilt we are certain? Your Grace,” he said softly, turning to Mary. “It would be the height of folly to think to eliminate the Heir Presumptive to the throne. The people would never stand for it. Such an action might very well spark another rebellion.”

  Gardiner frowned back at Paget and addressed the queen. “Your Grace departs shortly for Windsor for the Easter celebrations. It would be the height of folly,” he turned to glower at Paget as he repeated Sir William’s words, “to leave the princess to her own devices in Your Grace’s absence. It would not be meet for Your Grace to receive the princess whilst Her Grace is still under suspicion; why not allow me to remove the princess to the Tower, where I might continue my interrogation in even more advantageous circumstances?”

  Renard’s eyes glittered. Once get the princess in the Tower and he would do his utmost to ensure that she never left it alive. “I agree with the Lord Chancellor,” he said. “The princess’s person must be secured in Your Grace’s absence; and a sojourn in the Tower might be most conducive to obtaining a confession of guilt.”

  All
of the men of the Council greatly resented Renard’s presence at their meetings, and loathed the man himself; even those who were at odds, like Paget and Gardiner, were united in their antipathy when it came to foreign interference in English affairs. The man was like a canker sore, a blight, clinging to the queen. But they all knew of Mary’s regard for the emperor’s envoy; none dared speak against him or say him nay.

  Mary tapped her teeth with her fingers, a nervous habit that she had begun to display of late. Having been under threat of the Tower herself for years, she shuddered at the thought of sending her sister there. The fear, the shame of such a place was bad enough; but Elizabeth’s own mother had been sent to the Tower and had been executed there. She would not, could not, consider any sort of punishment for her sister unless proof positive of her guilt was discovered, or Elizabeth confessed. She knew without doubt that if she allowed Elizabeth to be sent to the Tower that it was certain to unnerve her. If it was the truth she wanted, that was the way to get it. But still…

  “Is there no other way?” she asked. “May not we send the princess to be close confined in the house of some nobleman?” She looked around the table; not one of the men would meet her gaze. No one was willing to take such a risk. “Very well, then. My Lord Chancellor, you may have the princess conveyed to the Tower.”

  The room was silent but the thoughts of the men were almost palpable. Gardiner and Renard looked triumphant. But the earl of Sussex and Sir William Paget exchanged worried glances. In the frenzy to bring the rebels to justice, it seemed that they alone had not forgotten exactly who the Princess Elizabeth was…and what she might someday become.

  Valladolid Province, Spain, April 1554

  Maria Elena laid the baby carefully back into its crib and went to sit at her dressing table. The table was much too fine for the room, as were many of her things. It even had a mirror, a device unheard of in the little town of Penafiel. The table was delicate, finely carved and had a matching chair; the deep, rich wood was inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a pleasing pattern. She ran her hand over its smooth surface. The inlay was so fine that one could not tell where the wood stopped and the shimmering shells began.

  She lifted the silver-backed brush, another article that seemed out of place in her modest little house. Just as she began to brush she heard a voice behind her; that dear voice that sounded so much like velvet felt to the touch.

  “Let me do that.”

  She smiled, closed her eyes, and gave herself up to the sensuous feel of another person brushing her hair for her.

  Philip regarded Maria Elena’s face in the mirror as he brushed the long, black tresses one by one. He had mistresses in every city and town he spent any time in, because women were as necessary to him as breathing. But Maria Elena was special. The Castilian court was at Penafiel Castle, and no matter where he went, he always came back here. The life of a royal person must needs be nomadic; he had a vast kingdom to rule, and when his father abdicated, as he was constantly threatening to do, it would become even larger.

  Why, oh why, he lamented to himself for the hundredth time, must he add England to his burden of rule? He had never understood why England was of such importance. Yes, the remote, backward little island kingdom was essential to trade with the Netherlands, and yes, it served to maintain a balance of power of sorts between France and the Holy Roman Empire. But was there not some other way to keep England faithful than for him to go there and marry its queen? Mary was his father’s first cousin; she would support the Empire against France without the need for him to marry her. And if a marriage there must be, were there not others in their far-flung Hapsburg family who could marry the Queen of England? Why, oh why…

  But all of this he kept to himself. He was a good Catholic and an obedient son, and would do as he was bid without complaint. But he was not looking forward at all to marrying his cousin, who was eleven years his senior. He would be expected to…ghastly thought! …try his best to get her with child. It was the only way to bind England to the Empire forever.

  Renard kept him informed of events at the English court; the ambassador had tried to pass off the recent uprising against his betrothed as a purely religious matter, but he knew better. He was very much aware of the religious turmoil in his soon-to-be adoptive land…for nigh on twenty years heresy had been allowed to run rampant there. He knew that his pious cousin sought to bring England back to Rome, but he also knew that the recent rebellion was focused on the people’s abhorrence to having a Spanish king. Religion was a part of that abhorrence, but only a part.

  He kept up the steady rhythm of his brushing; Maria Elena’s hair was thick, and almost blue-black in color. Her eyes were still closed as she swayed to the pace of the brushstrokes. The tress he was holding was warm; it crackled as he brushed it as if with a life of its own. If only she were his wife and he could take her with him! He sighed. It was not possible.

  Without opening her eyes, Maria Elena said in a whisper, “What is it, my love?” She knew of his other women; it was the way of men, and she must not mind. He always came back to her and for that she was grateful. The prince was a strange man; he was quiet and reserved, but he loved with a passion that reached almost white heat on occasion. He loved their little daughter, Juana, whom he had named for his grandmother, a fearsome old lady who had gone mad when her husband died nearly forty-five years before. She shuddered. Thank the Virgin that the old lady was far away in the convent of Santa Maria de Tordesillas!

  “I was just thinking that soon I must depart Valladolid for Coruna,” he replied. “And thence to my aunt’s court at Brussels. And then…”

  “And then,” she said, “you must go to England and do your duty.”

  “You understand everything,” he said, almost on a sob. “It will not be for long. As soon…as soon…” He found that he could not say it.

  She opened her eyes, which were a startling green. Maria Elena was actually a distant cousin, but she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her family had been compensated handsomely for the disgrace and the priest had given her mother absolution. But Philip often thought that one of the reasons she was so special to him was because she had his grandmother’s eyes. The baby’s eyes still had the slaty blue of the newborn, but it was his fondest wish that when her eyes took on the color they would have until her death, that they would be Maria Elena’s eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do understand. Do your duty by the English queen, and then come back to me.”

  He nodded. Maria Elena closed her eyes again and he continued his brushing. He certainly had not done his duty so far, except in the broadest sense. He had not written to Mary Tudor, nor had he sent her any sort of message or gift. He knew that this negligence of his betrothed had placed Renard in a most embarrassing position at the English court, but somehow, he just could not bring himself to play the part of the happy prince. He had his own kingdom to rule; he desired no other. In fact, taking on England and its queen was going to be a huge inconvenience. He had let the betrothal ceremony come and go without even acknowledging his bride to be. His father had had to send a betrothal ring to the queen of England on his behalf, and had provided the requisite gift.

  He had had great hopes that the rebellion would convince his father that the marriage should be called off; the marriage treaty had not yet been formally ratified by Mary’s Parliament and technically, could still be stopped. His father had even considered it, but in the end had decided that the marriage was too important to the Empire’s goals for the Low Countries and must proceed. He had been able to buy himself some time by informing his father that in the circumstances, his escort was far too small and must be doubled, even tripled, to ensure his safety. He would muster five thousand troops to see him and his court of three thousand to England’s shores, and then the troops, which would not be allowed to disembark, would go back to Brussels to augment his aunt’s forces there, where she was still fighting the French.

  But finally, even he had to fa
ce up to the fact that go to England he must. He had gone to the royal vault at the Alcazar in Segovia and surveyed his grandmother’s jewels. He loved beautiful things and part of him was regretful, first, that such treasures had been locked away since his mother died so many years ago, and second, that they must now be bestowed upon a woman who by all accounts had all the jewels she needed already. How he wished he could have given them to Maria Elena! Finally, he had selected La Peregrina, a matchless pearl as big as a man’s thumbnail, from which hung a table diamond of exceptional beauty. The diamond was set in a bed of golden rose petals, and the pendant hung from a thick, gold chain. Truly a piece fit for a queen. With it he sent a stilted letter expressing how happy he was to be coming to England.

  Happy! Hah! Far from it! When he had learned of the terms of the marriage agreement he had been furious…he would have responsibility but no power. There was no provision for him to be crowned. He would be able to appoint no Spaniards to office. His father, he knew, was rubbing his hands in delight over the fact that once he and his cousin produced an heir that England was all but theirs, but what about him? In his anger he had drafted and signed a sworn statement that he had not been privy to the marriage settlement, had not agreed to its terms and would not be bound by them. This document he had placed with the bishop in Segovia and would produce it when needs be.

  His father cared nothing for his, Philip’s, happiness; indeed, how could it be otherwise? His father cared nothing for his own! Everything was honor and duty, responsibility and obligation. Where was the advantage in ruling most of the known world if one could not even see to one’s own personal contentment?

  So he would make his preparations, he would go to England, but as soon as the queen was in pup he would depart for home without a second thought or a backward glance. There would be nothing Mary of England could do about it. It was clear to him that England needed a Catholic heir; what it did not need, and seemed not to want! …was a Spanish king. That suited him very well! As soon as his cousin was safely with child, back to Spain he would go. Spain needed him; England did not, and unless he missed his guess, England did not even want him. They needed his seed; fine, he would leave that behind in the queen’s belly. But sit around and be an unwanted counselor he would not.