The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Raul arrived at the king’s door spent, out of breath and with a stitch in his side. He had meant to collect himself before entering Philip’s presence, but the halberdiers had seen and recognized him from the other end of the corridor. They raised their weapons accordingly and opened the doors. So the sight that greeted a startled Philip was one of his friend panting and bent double in the doorway.

  “Madre de Dios!” exclaimed Philip. “What ails you?”

  Raul straightened himself and made for the chair across from Philip’s. Philip waved a hand at the guards, who silently closed the doors. Philip went to the sideboard, replenished his own wine cup, and filled one for Raul.

  “Ah, thank you, Your Grace,” gasped Raul. He took a long pull from the cup then set it aside. “An Imperial courier has just arrived with momentous news from the Continent. I regret to inform Your Majesty that Queen Joanna is dead.”

  Philip stared wide-eyed at his friend. He had seldom seen his paternal grandmother, the woman from whom, by rights, he held the regency of Spain. But over the years he had visited her and had grown to possess a deep affection for her.

  The first time he ever saw his grandmother he was seven years old. He had been told that his grandmother was mad, and he had expected to see a forlorn creature with wild hair and eyes, clothed in dirty rags, sitting on the floor chewing the rushes. The reality was far different. The nuns in the convent of Santa Clara de Tordesillas cared for her, but even though they called her mad, Joanna Trastamara was still the rightful queen of Spain. She spent her days sitting on her gilded throne in a hall that held all the trappings of royalty.

  Far from being frightened of her, which everyone had expected him to be, he had felt a strange attraction to her. Joanna was fifty-five years old when Philip had first seen her, but she seemed frozen in time; her skin was like fresh cream with just a blush of peach, her hair was still brown, long and luxurious, and her eyes! They were unlined, as was her face, and as green as the emeralds that blazed at her wrists, ears and throat. Instead of the vacant stare he had expected, she regarded him with lively interest. But when the mother superior said his name, Philip, she became positively animated. Whereas his sister Juana had been named for her, he had been named for her husband, his grandfather, Philip the Handsome.

  “Philip!” she cried. “I always knew that you would come back to me. But no one would listen. Come here.” She beckoned him with a porcelain hand which was graced by an enormous diamond set in a delicate gold filigree mounting.

  Philip obeyed; and as he did so he noticed something that he had not seen when he first entered the room. Behind his grandmother’s throne sat a coffin. His eyes went wide when he saw it, but he said nothing and stood before the queen.

  “I am patient,” she said. “You see? I have waited all these years. I can wait for you to grow up again. Come, sit on my lap.”

  He was later to learn that when his grandfather died, Joanna had trekked from monastery to convent, all over Spain, dragging the coffin of her dead husband behind her, trying to find a priest who could bring him back to life. Jesus had been resurrected, and therefore, to the unbalanced mind of the Queen of Castile, it stood to reason that Philip the Handsome could be resurrected as well. Every night at the end of the day’s travels she would open the coffin and, depending upon her mood, cry inconsolably over the rotting corpse of her husband, rail at him, or simply sit and stare at him. Her father, King Ferdinand, had finally tracked her down, buried Philip the Handsome properly, and committed his daughter to the care of the nuns at Santa Clara.

  Joanna had fought like the madwoman that all believed her to be when they had tried to separate her from her husband’s coffin. Finally, the Mother Superior of the convent had an idea. She presented Joanna with a fine wooden coffin, but told her that her husband was sleeping now, and must not be disturbed. They would let her know when she might open the coffin once more.

  Joanna seemed content as long as the coffin was always somewhere nearby. It was empty and nailed shut; but to the best of the Mother Superior’s knowledge, the queen had never once tried to open it. She simply waited to be told when she might do so, and that day had never come.

  As he grew older Philip observed, without fully understanding, his grandmother’s pain; he was not at all certain he wanted to understand it. Was it wise to love anyone so much that the lack of their love, or their presence in one’s life, doomed one to madness? At Queen Joanna’s example, he had been careful never to fully give his heart to anyone. He had been fond of Maria Manuela, he cared deeply for Maria Elena, and his wife he barely tolerated. His feelings for Elizabeth were an enigma at best; a lust of the eye coupled with political expediency, perhaps, but it wasn’t love, of that he was certain. Perhaps he was safe. If melancholic madness ran in his family, he was determined never to give it entree into his own mind.

  In his way, he had loved his grandmother, and pitied her. But he was genuinely surprised at how moved he felt at the news of her death.

  “There is something else,” said Raul quietly. “The obsequies are to take place very soon. Your royal father wants you to attend.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” said Philip. He had to stifle a grin; never had he thought to look forward to going to Brussels! “But what of the child? What of the queen? What line am I to take with her? Her Grace waxes hysterical at any mention of my departure before the birth of the child. God help me!”

  “That is what I have to tell Your Grace,” said Raul. Lady Strelly had only that morning begged an audience with him, much to his surprise. That which she had told him left him puzzled and oddly upset. He had been contemplating, whilst sitting on the river bank, how to tell such a thing to Philip when the barge bearing the Imperial courier had landed and imparted the news to him of Queen Joanna’s death. None of the queen’s ladies felt able to explain the situation to the king, and felt such news would be better coming from a friend, someone who was close to him. Mary wept and wailed and alternately sat writing the announcements that would be sent to all the foreign courts upon the birth of her child. That was most pathetic, if what the queen’s ladies now believed was true. Lady Strelly had begged him so plaintively to help that he had taken pity on her and agreed to inform the king.

  There was no sense in mincing words; Philip was a straightforward person and one of the reasons that he and Raul were such great friends was because Raul admired this trait and shared it.

  Raul took another long pull from his wine cup and then set it aside. “There will be no child,” he said.

  Philip’s eyes went wide and his head shook as if with a palsy. “Wh-what…n-no child? I do not understand.”

  Raul leaned forward and his hands dangled between his knees. “All this talk of miscalculation and muddled dates has been to soothe the queen. All have feared to tell her that there is no child. But the pretense can no longer be supported. It has been a year since the child was supposedly conceived.”

  “Madre de Dios!” whispered Philip. “Say you so, then? What says the queen to this belief?”

  “Her Grace is most distressed, as you might imagine, and afraid to face you.”

  “My God, but I do pity her,” said Philip shaking his head. And he pitied himself! No son to rule England for him as part of his domains! Soon to be, if he wasn’t already, the laughingstock of Christendom! And all to do over again with the queen! His skin felt as if it were crawling on his bones at that thought. But then he brightened. “My father has called me to Brussels, then, you say?” He was sorry that his grandmother was dead, but it was as if she were reaching out from the very grave to help him. Once let him see the back of England…! Even Mary could not ignore an imperative from the emperor. He would go, and quickly! “Does my father know of this situation?”

  Raul snorted. “Apparently every court in Christendom knows the truth except this one.”

  “But how shall this be…managed?”

  Raul shrugged. “The palace is a ruin,” he said. “It must be clea
nsed and sweetened; the threat of plague hangs over us all if we stay any longer. There will be no explicit announcement other than that. The king and queen and a much-reduced royal staff shall depart Hampton Court and return to London. That is tacit permission for all except Your Graces’ immediate servants to depart for their estates. The message will be clear enough.”

  Philip sat back in his chair and rubbed his beard. “Jesu,” he said softly. It was almost over, then. Praise God!

  London, August 1555

  All along the road to London one could see nothing but barren fields, ruined crops, lean cattle and thin peasants. The constant rain had ruined all, and the people, gaunt and hollow-eyed, faced starvation. There was no grain to be had anywhere, and there was little hay or fodder left for the livestock. To add insult to injury, the day was exceedingly fine, making a mockery of the dire situation that the unending bad weather had created.

  Mary rode in an open carriage with only Frideswide, Lady Strelly, by her side. When she wasn’t agonizing over the bleak countryside, she stared fixedly ahead of her at nothing in particular, lost in her painful thoughts. August was normally a month of plenty, but there was no plenty now. In times past when she had taken to the roads at this time of year, the corn had been golden in the fields, each stalk nodding its heavy head in the breeze. The silver flash of scythe could be seen in the hay fields, and the singing of the peasants as they cut and stooked was the very song of England. From the road one could catch glimpses of a gay red or blue head-scarf, and see the women with their skirts tied up to make their work easier. But not this year. Every now and then Mary heaved a heavy sigh and shook her head. Frideswide was loath to intrude upon the queen’s ruminations, so she sat silent.

  “Ah, Strelly, Strelly,” said Mary on a sob. She pulled her linen square from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, from which the slow tears seemed never to cease falling. “I see now that they all be flatterers, and none true to me but you.”

  There was not much one could say to that; Frideswide had tried at the very beginning to urge caution as to concluding that the queen was with child. But as time passed and the queen’s symptoms seemed to support the conclusion that she was indeed pregnant, Frideswide began to doubt her own suspicions. She had often prayed God that she was wrong! But she had not been wrong, and now Mary was devastated. Frideswide reached out a soothing hand and took Mary’s into her own. She gave it a gentle squeeze and then released it.

  “I have failed, Frideswide,” said Mary, gazing off into the distance as she spoke. The devastation of the ruined fields matched the emptiness in her heart. “I have failed England, I have failed my husband.” Just like my poor mother, she thought. “God is displeased. Oh, not with me, I know that; He is displeased with the heretics, with the evil nature of the times. God has not yet finished venting His wrath upon England, Strelly. He has withdrawn His favor from me; there will be no more miracles for me until I have set things right. The wickedness of the age we are living in demands punishment, Frideswide. God is using me as his tool to chastise the people; He withholds an heir from them by making me barren. The sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons, Strelly. I am paying for the destruction of God’s holy church in England wrought by my father and my brother.”

  Mary turned her tortured gaze onto Frideswide, her eyes glassy from her tears and red-rimmed. “I know what I must do, Strelly. I have been hacking away at the body of the serpent. But now I see my mistake. One cannot kill the beast that way. One must strike at the head.”

  For the first time, Frideswide truly feared for her mistress’s sanity; what on earth was she talking about? She could not hope to understand; all she could do was try to soothe, try to smooth the way. “Your Grace is overwrought,” she said softly. “I beg of you, drink this potion that Dr. Owen gave me for you.” It was a mixture of the sweet Hippocras that Mary favored, and the poppy syrup that would dull her senses even more than the wine.

  Mary was tempted; but she knew Satan in all his guises. Even as she reached out her hand to take the wineskin, she pushed it away and said “No. Nor will I touch another drop of Hippocras until I have regained God’s favor.” It was not lent; that was far away. But Mary took great comfort from giving up something that she so enjoyed, to demonstrate her earnestness to God. Not until the serpent’s head was struck from its body would she touch another drop.

  Frideswide tucked the wineskin away, thinking to try it again later.

  As they neared the city, the roads became more and more crowded. The people were loath to give up their annual festivals, regardless of what they faced in the coming winter with a failed crop, and the prices for what little there was to be had steadily rising. The St. Bartholomew Fair was London’s preeminent summer fair, and had been celebrated every year since the charter for it had been granted by Henry I in 1133. Such a long tradition could not be gainsaid, and so the country people were on their way to London to attend the fair. Since there were few crops to tend, the crowds were larger than usual.

  Suddenly a voice cried out, “The Queen! The Queen!” and before Mary knew what was happening, her carriage was surrounded by well-wishers cheering her, waving their hats and crying “Long Live the Queen! Long live Queen Mary!” Mary was surprised that instead of the anger of the people at her failure to provide them with an heir, they seemed sympathetic to her plight, especially the women. For the moment they forgot their disgust at the burnings and were caught up in the excitement of seeing their sovereign. For while it was true that the Londoners often caught glimpses of the queen, for the country folk, it was a rare sight.

  Mary smiled and waved and Frideswide was happy for her. What Her Grace needed was a pleasant distraction and a diversion, even if only a temporary one, from her woes.

  Philip rode alongside the carriage, but used the excuse of the crowds to drop back a bit and ride beside Raul. “I do not understand the English,” he said, shaking his head. “They speak against us when they will, and are swift to believe all manner of evil rumors; but just the merest sight of us and they love us again.”

  Raul shrugged. “That is the nature of men, I suppose. Despite the fact that there are probably heretics burning at this very moment, the people forget and are excited to see the queen alive and well.”

  “The queen was most distressed at the rumors that she was dead, and that her brother Edward was still alive and coming to take back his throne. And then there was the tale that we planned to substitute another’s child for the queen’s, should her own infant die.” Philip snorted. “We have certainly given the lie to that bit of calumny!” He was heartily glad that the farce of the queen’s pregnancy, for such it had proved to be, was over with; every day her delivery had been delayed had been like a thousand years to him.

  “Indeed,” agreed Raul. He crunched a juicy red apple as he rode along. He withdrew another from his pocket and handed it to Philip. The rain had resulted in a bumper apple crop, at least. “How will Your Grace think to order the government of England in your absence? Assuming that you mean to take the queen with you to Brussels?” He grinned his wolfish grin.

  Philip grunted. “I pray you, do not say such a thing, even in jest.” He had not even considered taking his haggard, barren wife with him to Brussels. “I mean to leave the cardinal in charge.”

  Raul considered. “Reginald Pole. Yes. A delicious irony, considering that had he been married to Her Grace thirty years ago when such a match was first mooted, he would be king himself now.” He crunched his apple one last time and then threw the core into the ditch as they rode along. “And what says the queen to this arrangement?”

  “I have not yet shared it with her.”

  “You were right,” said Raul. “God help you!”

  Greenwich Palace, August 1555

  Mary nibbled a cuticle as she surveyed the happy chaos that her rooms had become. There were open trunks everywhere, with various items spilling out of them; buskins here, a supply of her gossamer night dresses there, the rainbow colo
rs of her favorite gowns and headdresses strewn on the bed and on the floor. Her jewel boxes were arranged all about the room and covered every table and available surface. Which clothes should she take? Which jewels? She could not take them all; she must decide.

  All was hustle and bustle as Mary made first one decision and then another, rescinding the first, then the second, for yet a third. Jane Dormer, Mary Brown, and Susan Clarencius were all hurrying to pack and then unpack as Mary carefully chose each item and then changed her mind.

  Into this bedlam of activity Philip arrived, unexpected and unannounced. As each of Mary’s women became aware of the king’s presence in the doorway, they stopped their doings, curtseyed and stood immobile with downcast eyes. Suddenly Mary became aware of the silence, where before all had been joyful confusion.

  Her eyes met Philip’s, hers questioning and his expressive of what seemed to be pain and frustration. What had she done now, she wondered, to incur his displeasure?

  Mary made a deep curtsey and said, “Your Grace. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Her women raised their eyes to her in question; should they stay or should they go? “You may be excused,” she said.

  Jane, Susan and Mary all hastily dropped whatever item they had been clutching when Philip arrived and swiftly made for the door.

  Philip looked about him in exasperation. “May I ask,” he said wearily, “what you are doing?” Lady Strelly had lately become a most useful source of information. As soon as Mass ended Mary had gathered her ladies and informed them that they were to assist her in packing for the trip to Brussels. Frideswide had slipped away as unobtrusively as possible and ran to Raul to inform him that the queen, for whatever reason, was under the impression that she was to accompany the king to the Netherlands for Queen Joanna’s obsequies.

  Mary waved an expansive hand; she would have thought it obvious. “I am packing,” she replied.

  “But why? Where are you going?” Philip could guess what was coming, and dreaded it.