The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  The Dame calmly brushed the petals of the dried flowers from her hands into the bowl, wiped her fingers on her apron, and in three quick strides she reached the doorway and took the weeping queen into her arms. For the Dame did not see what others saw when they looked at Mary; she saw not the queen, she of the piercing gaze and gruff voice, but the child that Mary had been, the happy little princess, and later, the beleaguered young woman.

  “There, there,” she whispered. “Come, my dear, and sit with me.” The stillroom was small and mostly functional, but the Dame’s bones were old and she had installed a comfortable settle on which to rest when she needed to as she worked at her potpourri, potions and remedies. “There now,” she said. “What is this, weeping, when that which thou hast craved for so long is finally in thy grasp?” The Dame had Mary’s confidence, and many were the times Mary had come to lament Philip’s long absence to a trustworthy, friendly ear.

  Mary sat up and wiped her streaming eyes. “I th-thought so, t-too,” she said through her tears. “But, oh, Dame Agnes, it has all gone so very wrong!”

  Dame Agnes held Mary’s hand and asked, “What has gone wrong, my dear?”

  “Oh, why did Philip have to bring her?” wailed Mary. In answer to the unspoken question she said, “Christina of Denmark! Our cousin! All the celebrations that were planned, the procession through the city with the bells ringing and the city waites playing, the festivals, the banquets and masques, all ruined! I tell you, Dame Agnes, no one has eyes for anyone save the Duchess of Lorraine! Oh, it is true that she is a great beauty. I grant her that. And she has wit and charm. Everyone stares at her in wonder and hangs on her every word. I may as well not be there, and it is I who am queen! She took the adoration of the aldermen, the Lord Mayor, the Council, the guildsmen, the great nobles, the cheers of the commons, all in her stride, as if it had all been arranged only for her enjoyment! I was proper vexed, I can tell you. But I could have forgiven all of it, if only Philip had given me my due as his wife, I, who have waited eighteen long months to feel his touch, to behold his precious countenance once again. But almost every dance he danced with either Marguerite of Parma or Christina! I have come to loath the very sound of her name!” With that Mary ran her hand from her index finger to her wrist under her runny nose. The Dame calmly took a linen square out of her sleeve and handed it wordlessly to the tearful queen.

  “It just galls me so,” sobbed Mary, as she blew her nose with a resounding honk into the Dame’s linen. “I know he has been unfaithful to me. It is expected. It is the way of men. I understand that, I accept it. But none of those women meant anything. My greatest dread all this time, during the king’s long absence, has always been not that my husband would betray me, but that in doing so, he might fall in love with another. It has been my constant fear all these many months. It haunted me terribly when I discovered his amour with that Madame d’ Aler. But Philip’s infatuation with that lady came to nothing, and how relieved I was! But now I know how right I was to fear it! That Philip is in love with Christina of Denmark is plain for all to see! It is so unfair, Dame Agnes. I waited all this time for him to come back to me, and now this! Oh, why did she have to come and ruin everything?”

  Dame Agnes placed a soothing hand on Mary’s hot, wet cheek, using her thumb to wipe away an errant tear. “But my dear, she has not ruined everything, has she?”

  For a moment Mary gazed blankly at the Dame and then suddenly understanding dawned. Sometimes she forgot that the Dame had come late to the religious life, that she had been married and had children. It was only after all her family had perished of the dreadful Sweating Sickness that she had sought the consolation of the nunnery. The words were left unspoken, but the Dame was right; when the doors closed at night on the world outside, Philip was indisputably hers. They were married in the sight of God and there was nothing that either her husband or his paramour could do about it. And she knew in her heart that her husband and her pretty cousin were not lovers. They were both royal and would not have dared to take such a deadly risk. Faint comfort! As it was, the situation had taken much of the joy out of Philip’s return. But she still had what she had; and it was a part of him that Christina of Denmark would never have.

  Mary’s eyes glazed at the thought, and she stared into the flame of the little candle in the round window. “I shall show them all,” she whispered. “All!”

  Dame Agnes regarded her with sympathetic eyes. “Show whom, my child?”

  Mary snapped back to attention; she arose abruptly and began pacing the tiny room. “No one believes that I can conceive a child,” she said in a hissing whisper. “No one! But I shall show them all! Disloyal blackguards! I shall conceive a prince and give England a king that everyone will remember for all time!”

  Dame Agnes stayed silent at this assertion. Of course, it was possible. There was no reason that she knew of why it was not. But she found herself, in her own mind, likely thinking the same thoughts of those whom Mary was so adamantly averring that she would show. No one had forgotten, or forgiven, the debacle of the queen’s false pregnancy just two short years before. But on the other hand, consider the consequences if she did not conceive!

  As if Mary had read the Dame’s mind, she said, “Under no circumstances must Elizabeth ever wear the crown. And yet everyone is pressuring me to name her my heir! I would rather die than see the illegitimate child of a criminal who was punished as a whore, on my father’s throne! My sister was born of an infamous woman who greatly outraged both myself and my poor mother. And now she stands to inherit in better case than did I! Will she have to fight for her crown as I did, whose descent is indisputably right and lawful? She will not! It is not fair! I will not have it! I have taken steps to ensure that it does not!” She stopped her frantic pacing and sat down once again next to Dame Agnes, who opened her arms. Mary leaned back into the Dame’s embrace.

  “Child, child,” she soothed. “You are vehement, and so restless of mind. You must calm yourself.” What steps had Mary taken? She longed to know, for she was herself sick with worry about what would happen if the bastard Elizabeth ever attained the throne. Certainly she would reverse all of Mary’s good work in bringing the Catholic faith back to England, and that would likely manifest itself in the closing of the monastery once again. If that happened, what would become of her small group of nuns? They were older now than they had been the last time they had been ousted from their home and forced to go a-wandering on the Continent. Could they survive another expulsion? Where would they go? What would they do? The only way such a thing should come about would be if Mary herself were gone; would there be anyone to send them alms, as Mary had done from her own privy purse during their previous exile, and on which they had eked out their pitiable existence? Those had been hard years. Must they face all that yet again?

  She simply must know. “What steps have you taken, my child?”

  Again Mary sat up purposefully. She wiped her tear-swollen eyes and they flashed as she spoke. “I have commissioned the Council, only those whom I know can be trusted, mind you, to search the rolls for a precedent that will allow me to disinherit Elizabeth, and that will enable me to name my own successor. My father was granted such a right in his lifetime, as was my brother. Why should I not be so favored, and granted a similar boon? Even now they search for the law that was the basis for such entitlement.”

  The Dame’s mind raced. Would that such a ploy should work! The people loved the queen, but Mary’s reputation had been undeniably damaged by the burnings. There had been the usual shouts of “God save the Queen!” when she and Philip had processed through the city, but how much of that enthusiasm was genuine, and how much just the excitement of the moment? Still, one must try. Right now what Mary needed was support, acceptance.

  Dame Agnes placed a reassuring hand atop Mary’s. “My child,” she said, her blue eyes candid, “You have been brave and valiant through so many crises; you must go on being so. You have been courageous and resolute through
so much adversity and peril, and never once did you display cowardice or pusillanimity. Rather the opposite, I should say! You have maintained, in spite of so much hardship and misfortune, the wonderful grandeur of a true sovereign and the royal dignity of the high station to which you were born. After all these years, Your Grace, thou art still as a constant burning flame to the people, yea, as steadfast as the fire of yon candle. There is a reason why we keep that candle constantly burning there in the window, my child; like you, it is a symbol of unfaltering hope. Did you not feel a great gladness just to see it there as you walked the cloisters to this room?” Mary’s eyes grew wide at this assertion, and the Dame nodded a knowing head. “You, Your Grace, are to the people of England just as such a constant flame, burning brightly amidst the storm of life. In the darkness of fear, insurrection, famine and all the other ills that have of late beset this poor country, you have remained like a light, buffeted by raging winds, threatened with utter extinction, but always through it all, you have kept the flame burning. You must just go on being brave, and all will come right. I am sure of it.”

  Mary was much heartened by the Dame’s words; she smiled, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. But in her heart she could feel the very darkness that Dame Agnes spoke of closing in on her. She knew why Philip had returned; it was not for love of her or any pining caused his heart by their long separation. And soon she must face her Council and her parliament to get for him that for which he came. She knew full well that as soon as he had it, he would leave again, not only because in his own mind, there was no reason for him to stay, but because he would have to go if he were to fight a war on the Continent. Her only hope was that he would leave her with child. And this time there must be no false hopes. How, she was constantly asking herself, could God’s plan be any different than her own expectation? What was to become of England otherwise? Surely the Almighty did not wish for England to slip back into the heretic darkness from which she was fighting so hard to free her? After all she had been through in her life she could not believe that God meant to disappoint her again, and deprive England of the Catholic heir she needed so badly. Even if she were to succeed in rebuilding the Catholic Church in England and purifying the faith once more, all of it would be utterly and completely undone upon her death. And the thought of Philip marrying Elizabeth, which she did not doubt for one moment that he would do, despite his groveling at the feet of Christina of Denmark, was as wormwood and gall to her sore heart. But should she not conceive a child and deliver a Catholic heir, such a political match would be the only means by which to prevent the complete ruination of her life’s work. The very thought of it all was intolerable. It upset her more than anything else was able to do, even the raging jealousy that blinded her every time she beheld Philip’s eyes when he looked at Christina. Perhaps she ought to support a foreign marriage for Elizabeth after all… But no; she must wait. She was certain to become a mother now that Philip was back in her bed, even if she did not have his heart. She was making certain of it! She knew what Philip wanted from her and she was going to get it for him. But he knew the price, and he was paying it. Unlike their first marital encounters, now he did not coldly leave her bed each night after he had done his royal duty. Every morning since his arrival, she had awakened in his arms. Her joy would have been complete if she had not suspected Philip was dreaming that it was Christina whom he held next to his heart.

  Such thoughts blackened her mind and made her heart ache so badly that she thought she might perish where she sat. She simply must think about, talk about, something else.

  “The people know why the king has come,” said Dame Agnes. It was not a question, but a brutal statement of fact. The Dame knew as well as Mary that Philip’s return had little if anything to do with herself, except in the broadest sense. “And despite their enthusiastic reception of His Grace, they do not like it.”

  “I know it well,” Mary replied, thankful for the change of topic, even if it was one that was every bit as uncomfortable as discussing Christina of Denmark. “But that does not change the fact that England is bound by the treaties of 1542 and 1546 to provide assistance to the Empire if France ever attacks the Netherlands. Coligny’s attack on Douai was most fortuitous.” She snorted. “I trow that His Grace of France was livid when he was told what the Admiral of France had done! Sending the Duke of Guise to fight Alba on the Italian frontier did not break the Treaty of Vaucelles, but Coligny’s foray into Douai did just that, and now Philip is within his rights to invoke the support of England. These treaties were made in my father’s time and have nothing to do with my marriage settlement.”

  Dame Agnes sighed. “I fear me that politics confounds me. What I fear most is the consequences of the animosity between the king and the pope.”

  Mary arose and began pacing once more. “It is His Holiness who confounds me, I fear me! The Holy Father has had the temerity to set up a commission to try both the Emperor and the king as rebels against the Holy See; he calls my cousin a heretic and a schismatic, and my husband the son of iniquity. He has expelled all Spaniards from Rome and even threatens my cousin Reginald, his own Archbishop of Canterbury, with excommunication. I confess myself both amazed and stunned.”

  “Ah, well,” said the Dame. “His Holiness is a man for all he is the pope and our Holy Father. It is the man who blusters and threatens; let us hope that the infallible pontiff’s clearer head will prevail.”

  Mary stopped her pacing and nibbled a cuticle. “Italy seems so far away,” she said. “Methinks it is France with which we must concern ourselves. I have sent the earl of Pembroke to Calais to secure the port and the Pale. It was reported that the dust from Henry Dudley’s retreating horse could still be seen as the earl came in at the docks and Dudley departed for the French court! The man is a nuisance and a troublemaker and if I ever get my hands on him, I will make him heartily sorry for his treasonous ways! Even up to the moment of the earl’s arrival I hear that he sought to turn the garrison from their duty and to persuade them to surrender the fortress to Henri.”

  The Dame sighed. Calais was England’s last stronghold on the Continent. It was all that was left of the great conquests of the Plantagenets and the Tudors. She and her little band of nuns had spent some of the time of their weary exile there. It was not an hospitable place by any means; it was damp and cold and dependent upon its mother country for almost all aspects of its survival. But retaining possession of this isolated bit of land, surrounded on all sides by either its enemies or the sea, was a point of English pride. In the Dame’s estimation Calais was nothing more than an expensive nuisance, a symbol of England’s past glory.

  Mary looked out of the little round window where the candle now seemed to glow with an unearthly light. “The shadows grow long,” she said with a sigh. “I must away, Good Dame. You have lightened my heart immeasurably, and for that I thank you.”

  Dame Agnes held out her hand and Mary grasped it. “Godspeed, my child,” she said. “And know that in all you do, God has your best interests, and England’s, at heart.”

  Mary nodded. If only it were true! It seemed hard to believe sometimes.

  As if she had read Mary’s thoughts, Dame Agnes said, “One must have faith, Your Grace.”

  Mary nodded. Her entire life had been based on her unfaltering faith; she would not waver from it now. Their hands disengaged and Mary departed with the same comforting sight in her eyes that had greeted her when she arrived; the Dame with her arms buried in the copper pot, the stub of candle burning brightly in the little round window of the still room.

  The Palace of Westminster, April 1557

  Mary had learned an interesting lesson during the time of Elizabeth’s last visit to court, when she had been trying so hard to convince her sister to marry Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy, while secretly hoping she would not agree to do so. It was that one was at a distinct advantage when one was located high above those one was addressing. If only she were seated on her gilded throne now, on a
dais draped in crimson velvet, with the royal arms of England behind her on the wall! Such an overt disply of the power of royalty was something that she had never before dwelt upon until now; rather, she simply assumed her power and expected others to do so as well. This was the first time she had ever felt the need of the trappings of royalty to lend credence to her natural authority as Queen of England. But by some perverse alchemy, the very thought seemed to weaken her. Or perhaps what really made her feel sapped of strength and power was the fact that she knew her arguments in favor of war to be very feeble.

  As she beheld the faces ranged about the council table she became aware of something different, of something not quite right. And then she realized what it was. The men of the Council were not seated in their usual places. Those who supported England’s involvement in Philip’s war were seated to her left hand, and the faction which supported peace at any price was to her right.

  It grieved her immeasurably that the men of peace, whom she must now oppose for Philip’s sake, were all the men of her inner circle, those whom she trusted the most. Sir Robert Rochester; Sir Henry Jerningham; Sir Francis Englefield; Edward Waldegrave; even her Lord Chancellor, the Archbishop of York, Nicholas Heath. What a topsy-turvy world it had become when she found herself ranged on the side of men such as Sir William Paget, and the earls of Pembroke and Shrewsbury! There was no doubt that these men were indubitably queen’s men, but only because they served not any personal monarch, but the crown itself. Seldom did she see eye to eye with any of them. And yet here she was, with the king by her side, set to argue with her own trusted servants in support of these men who sought to embroil England, no matter how one tried to mince the words, in a foreign war. Very well then, she would not mince words!

  “My Lords,” she said in her gruff voice, “you all know why we are here.”