The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Had her sister brought her there only to torment her? Why? She drew a deep breath and replied as calmly as she was able. “Your Grace, please consider; should I confess myself guilty of such an offence, not only would I be false before God, but I should ever after have to bear your evil opinion of me. I swear before God that I am innocent of all offence.”

  Mary eyed her sister coldly and was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “I marvel much that you should stand so stubbornly by your innocence when there are many who have said to the contrary, yea, and paid the price for it!”

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and raised her own chin a royal notch. “I would rather,” she said quietly, “rot in prison with the truth on my lips than confess to a crime I did not commit in order that I may go free.”

  “Then you would bruit it abroad that you have been wrongly punished all this while?”

  Elizabeth strove to keep her face expressionless, but Mary saw the anger flit across her features. She pressed her lips together, a sure sign of the annoyance she must be feeling. “I must not say so to Your Grace,” she replied. “Therefore I will not speak against it to any man.” She sank to her knees again and raised her hands in a gesture of supplication. “Mary, I beg of you, please have a good opinion of me; for such would only be right and fair. I have been, and always shall be, your loyal subject.” At Mary’s impatient expression she bristled, but then she made a decision. It was time to shoot her last arrow in this battle of words. “Mary,” she said. “I would never speak against, or act against, the anointed sovereign of this country.”

  As Mary listened to her sister plead, she had been sipping Hippocras, her favorite wine, from a delicate glass. At Elizabeth’s words, she sputtered and began to cough; she pulled a linen square from her sleeve and held it to her mouth until the choking fit subsided. But finally Mary understood, and the understanding was bitter; Elizabeth fully expected, against all evidence to the contrary, to be queen someday. Therefore, she would never compromise or lessen the royal position, regardless of who held it. Finally, she understood. Her sister was innocent. But Mary was unwilling to concede the point, even now. Let Elizabeth wonder if she would ever believe her bleatings of guiltlessness!

  Mary raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Ah, well,” she said, as she replaced the linen square back into her sleeve. “God knows the truth.”

  Just then a commotion at the door arrested both women’s attention.

  Rather than rise back to her feet the second time Elizabeth sank to her knees in front of her sister, she had settled back on the rich Turkey carpet that Mary had received as a gift from the Czar to commemorate the founding of the trade agreement between England and Russia. She had been running her hands over its silken nap when the noise at the door interrupted their interview. Her legs were folded beneath her, and with her other hand she leaned back and was supporting herself. When she turned her head to see what was to do, the silken mane of her hair, which as a maiden she still wore loose, fell like a fiery curtain down her back, its ends brushing the floor.

  Thus it was that Philip of Spain first laid eyes on Elizabeth of England.

  A mighty clap of thunder reverberated at the moment their eyes met, and a second later a brilliant flash of lightning flooded the room. At first Philip was struck dumb by the image of his sister-in-law; her hair was like fire; flaming red with streaks of yellow, the totality of which glinted in the firelight that lit her from behind. But it was her eyes that transfixed him; he was heartily weary of the myriad shades of blue and green that characterized most English eyes. Here were eyes so dark they appeared almost twice the size of normal eyes; one could not distinguish the iris from the pupil. Had he but known it, he was staring into Anne Boleyn’s eyes, eyes that had bewitched a king.

  As in such moments when one is affected so deeply by one’s first sight of another, he noticed the trivial as well as the great; she was dressed in a black velvet gown cut in the Spanish style. The sight of it warmed his heart.

  Suddenly he realized that he was staring, but before he could collect himself, Elizabeth extended her free hand to him, the one that had been sensuously stroking the carpet. “Mi Hermano,” she said, in perfectly accented Spanish. He knew of her linguistic accomplishments; he had heard that the Princess Elizabeth was fluent in Latin, Greek, French and Italian. It gladdened his heart that she had spent some of the time of her weary exile learning Spanish. To what end, he wondered? To please him? What other reason could there be?

  The hand held out to him was delicate, with long, elegant fingers; he longed to touch it. He hesitated; if he took the proffered hand he would be expected to kiss it in the Spanish style, which was clearly what his sister-in-law was waiting for him to do; but he was suddenly seized by a great desire to kiss Elizabeth. This was acceptable; a kiss on the lips was the proper English greeting. He extended both hands and Elizabeth knew instantly what he wanted to do; she shifted her position and held out both of her hands to him, that he might assist her in rising to her feet. This she accomplished in one lithe, cat-like movement. The girl was as graceful as a greyhound, and once on her feet, he thought her a veritable Diana. Both of her parents had been tall, and so was Elizabeth.

  Standing there, she slightly the taller of the two of them, their hands still clasped, he moved slowly towards her. Just before their lips met, he whispered, “Mi Hermana…” And he had once thought to fob off his sister-in-law, sight unseen, onto the Duke of Savoy! Would that this exquisite creature were his wife instead of Mary! He was ashamed of the thought as soon as he had it, but the shame was quickly followed by something else, something infinitely more dangerous. For the first time his desire to rid himself of Mary had form and substance. If Mary died in childbirth, the logical political step would be to quickly marry her sister. His loins contracted pleasantly at the thought. Sometime during the interval in which these thoughts flitted rapidly through his mind, he felt the searing heat of their lips touching.

  He realized that he was still staring at her, and still holding both of her hands. He must either say something more or let her go; but he could think of nothing to say. He was hopelessly caught in the thrall of something that he had never before experienced. His dead father-in-law could have explained these bewildering feelings to him, yea, more than amply; for Philip was enmeshed in the same charismatic web of personality that Elizabeth had inherited in full from her bewitching mother. It went beyond mere charm; it was incredibly strong, something altogether different. And he was lost in it.

  Elizabeth stared back unabashedly at Philip. She was very much aware of who she was; she had long ago come to grips with what it meant to be Anne Boleyn’s daughter, queen or no. But she was also her father’s daughter and indisputably descended from kings. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than to be told how much she resembled her royal father. So she was very well aware of the impact that she had on people who were seeing her for the first time. But this fool of a king had gone beyond mere shock and appreciation; he was smitten. Good!

  Never had two people, so entwined in their own thoughts about each other, so utterly forgotten that there was a third person in the room. The whole episode of Philip’s entry into the room and his greeting of her sister had lasted no more than a few moments. But Mary had watched aghast as the scene unfolded before her eyes. She would have given two kingdoms if only Philip had even once looked at her the way he was looking at Elizabeth.

  Hampton Court Palace, June 1555

  Mary sat in the window seat, waving and smiling down at the procession of priests and courtiers who paraded through the gardens beneath her window. Her cousin, Cardinal Pole, led the march, holding the great silver cross of his office high into the air. The crowd chanted prayers for the queen’s safe delivery. When the last person had disappeared around the great yew hedge, Mary turned back to face her ladies, a look of anguish on her face.

  “All their prayers and processions do no good!” she wailed. “Oh, why won’t the child come?”

  �
�Oh, my dearest,” said Susan, placing her arm around Mary’s shaking shoulder. “He will come, he will come, when he is ready, I trow! Like most men!” She laughed, but exchanged worried glances with Frideswide and Jane. “There now, dearest, come away from the window.” Mary was royal and adept at showing a smiling countenance to the crowd when needed, regardless of her mood; but no one must see the queen in this state. She led Mary to a chair near the hearth; it smelt of dead ashes, but even that was preferable to the other odors now assailing them.

  The rain had stopped but the day was unbearably hot and the temperature had caused the humidity to soar. The room was extremely uncomfortable; all the ladies were wet with sweat. The palace badly needed sweetening…the child had been expected in April and it was now almost July…and so the unbearable stench of brimming privies added to their misery.

  “But why won’t he come? I cannot bear it!” Mary cried.

  Jane sat down on Mary’s other side and administered soothing little pats, but the queen would not be comforted.

  “What have I done? What have I not done? I do not understand. The crops are failing. The corn is rotting in fields full of mud! The people will starve! What shall I do? What shall I do?” Mary held her face in her hands and rocked back and forth as she cried. “I have told Bishop Bonner and Bishop Gardiner to redouble their efforts,” she sobbed. “Every heretic in England must be burned or I shall never be relieved of my burden, and England will never have its prince!”

  Jane and Susan were on the brink of tears themselves; they did not know what to say that would comfort the queen in her extremity.

  The people were becoming more and more distressed by the burnings; they claimed it was the burnings that had caused God to turn his face from the queen and the English people. Yes, they claimed, as long as the queen insisted on inflicting such a cruel death upon the heretics, the crops would fail, the people would starve, and the child would never be born. It was now eleven months since the queen had conceived her child. Some believed that Mary would be granted more miracles for her religious fervor; others believed that everything was going wrong for her because of her religious fervor. There were riots in the streets, tempers between the English and the Spanish were flaring once again, and the Council feared armed insurrection. After all, it had happened before…

  The queen had wanted to have her lying-in at Windsor Castle, but the Council begged her to reconsider; Windsor was too far from London to be adequately defended. How glad they were now that she had relented! If the burnings continued and the child refused to be born, the angry mobs might descend upon Hampton Court. Already the Council had quietly had ordnance from the Tower brought to the palace, and stepped up the guard. The Earl of Pembroke had been dispatched to London with an armed force, and instructions to break up any crowd of more than five persons that gathered in any public place. All now depended upon the safe delivery of the royal child. Even a princess would suffice; at least a girl child would be, as Mary herself had once been, a token of hope for the future.

  Mary still sobbed brokenheartedly in Susan’s arms. With what joy and hope had she entered the palace in April! With what happiness and delight had she experienced the rituals and ceremonies associated with preparing for her confinement! The child could have been born as early as the end of April; she had been counting on that. But then April came and went…with the ignominious false announcement at the end of that month that had so distressed her and embarrassed Philip…and still there was no sign of her pains beginning. The doctors and midwives conferred and decided that the child should be born in the first week of May. The queen had muddled her dates; what woman had not, at some point? All would be well. But the end of May came and went without any signs, except the slight lessening of her belly. The midwife claimed that this was perfectly normal, in fact, it indicated that the birth was imminent. Surely, the first week in June…

  But now June was slipping away and there was still no sign of parturition. The palace was becoming unsanitary; there was fear of plague. Impatient, anxious courtiers roamed the halls whispering behind their hands. They had come in April expecting to be present at a momentous event and now it was almost July. Foreign dignitaries huddled in corners, irritated and annoyed at the delay. Court business was at a standstill.

  Something had to give.

  Lady Strelly clasped her hands tightly in front of her. She could not allow the queen to go on like this. She took a deep breath. “Your Grace, it must be said; I am sorry, but what if there is no child?”

  “No child!” cried Susan Clarencius. “How could that be? I have never heard such nonsense! Do you mean to distress Her Grace even further? If there is no child, how does one account for Her Grace’s belly? Or the milk oozing from her paps? No child! Huh!” She waved a derisive hand at Frideswide.

  But Lady Strelly stood her ground. “I have no wish to grieve Her Grace,” she said. “But does no one recall that which once happened to Lady Lisle? That lady evinced much the same symptoms as Her Grace has done, but in the end, produced no child.”

  Jane Dormer shook her head in silent disbelief, but Susan did recall what had happened to Lady Lisle. “But that was nigh on twenty years ago!” she cried.

  Lady Strelly strove to keep her face impassive. “Certainly the timing of it has no relevance to Her Grace’s situation.”

  Susan snorted. “The entire event has no relevance to Her Grace! No child, indeed!”

  But Mary stared ahead of her as if pole-axed, her eyes wide and her jaw agape. She too remembered the fantastic news of Honor Plantagenet’s phantom pregnancy; she had forgotten all about it until this moment. She remembered how distressed her mother had been for her friend, and what she said when she had heard the news from Calais of that lady’s ordeal. Katharine of Aragon had sunk to her knees and thanked God, first that she had at least one child who had lived, her daughter Mary; and secondly for the fact that although she had lost five of her six children at or shortly after their birth, that at least all of her pregnancies had been indisputably genuine.

  Until that moment, Mary had never once doubted her condition. But now…and hard on that thought came a vision of the horrible consequences for her of such a thing, if what Frideswide suspected were true. She had always harbored a hope that once the child was born, especially if it were a prince, that Philip would relent and stay with her in England. If there was to be no child…she knew the bitter truth of it was that he would not delay his departure by another moment.

  And then another fearsome thought seized her. If she were not after all with child, what terrifying disease had her in its grip that had caused all the symptoms she had mistaken for her happy condition? Instead of looking forward with joy to the birth of her child, was she about to die? And it would make a cruel mockery of her genuine fears about the ordeal of childbirth.

  Apart from the dread that would seize anyone at such thoughts, her mind immediately jumped to the probable outcome of such a tragedy. Not only would she lose her throne to Anne Boleyn’s daughter, but she stood to lose her husband to her sister, whom she now knew to be her rival.

  Ever since the night that Philip had first laid eyes on Elizabeth, he had been urging her to forgive her sister, reinstate her in her affections, and treat her once again according to her rank. To please him, she had done so; she had heard that Elizabeth now sat on Philip’s right hand at meals and at Mass. Had it ended there she might have given the matter little further thought. But now Philip spent more time in Elizabeth’s apartments in the palace than he did in her own. It seemed that Elizabeth had learnt the Spanish language during her exile, and Philip and his Spaniards, homesick and enjoying conversing in their own tongue, had taken to visiting her sister’s apartments several times throughout the day. She was virtually holding court!

  The final straw had been when she found out that her husband had made a gift to her sister of the diamond ring he always wore on his little finger. During one of his visits to her rooms, Philip declared that since he h
ad not yet bestowed upon Elizabeth any token of his esteem as her new brother-in-law, an oversight, he assured her, that she must have his ring. He had taken it off then and there and pushed it onto Elizabeth’s thumb, the only one of her long, elegant fingers upon which it would stay without sliding off.

  Mary had often coveted that ring; despite the trove of jewels that she owned, and despite the fact that Philip had given her the exquisite La Peregrina as her wedding gift, she had entertained hopes that he would someday bestow his ring upon her, as a token of his love. Surely, she thought, when she announced that she was with child; but he had not. Well then, she had reasoned, perhaps when their child was born; surely that would be the time? But the ring would never be hers; it would adorn her sister’s finger from now on.

  And if she should die? Such a thought was too horrible to contemplate. She knew in her heart that her husband was infatuated with her charming sister. He would step over her own grave to get to the altar with Elizabeth! It was too much to be borne!

  That brought her thoughts back full circle to Frideswide’s words. And her own mother’s words! Better a miscarriage or a dead child than no child at all! For if she were barren, Philip would almost certainly move to have their marriage annulled.

  The horrid words, the terrible thoughts, whirled around in her brain. Annulment! Miscarriage! Stillbirth! Death! Philip and Elizabeth! Anne Boleyn, laughing at her from the grave! Suddenly the room began to spin and she was lost in its swirling vortex. Then all went black and she knew no more.

  Hampton Court Palace, June 1555

  Raul Gomez rarely roused his languid nature to great effort, so the spectacle of the duke sprinting at speed from the water steps at the river, through the gardens, into the palace and down the long passageways to the king’s apartments was a rare sight, and one which aroused curiosity and comment from the bored courtiers who haunted the palace’s hallways and corridors. What was foot, they wondered?