The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  The Lord Chancellor leaned forward and replied, “Indeed we do, Your Grace. And I must inform Your Grace, and His Most Gracious Majesty of Spain,” he nodded to Philip, “that England should not, and cannot, go to war. She has neither the men nor the means.”

  # # #

  It did not augur well that the Lord Chancellor was referring to Philip as the king of Spain and not of England, although by virtue of his marriage to the queen, he was king. Philip still had no English and as each person spoke, the count de Feria, who was second only to Raul Gomez in Philip’s confidence, translated in a constant low monotone. Philip kept his face expressionless; he had every confidence that his wife would get for him that which he sought.

  Mary narrowed her eyes. None should be surprised by her demand to go to war; everyone knew why the king had come to England. And yet here they all were, horrified at the suggestion.

  “Must I remind you,” said Mary, “that England is bound by no less than two treaties to support the Empire should the Low Countries ever be attacked? Well, now they have been, and England is bound to honor her promises.”

  “Your Grace,” replied the Lord Chancellor, “on the contrary, these treaties that you speak of were rendered null and void by your marriage settlement, which states clearly that England is not to be embroiled in any Hapsburg conflict simply because our queen regnant is married to the King of Spain.”

  Mary slapped the flat of her hand onto the table, making the wine cups jump. “Not true!” she expostulated. “The treaties signed by my father are still in force. They have nothing at all to do with my marriage contract.”

  Nicholas Heath was rendered most uncomfortable at having to confront the queen; if not for her, he would not have attained the post of Lord Chancellor. He looked uneasily at the others seated about the table who were of like mind, for their support.

  Sir Robert Rochester was a great favorite of the queen; perhaps he should try to convince her of the folly of going to war. “Your Grace,” he said, “let us put aside for the moment such debatable issues as which agreements should be invoked, or which treaties are enforceable. It is a sad fact that England cannot afford to support the king’s foreign war, nor are there funds to participate in such hostilities even indirectly. We have suffered three years of bad harvests, and have spent what little funds we had buying grain from the Continent. Even so, many are so ill from famine and disease that they cannot rise from their beds. What little money there was left has gone to the refurbishment of the navy. I fear me that the realm stands impoverished, Your Grace.”

  Mary’s eyes flashed. “The treasury may be bare, my lords, but your own privy purses are all full enough!”

  Sir Henry Jerningham felt duty bound to take a turn at risking the queen’s wrath in defense of the realm. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but the forced loans that were visited upon the nobility in January cannot be repeated,” he said. “Whilst we are certain that His Gracious Majesty made good use of the monies obtained in such wise, and which were sent to him barely three months since, the alarm that the loans engendered cannot be sustained a second time.”

  It was true, reflected Mary; when Philip first contacted her at Christmastide and indicated his willingness to come back to England in return for her support of his wars with France and the papacy, she had immediately pressed her nobles for money to send to him as a token of her good faith. With barely concealed impatience for his promised return and with a glad heart, she had sent him one hundred thousand pounds; fifty thousand of which had come from the restoration of the funds that Thomas White had absconded with in order to foil the Dudley Conspiracy. But the balance had literally been taken from the pockets of her subjects. Such a ploy could not be repeated a second time without the danger of another insurrection.

  “Then the Parliament must vote the funds,” she said, her chin titled high. “And it is untrue that the country is as impoverished as you say. The good weather has caused many to release the grain they hoarded during the famine; the market is flooded with it, prices have fallen accordingly, and by all accounts there is no lack of buyers.”

  Sir Francis Englefield took up the cudgels. “But with respect, Your Grace, even if England were able to muster the men, the money and the supplies, no one wants to go to war to support a foreign power. It simply is not our quarrel. England has no interest in such a war.”

  Mary spluttered in her indignation. “No interest…? Are you mad, sir? Our king,” and at this she looked tenderly at Philip, “has already declared war on Henri of France, who has attacked His Grace’s domains in the Netherlands. Putting aside,” and this she said facetiously, in mockery of Sir Robert’s earlier words, “the issue that our king’s war is by definition our own, I owe my husband, as my lord and master, the obedience of a wife, sir! And if he comes asking for my help, I am duty bound to obey him! But putting even that aside,” she said glibly, “the Kingdom of France has proved itself a menace to the entire world! Do you not see, do you fail to realize, that if England does not help my husband fight the French on the Continent, that we will soon be obliged to fight them here on our own shores? Do not even dare to doubt it! And if everyone is so concerned about the Spanish taking over England, which despite all of your fears, is an event that has yet to occur, how much more should you fear the conquest of our fair island by the French? Think! With the current quarrel we are embroiled in with His Holiness the Pope, and with the pontiff threatening excommunication of both the king and myself, can you not conceive who will be placed upon the throne of England then? Mary of Scotland, my lords! And with her she shall bring the future king of France, the Dauphin! Would you not rather assist the king in fighting the French in their own lands, or in the Low Countries? Do you wish to see our own country ravaged by war, for want of taking action now, whilst we still may?”

  Lord Chancellor Heath shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the mention of the angry pope. He felt what must be the same uneasiness that Cardinal Pole, who was holed up in Canterbury, must be feeling. Where ought their loyalties to lie, these men of the church? Pope or king? It was the same uncomfortable question that the queen’s father, Henry VIII, had asked so many years ago when he sought to annul his marriage to this queen’s mother. And God knew that they could have used Pole’s clear head and influence with Her Grace in this dire dilemma!

  Nicholas sighed. Archbishop of York he may be, but he was also the Lord Chancellor of England, and in that capacity, he had a job to do. “That brings up the whole question of what England’s relationship with France ought to be,” he said. “In His Grace’s capacity as King of Spain, he has declared war on France. However, England has not done so, and still maintains diplomatic relations with the French.”

  “All of your issues and objections are duly noted, but may I remind all of you that the decision to declare war lies with the monarch?” shouted Mary. “Then let us so declare, My Lords! At the very least it will rid us of the troublesome Noailles!” It was indeed ironic that although Henri had recalled Antoine Noailles as soon as the Dudley Conspiracy had been unmasked, no sooner had he departed than the new French Ambassador arrived to take his place; and that was none other than the man’s own brother, François de Noailles. That gentleman had proven to be no less of a nuisance than his bothersome brother had been.

  “That we cannot yet do, Your Grace,” said Paget, who was prepared for this eventuality. “But what Your Grace ought to do, if you and the Council will accept my advice, is to sever diplomatic relations with France. That way, Noailles, who I agree is little better than a spy, will be compelled to leave the country, and yet an open declaration of war will yet not have been made.”

  The Lord Chancellor searched the faces of the others at the table who were of his same mind. They nodded imperceptibly. Better this than an open declaration of war. “That would be acceptable,” said Nicholas, and looking at Mary, he said, “Your Grace?”

  Mary looked at Philip, who also nodded. He had kept his face expressionless as the argume
nts flew back and forth, but at that moment it was difficult to keep a look of triumph from flooding his countenance. Paget had been primed to make such a suggestion at the proper moment, and he had done so right on cue. Severing diplomatic ties with France obligated England to nothing at the moment, but it was a natural precursor to a declaration of war. It was an excellent compromise, and one that the Council was only too glad to make when faced with the threat of immediate war. But it only delayed the inevitable, and it sent a strong message to Henri of France.

  Philip knew his situation to be desperate; his revenues were obligated three years in advance and he was paying fifty-four percent interest on his outstanding loans. He had even taken to assuring his debtors of forthcoming payments, while advising his accountants not to pay anything to anyone. The couriers were kept busy on the roads between Spain and the Low Countries; confusion prevailed and he knew that such petty ploys were the only thing keeping him afloat at the moment. He still needed the resources that only England could provide to him, and he needed them now.

  Philip leaned forward at the table for the first time, indicating a wish to speak. In a voice so low that the others had to lean forward in their turn to hear him, he began to speak in Spanish. As he did so, Figueroa, the Count de Feria, translated his words into English.

  “My Lords,” he said quietly. “The queen is right when she warns you of the invasion of the French onto these shores. I assure you all that the threat is immediate and dire. If you will provide me with what men, money, supplies, arms and ships you are able to, I shall do my utmost to hold the French at bay on the Continent. My strategy is this. I shall draw the French back from the Italian frontier by staging a frontal attack on them from the far north, on the Franco-Flemish border. This is Henri’s most vulnerable perimeter. By causing the king of France to have to divide his forces, we can weaken and defeat them.”

  The light of battle shone in the eyes of all of the men at the table who supported going to war with France. Nicholas could see it; so could Sir Robert and the others. He knew that such men lived for the thrill of the fight. But it was simply not possible.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” said the Lord Chancellor. “But severing diplomatic ties with France in support of your Continental situation is as far as England is willing to go at this time.”

  “Are you all daft?” shouted Mary. She stood up, pushed back her chair with a mighty shove and a resounding scrape, and began pacing the room. “Has His Grace not just explained to you how he plans to defeat the French and keep them from visiting their vile presence upon these shores? Fools! Knaves! Ingrates! Peacemongers! I suggest you try again, My Lords, and come back with a different answer!”

  All could see that it was stalemate. But still Philip kept his face impassive. None had thought to ask where Raul had got to, not even the queen, that the Count de Feria had accompanied him to the Council meeting instead. For Philip knew that he could not leave such a momentous decision as whether or not to go to war with Mary’s insipid Council. They would need persuading to give him what he wanted, what he needed. But the persuasion must come from another quarter, one that no one must suspect he was behind. When he was finished with them, they would be only too glad to send him off to fight their war for them.

  Richmond Palace, April 1557

  Anne’s hand felt cold and clammy despite the delightful weather that the people of London were enjoying that spring. Elizabeth held her stepmother’s hand until her steady, even breathing told her that Anne slept, and then she placed the pale little hand back under the covers to keep it warm. Elizabeth had arrived from Hatfield to find Anne of Cleves very ill. For days her stepmother had alternated between racking chills and burning fever, with only brief periods of fitful sleep.

  Elizabeth had been summoned to court by no less a personage than the king himself, and she knew why. Mary’s half-hearted attempts to persuade her to marry the Duke of Savoy had met with stout refusal, and Philip believed that he would be better able to succeed where her sister had failed. How little he knew her! And being a man, he dismissed as completely unimportant the fact that he had up until that point intimated that he wanted to marry her himself. But Elizabeth was amused by her brother-in-law’s fickle behavior, rather than disappointed or annoyed. How many times, and in how many ways, must she state in no uncertain terms that she intended to marry no one, before people would believe her?

  Philip had met with no better success than had Mary; but the suggestion that Philip’s kinswomen, the Duchess of Parma and the Duchess of Lorraine, should take a turn at convincing Elizabeth that Philip knew what was best for her and for England had been met with furious anger by the wrathful queen. Under no circumstances would Mary allow either woman to speak to Elizabeth. Mary had been so adamant that Philip had, in the end, agreed to send Marguerite and Christina back to the Continent, for fear that if pushed too far, Mary would abandon her efforts to convince the Council to fund his Continental war.

  Elizabeth had by this time, with the assistance of Sir William Cecil, developed a cadre of very efficient spies; she knew that Philip wanted to marry his cousin Christina. But Charles, even though he was emperor no more, still apparently sat like a spider in the bell tower at San Yuste, spinning his intricate web. Retired he might be, but he was seemingly incapable of withdrawing his hand from affairs. And now he had decreed that it was Christina of Denmark who must marry the Duke of Savoy, if the Princess Elizabeth refused to do so. To Elizabeth’s finely developed political mind, his reasoning was sound enough; Philip was hated by his Flemish subjects in the Low Countries, but Philibert and Christina, who had lived a great deal of their lives there, were loved. Charles decided that it was they who should rule the Netherlands as regents for his son, whilst Philip returned to Spain to take up the cudgels of rule there. Philip’s sister Juana was his regent in Spain, but the Spanish Grandees were proving excessively unruly, the country was in upheaval, and Philip’s firm hand was needed there.

  Elizabeth sat in the sunny window seat and smirked to herself. It was all vastly amusing. And most amusing of all was that Mary was convinced that she would, by virtue of her husband’s return to England and to her bed, soon be with child, and there would be no need to officially name her sister as her heir. But Elizabeth, having consulted her astrologer, Dr. Dee, had been assured that there was no child in Mary’s stars and that there was no need to worry. She would be queen; she must simply bide her time.

  A sly smile played upon her lips as she thought of how that time had lately been spent. For Robert Dudley, her old childhood playmate, had returned to England from the Continent in Philip’s entourage. Mary, who except in matters of faith sought whenever possible to forgive rather than to condemn, had released from the Tower all of the sons of her vanquished enemy, the Duke of Northumberland. In order to prove their loyalty to the crown the Dudleys had followed the king to the Continent and were active in fighting Philip’s battles with King Henri of France and His Holiness, Pope Paul.

  The last time Elizabeth had seen Robert Dudley was when they were both prisoners in the Tower and had been allowed walk the leads at the same time. As prisoners of Her Grace the queen, they had not been permitted to speak to each other, but they had exchanged many a significant glance. And what had Lord Robert done as soon as he arrived once again on the shores of England? Had he gone home to his wife? No, he had made hotfoot for Hatfield. She asked him playfully if he remembered when his father had served as Master of the Horse to both Anne of Cleves and Katherine Howard, when they were children and, observing her father’s matrimonial carryings-on, she had vowed never to marry. Lord Robert brushed her hand with his lips in the Spanish style (so gallant!), his eyes never leaving her face; the bristles of his mustache sent a thrill up her spine. “Yes,” he replied. “I remember it well.”

  So here was a promise of romance without all the attendant bother of a suitor for her hand. He could not marry her because he was already married. She had no intention of marrying anyone, ever. But
with Lord Robert she could indulge to her heart’s content in a flirtation with a fascinating, handsome man that could never go any further. It was perfect.

  “You look like der cat who hass svallowedt der cream,” said a feeble voice from the bed nearby.

  Elizabeth bounded up from the window seat. “Oh, you’re awake!” she exclaimed. And in reply to her stepmother’s comment she asked, “Do I?”

  the headboard, saw Anne settled, and sat down on the bed beside her.

  “Yess, you do,” Anne replied with a wan smile. She loved Mary, but Elizabeth, with her saucy ways, was her secret favorite. “Unt vat mischieff haff you been up to, yunk lady?”

  Elizabeth reached for the bejeweled flagon of wine that sat on the table beside the bed, poured a gobletful, and handed it to Anne, who began to sip sparingly. “I have just been mulling over my marriage prospects,” she said with a sardonic tone and a raised eyebrow. “The king, up to now, has been waiting for my sister to perish of a fever or a fall from her horse so that he could marry me. But now he has lost all sense of propriety and openly swoons over his cousin, the Duchess of Lorraine. He now hopes that my sister’s demise will free him to marry that lady. But I have it on good authority that the Emperor Charles has ordered the duchess to marry the Duke of Savoy, since I have refused to do so, because our dear Philip of Spain is so hated by his Flemish subjects that if it were not for the common cause they all must make to fight the French and the pope, they would rise up against him. The emperor therefore expects His Grace back in Spain, once the war has been successfully prosecuted, to relieve the Princess Juana of the regency she holds there on Philip’s behalf. So now he thinks to order me, against the wishes of my sister, to marry the duke, so that the Duchess of Lorraine will not be compelled to do so. But I,” and with this she threw back her long red hair and tilted her chin up with a regal air, “will have none of any of it. I will have romance in my life, but I will have it at the price of neither my goods and chattels nor my freedom. I heard that my sister used her bounden duty to obey her husband as one of her arguments to the Council for declaring war on France. Have you ever heard of anything so daft?”