The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  But although England’s fate was certainly important, it was out of the Dame’s control. What mattered most to her at that moment was this poor, distraught woman.

  “Everyone expects me to die!” sobbed Mary. “The Parliament’s new law tells me so. And the Protestants pray publicly for my death, and the death of my child. Even Philip hopes I will die, and set him free!”

  Margaret and Dame Margery exchanged alarmed looks. This was not good for any woman, especially one in Mary’s condition.

  “Oh, Cousin,” said Margaret gently. “I am certain that that is not so!”

  “Oh, but it is,” sobbed Mary. She grunted inelegantly. “I know it is. But I only want him to love me!”

  Margaret took Mary into her arms. “Mary, Mary, Good Cousin, why do you weep for that which can never be? Love is not for such as us.”

  The Dame’s eyes met Margaret’s over the top of Mary’s head. They must somehow try to steer Mary away from her crying jag.

  The Dame possessed the voice of authority; as a woman of the church, as Mary’s elder, and as a trusted friend. She asserted herself. “But Your Grace, consider all the good that has come from the mere hope of this child! Where many had predicted dire consequences, all is now well. It has silenced the malcontents, dampened the anti-Spanish sentiments that had run rampant on the streets of London, and it has helped to negate the threats posed by rival claimants to the throne. There, shall one not rejoice for all of that?”

  Mary broke her embrace with Margaret and threw up her hands; she began ticking off, her voice sarcastic, the many blessings that had resulted from her pregnancy.

  “Rejoice? Yes, with the announcement of my condition the Spanish and the English have ceased to brawl openly in the streets. I am thankful. After scores of deaths on both sides, that is indeed welcome news. It has neutralized the threat of other Catholic claimants, like my own cousins, Courtenay and Mary of Scotland! For this I am most grateful. I no longer have to worry about being usurped by members of my own family; that is, unless you do not count my own sister! The Protestant faction grows more vociferous and seditious daily, ever since our cousin Reginald’s arrival! They think to rise up and place Elizabeth on the throne, whilst she demurely pretends to hear Mass at Hatfield! I am much comforted. And my husband is beside himself with joy! His Grace of Spain was under the impression that all he had to do was to get the queen in pod and off he could go to the Low Countries to wage war on the French! He does not even intend to stay for the birth of the child! All he thinks about is how quickly he can leave me!” With these declarations she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenheartedly.

  Margaret looked helplessly at the Dame, at a loss as to how to comfort her cousin.

  Dame Margery stood up and faced Mary, leaned over her and placed her hands gently on Mary’s shoulders. “Your Grace,” she said. “Your lady mother and the Countess of Salisbury, were they here, would be most distressed by this behavior. You must calm yourself. You are a queen; you must behave like one. If you continue in this way you will harm the child. Is that what you want?”

  Mary drew a ragged breath. Her tirade had exhausted her. She let go a sigh and said softly, “No, of course it is not.” She drew a linen square from her sleeve, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “But why has God turned his face from me? What have I done?”

  Dame Margery sat down beside Mary and placed her arm around Mary’s shoulders. “Perhaps it is not anything that you have done, Your Grace, but what you have failed to do.”

  Mary blinked owlishly and the tears that had gathered in her eyes fell unheeded down her cheeks. She ran her hand under her runny nose from the tip of her finger all the way to her wrist. “Why, what mean you?”

  “You say that you fear the Protestants and abhor their doctrines. And yet you have had it in your power for months to cleanse England of these heretics. What steps have you taken to bring these misguided souls back to the true faith?” Dame Margery searched Mary’s eyes with her clear blue gaze.

  “I…none,” Mary replied. “Reginald says that women must be silent in the Church. It was for this reason that I have always wanted so much to rid myself of the title my father’s laws had visited upon me of Supreme Head of the Church of England. First Corinthians says…”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you are not just any woman. You are the Queen of England. The Heresy Laws have been reinstated. You have the tools needed to return England, and all good English people, to a state of grace. You must use them if you expect God to continue to favor you with his miracles.”

  Mary’s eyes took on a faraway look. What the Dame said was true. England had been absolved and taken back into the fold of the Holy Catholic Church and the Heresy Laws had been reinstated. But she could see now that it was not enough. Had she lost sight of her holy mission in the euphoria of the accomplishment of these things? Perhaps. She looked at Margaret, who regarded her with wide blue eyes. Her cousin was wrong, she was sure of it. She would prove it. She would begin her campaign of cleansing England of all heretics. They would recant or they would burn. And then would God bestow upon her the miracles of a healthy child to be the Catholic heir to England, and the love of her husband.

  St. James’s Palace, London, February 1555

  “I still do not see why you must go,” sobbed Mary.

  Philip sat in front of the fire across from his wife. He was unused to arguing; he was royal and in most spheres, his word was law. He was certainly not used to arguing with a woman. He had been very young when he married his first wife, his cousin Maria Manuela. They had never had cause to argue, and she had died giving birth to his son, Don Carlos, less than two years later. Maria Elena was the soul of feminine submissiveness. And so confronted with Mary, a queen in her own right, disagreeing with him, after vowing before God to obey him as her lord and husband, was a situation that truly baffled him. And there was something else; some women just should not cry. Maria Elena often shed some quiet, flattering tears upon his departure, mostly when she thought he was not looking; but her tears were beautiful. They simply welled up in her eyes, making them look like deep, shimmering pools, and then spilled elegantly down her cheeks. She never sniffled, her nose did not run or turn red, and her face did not screw up into a distorted caricature of itself.

  None of these things were true of Mary. He did his best to avoid looking at her.

  It was best to simply answer her questions and try to meet her objections in as factual a manner as possible. He must remain calm; he must keep his temper.

  “My father needs me,” he replied.

  Mary blew her nose into a saturated linen square with a resounding honk. “That is the one thing that I do not see,” she said. “My cousin has the flower of Spanish and Flemish manhood to help him repel the French. What possible good can one more person do? I need you here, with me. England needs you. I do not see why you must go.”

  Finally, something he could say to meet her objections! “England will have me,” replied Philip. “Paget has suggested, and the Council has approved, a scheme by which a small number of them will run the country. We shall be in constant communication. All will still be under my control. I will counsel and advise, but the Council will still have the initiative, just as they always have.”

  Mary bristled. “And what shall I be doing? I am an anointed queen, and queen of this realm.”

  Philip sighed. “Yes, you are an anointed queen. May I take this opportunity to remind you that even though I am expected to rule the country on your behalf, that I am still not an anointed king? If you expect me to remain here to the neglect of my own realms and my father’s war with the French, then I demand a coronation.”

  Mary wiped her eyes and said, “You know that the Council will never agree to a coronation. It is not in the marriage settlement, after all.”

  That blasted marriage settlement! He shrugged.

  “You cannot have it both ways, Mary. Besides, I was under the impression that you wished to focus your
energies on your…condition.”

  Mary brightened at the mention of the child; it was mainly for this reason that she wished him to stay. “I do, I do,” she said quickly. She leaned over and placed her hand atop his. “I need you here by my side, Philip. I do not see why you must go.”

  Her touch made him recoil, and to hide the fact, he jumped up, seized the poker, and began to stoke the fire. It was devilishly cold in England. If he ever got back to Spain and Maria Elena, he would never leave again!

  “Mary,” he said, with his back still to her, “I have done my duty here, by you and by England. You are with child with an heir to your throne; England is reconciled with the Church. It is time for me to go and be a man, and do what I must where I am needed.”

  “An heir to my throne?”cried Mary. “Is that how you see it?”

  Philip turned his cold gray eyes onto her. “Yes, if you must know. I have my heir; my son, Don Carlos, will rule Spain when I am gone. Spain is my home. England can never be my home.”

  “You are needed here,” said Mary. “I need you. You can be a man here. I do not see why you have to go.”

  It was rare that Philip lost his icy reserve, but when he did, it was as if a flame had been set to gunpowder. “Forgive me, but I cannot be a man here, Madam! I have no power, no authority, and I can give no English offices to my Spaniards, as a reward for their service to me! I must support two entire households so as not to offend either; I am simply expected to disgorge money and receive no English revenues for my trouble! The English merchants cheat my Spaniards in every way possible, then revile them in the streets! The situation is intolerable, and I must go.” He flung himself back into his chair and stared into the fire.

  There was nothing to be said in rebuttal to Philip’s litany of complaints; she had heard them all before and had no remedy for any of them. She dared not rebut that the Spanish acted as if they were superior in all respects to the English, and picked fights with them at every opportunity.

  Mary had sobbed herself into a state of hiccoughing; she said brokenly, “You would l-leave me before our ch-child is b-born? I do not see why you have to go.”

  Philip slapped the arm of his chair with the flat of his hand. “For God’s sake, Madam, this is your child, England’s child, not mine! Spain is my country and I have already provided it with an heir! My father thinks to shift more and more of his responsibilities onto me; even now as we speak, he wants me in the Netherlands, that I may begin my rule there! If we can ever get the blasted French out of the way! I have neither the time nor the inclination to stay here! I must away!”

  Mary continued to sob. “I still do not see why you have to go.”

  Suddenly Philip felt a surge of anger well up inside of him such as he had never before experienced. It was born of frustration and an overwhelming fury, exacerbated by an inexplicable sense of sheer helplessness. He was truly afraid at that moment that if she uttered those exasperating words one more time that he might strike her. Violence born of rage was an emotion utterly foreign to him. What was this place, this person, doing to him? He must get away, from England, from his wife, or go mad. But he could not depart without the queen’s…his wife’s…permission. It was an intolerable situation.

  Very well. He knew when he was beaten. But as Queen Isabella, his famous great-grandmother, Mary’s grandmother, had once said, one must know when to retreat in the face of an enemy…as ignominious as it might be to do so…that one might live to fight another day. He could not strike his wife with his hands, but he could do so with words. No longer would he hold those back.

  Philip sat back in his chair, folded his hands and said very softly, “Very well, Your Grace, I shall remain in England for the birth of the child. But I must insist that you give the order to cease these terrible burnings. They are causing great unrest and the people, not knowing any better, are blaming me for them.”

  Mary smiled. He would stay! She had won.

  “Did you hear me, Mary?”

  How could she possibly respond? Philip would never understand that she had ordered the burnings because of him. And she was certain now that the burnings were working. Philip had been about to begin preparations to depart for the war against the French in the Low Countries, but had been convinced that he must stay in England with her. This could only be God’s doing. It was not only God’s will that she was soon to bear the Catholic heir to England’s throne; it was God’s reward to her for her steadfastness. She could not reverse her path now.

  “Oh, I couldn’t very well do that,” she replied. Mary smiled through her tears, leaned over and placed her hand on her husband’s cheek. She did not notice how he stiffened at her touch.

  Lambeth Palace, London, April 1555

  The tide was with them, and so the journey in the royal barge from Whitehall Palace to Lambeth Palace had been a short and very silent one. Philip and Raul did not care to converse before Renard, and Renard knew that both men neither liked nor trusted him. Crisis, reflected Renard, did make for strange bedfellows! For these three men to be making common cause, the situation must be dire, as indeed it was; so dire that the three of them were about to make further cause with Bishop Gardiner and Cardinal Pole. Such a meeting was so strange that they had all agreed it was best done under cover of darkness, and long after most men could be expected to be in their beds.

  It was a windy night and the flames of the torches on the dock sighed and danced hypnotically. The barge pulled up to the water steps at Lambeth and Raul, who had the night vision of a cat, spotted the tall, hooded figure of Reginald and the shorter, stouter one of Stephen Gardiner before the others did. The barge docked just long enough to allow Reginald, Cardinal Pole, and Bishop Gardiner to board, and then it cast off and continued its voyage to nowhere. The meeting that was about to take place was so secret that they had all agreed that they dare not have it within doors. The barge would sail upriver until the tide turned, and then they would reverse its course and disgorge the occupants at different places along the river. It would be as if the conference had never been.

  The men retreated to the cabin and drew the curtains. Raul poured each man a measure of wine and settled back into his seat beside Philip.

  Philip, anointed and crowned or not, was King of England; it was for him to speak first. Language still presented some difficulty; French was the only common tongue that all five men could speak and understand tolerably well.

  “My lords,” said Philip in his halting, heavily accented French. “Things have gotten out of hand. There have been riots in the city and threats against both Her Majesty and myself.” The men nodded gravely, but said nothing. “The people,” he said carefully, “once abhorred my marriage with the queen because they feared that with me I would bring the Spanish Inquisition. I never had any such plan, nor have I ever suggested such a thing to the queen. I find it to be a great irony that the queen is seeing to the burning of heretics on her own, and with such alarming single-mindedness of purpose. Her Grace requires no help from the Inquisition, she has the matter well in hand…with the unfortunate result that I and my Spaniards are in greater danger than ever before. My countrymen dare not go abroad in daylight for fear of attack. The queen’s insistence that all heretics be tried and brought to justice is beginning to turn the people against her, and by association, against myself. Something must be done.”

  Gardiner shifted in his seat and set his wine cup aside. “Your Majesty,” he said, I agree; have you tried reasoning with Her Grace?”

  Philip sneered. “I have no influence with Her Grace whatsoever. Nothing I ask of her or suggest to her has even the slightest effect. One of you must try.”

  Gardiner seized his wine cup, drained it, and placed it down upon the table. “I assure Your Majesty that I am as alarmed as you are! We never expected to burn so many. We thought that a few executions would suffice, that a few heretics made an example of would bring the remainder to their senses, that it would turn them from their course. We all expected th
e burnings to convince the rest of the heretics to recant!” The bishop’s sentence ended on a sob that sounded like cloth being rent asunder; he buried his face in his hands.

  “Yes, I see,” said Reginald. “But the burnings, I fear me, are having exactly the opposite effect. I had suggested to Her Grace that we disinter some known heretics and burn their bodies, but she would not hear of it. You see, my cousin believes it is her duty to make the heretics suffer a taste of hellfire to come, that they might recant and be saved. If they will not…” he shrugged and brought his hands up in a gesture of defeat.

  Renard frowned. “I do not understand the Queen’s Grace. What has become of her legendary magnanimity? In the past the queen has, against advice, forgiven many for their crimes and reinstated them.”

  The cardinal shook his head. “This is different. These heretics have sinned against God. Unless they recant, there can be no forgiveness. And certainly such would not come from Her Grace in any case. Nor will Her Grace allow others to show even the slightest leniency. She soundly rebuked the Sheriff of Hampshire for saving a man who screamed like a scalded cat at the first lick of the flames, and swore that he had changed his mind.”

  Renard shook his head. “That is exactly my point! If a man may not recant and be saved…do you not see that these burnings are being perceived not as religious acts, but as deeds of wanton cruelty? The public outcry has been overwhelming. I fear that if this does not stop it could lead to another uprising. Many Catholics are amongst those who are both horrified and repulsed by the burnings, and may be among those willing to rise! All of this has inflamed great anger against the crown…” he nodded to Philip, in acknowledgement of the fact that the king was being blamed as vociferously by the people as the queen, “…and far from converting any heretics, the painful deaths suffered so bravely by those executed so far seem only to have strengthened the resolve of those left behind. The dead are considered to be martyrs and serve as an inspiration to others to stand strong against such persecution.”