The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Philip thought of men such as the likes of Sir Peter Carew, Sir James Crofts, Sir Peter Killigrew and the Dudleys. Men who were so badly in need of redemption could be depended upon to see to the tedious tasks of assembling and victualing the fleet. But he was also thinking of the men of the war party; men such as Westmoreland, Pembroke, Shrewsbury, Rutland and Montague.

  Philip snorted. “They are all grateful for the opportunity to practice their chivalry and fight for their king,” he said with derision. “No matter who that king happens to be!”

  Raul shrugged. “That is indeed a most extraordinary paradox, think you not?” He retrieved his wineskin from the side of his saddle and passed it to Philip. “But some men fight not out of loyalty or for the sake of a worthy cause, but simply for the joy of making war.”

  Philip drank deeply of the wine and passed the skin back to Raul. “I care not why they fight,” he said, “as long as they do so.”

  Chelsea Old Manor, July 1557

  The room was very dark, all was still and quiet, the windows wide open to let in any errant breeze that might rise up. Into the profound silence came the persistent chik-chik-chik-trill call of the nightingale. To Elizabeth, sitting her lonely vigil by her stepmother’s bedside, it seemed incongruous to hear such sweet singing as Anne lay slowly dying. Anne had been ill for months of the puzzling malady that now had manifested itself all over the country. The apothecaries and physicians had had to openly declare their ignorance of such a strange disease. It fit no other pattern of illness that they knew of; and yet this bizarre sickness now held much of England in its thrall.

  Elizabeth had not seen Mary for some time, despite her presence at court; she had been summoned to Richmond by no less a person than the king himself. She and her ladies had arrived at the water steps at Richmond Palace on a spring-like day, gliding along the river on a flower-bedecked barge to the enthusiastic cheers of the people lining the river banks. It had been quite a spectacle; and if she knew anything, it was that the people loved a show. She had smiled and waved, very much gratified by the welcoming cheers of the commons.

  That warm welcome was in sharp contrast to how Mary had received her. It was clear that her sister did not want her at court, especially now that her husband had returned after such a long absence. Elizabeth believed, she knew in her heart, that Mary was jealous of her, for so many reasons. They had come a long way from the days when Mary had been kind to her and treated her almost as if she were her own child. Now it seemed that they had very little in common; a love of music, perhaps, and an appreciation of beautiful things…and a throne. Beyond that there was nothing but hatred and contempt.

  But now Anne, in her extremity, had once again served to bring the two royal sisters together. But would Mary arrive in time? Despite their differences, Elizabeth hoped that it would be so. There was no one else with whom she could mingle her tears for this beloved woman. Although it was true that Catherine Parr had also been a force that bound all the royal children together, Elizabeth knew that Catherine died thinking she had betrayed her. And now there was only Anne left of all their father’s wives.

  The night was in the small hours and Elizabeth, after once again checking Anne’s breathing, sat in the window seat looking out at the stars. She was a great believer in those stars; what fate did they hold in store for her, she wondered? Would she ever be queen? Mary had done some very foolish things. Marrying a foreigner, the burnings, her false pregnancy…all of which had served to place her sister into a most pitiable light, not only at the court of England but throughout Christendom. She heard that the King of France had said, before all his court, that the Queen of England cared not how much she upset her subjects or her advisors, as long as she gratified her husband. Pathetic!

  Mary had also irretrievably alienated many of her own Council, threatening them with the loss of their goods, their wealth, their places at court, their freedom and in some cases, even their very lives, unless they gave Philip that which he had come back to England to demand. Yes, everyone was slowly turning away from her sister.

  Elizabeth decided that it was good to be able to feel so complacent, as if nothing could go wrong and stand in the way of her becoming queen someday. But hard on the heels of such complacency came the icy finger of fear down her spine…what if, during these months of Philip’s visit, Mary had conceived? No! It could not happen. It must not be. Mary was old, sick and barren. She had proved this once already. But still…should Mary become pregnant then for her, Elizabeth, all would be lost.

  Elizabeth stirred slowly from the window seat and walked to the bed. Anne’s breathing was shallow and rapid. She sat on the chair next to the bed and grasped Anne’s hand. It felt warm to the touch; but the bouts of burning fever that alternated with attacks of wracking chills had receded now, and Elizabeth wondered what that meant. Getting better? Or a turn for the worse? With all their weeping and wailing, Elizabeth had forbidden Anne’s ladies from coming any closer than the anteroom; besides which, they were all too fearful of Anne’s mysterious illness to come closer than the doorway to bring the ale and biscuits upon which Elizabeth was subsisting whilst she attended her stepmother. Kat had come once not to check on Anne but on Elizabeth; and she had obviously been frightened out of her wits.

  But Elizabeth was not afraid; she was convinced that nothing could happen to her until she became queen. And with that thought she lay her head on her arm and slept.

  # # #

  The moon waxed full and once one’s eyesight became accustomed to the dimness, the night seemed almost as bright as day. But even the brightest moonlight was not sunlight. There was a surreal glow about it; it made everything look black and white, and flat. But it was only this light that had allowed Mary to opt for the wild ride back to London on her horse, instead of in the sedate litter. She must reach London before Anne of Cleves breathed her last.

  That very day, Philip had embarked upon his voyage across the water to Calais with both his English and Spanish fleets. This time there had been no tears; she had done her utmost to be brave and allow him to leave not to the sight of a tearful wife, afraid for his safety, but to that of a dignified queen, and his comrade in arms.

  She had stood straight and steadfast on the quayside as Philip boarded their new flagship, the Philip and Mary. And all the time she watched him she hugged her joyful secret to herself. For she believed that she was with child. All the signs were there. The fleet sailed and as she watched the mighty vessel become smaller and smaller on the horizon, she unconsciously ran her hands over her belly. But even as certain as she was that this time it was truly so, she had decided to wait until the quickening to break the news to anyone, including her husband. Besides, the absence of her monthly soiled linen would, at some point, give her away anyway, if only to her closest ladies.

  It was pleasant to recall basking in the tranquility of Philip’s constant presence over the past months without any other woman to make her feel inadequate. And when the time came, they had traveled by easy stages to Dover. Philip knew his royal duty and he did it, every night. Barring the first days after her marriage, these were perhaps the only halcyon days that she had ever known. She would pay for them with her loneliness now that he was gone, but she would have the child to look forward to.

  However, as serene and happy as her condition made her feel, there was still work to be done. When she could no longer see Philip’s ship, she turned and began the long walk from the quay back to the castle. The most pressing problem was that Pope Paul had finally made good on his threats and excommunicated Philip. This she could not accept…it had so many negative consequences, not the least of which was the stigma it might throw onto her child, he who would someday ascend the throne of England. But appeasing this pope was well-nigh impossible. He would not listen to reason, and in the end, she had written him a letter explaining that although she was a true daughter of the church, she could not obey this pope.

  The reply to that had been a bull bearing the pap
al seal that stripped Cardinal Pole of his legatine status in England, and bestowing the authority instead onto her mother’s old confessor, the aged and senile Friar Peto. Following close upon that came the news that a papal nuncio had arrived in Calais demanding permission to come to the queen’s court. With him he carried the warrant for Pole’s arrest as a heretic and a summons for Reginald to return to Rome for trial. The whole thing was ludicrous in Mary’s opinion; she had taken up a stance of passive resistance, announcing that because of the danger presented by the epidemic that was currently ravaging the English population, she could not for his own safety allow the nuncio to embark for England. He may stay where he was or return to Rome. But to England he would never come.

  When she arrived back at the castle an urgent letter was waiting for her from Elizabeth. Anne was sick unto death and Mary must come. She had agonized over the decision of whether to make the journey over several days in a jolting litter, or take her best mare and a small escort and ride posthaste for London. There were dangers to the child either way; Mary opted to ride like the wind to see Anne once more before she departed this earth.

  St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster, December 1557

  The flickering of the firelight from the thick, white tapers surrounding the bier threw ungainly shadows about the altar, but Mary was unaware of them as she knelt and prayed. Praying properly took all of her concentration; despite her best efforts, she found that her mind would wander, and before she knew it, she was not praying at all, but running over the same thoughts over and over again in her head.

  How strange were God’s ways. Inscrutable, unfathomable, even to one as close to Him as an anointed queen. So many had been taken that year by the sickness ravaging England. She had returned to London from Dover to find Anne still alive, but insensible to her presence. In the end her stepmother had slipped peacefully away, and for that she was grateful.

  But no sooner had she lost Anne than faithful old Randall Dodd sickened. He had not the strength to fight that Anne had, and so did not linger as her stepmother had done. Only a few short days after he was stricken, he died with his head in her lap, as he had almost done all those years ago when the plague struck.

  She was still grieving for Anne and Dodd when her laundress, Beatrice ap Rhys, became ill. Beatrice had served her since birth, with the distinction of having washed the little princess’s first soiled clout, and every garment she had worn ever since. Like Anne, Beatrice fought valiantly, but in the end she had succumbed.

  And now here she sat at the side of the casket of yet another faithful servant and dear friend, Sir Robert Rochester. The death of her household servant, and since her accession, a valued member of her Council, a man who had been with her in those terrible days when her brother and Northumberland had persecuted her so dreadfully, came like a blow on a bruise. For Mary knew that despite his continued loyalty, she had been cold to him ever since he had joined with those who disapproved of her Spanish marriage. She knew that Sir Robert had been hurt by her resentment of his attitude, but still he had never wavered in his service to her. And in the end he had left her a contrite letter, full of love and regret for any distress his position may have caused her, along with a legacy of one hundred pounds. It was a pitifully small sum for one who had spent his life in royal service; she was aware that he had often gone long periods without being paid, indeed, had often paid her bills when her own purse was light.

  Mary wiped the angry tears from her eyes, tears that refused to stop falling and that blurred the dear face before her in the coffin, serene now in the sleep of death. Why? Why was God taking away all those who loved her? Philip gone to war; Anne dead; and all the others. Why did He take those whom she needed and leave Elizabeth alive, healthy, thriving, in the midst of so much sickness and death?

  And then in the surreal light of the blurred candles she seemed to see her mother’s sorrowful face before her. Katharine of Aragon wore the same pained expression that she had worn all those years ago when Anne Boleyn had been sick unto death of the Sweat and Mary had wished her dead, that all their problems might be solved with her demise. Her mother had admonished her for shame and reminded her that it was God who decided who lived and who died. Now here she was, almost thirty years later, wishing dead that woman’s daughter.

  Mary shivered, but she was unsure if it was because of the chill in the coldness of the nave or her own morbid thoughts. She crossed herself, arose, and sought a seat amongst the pews. She was almost asleep where she sat when a slight rustling sound jolted her awake. She opened her eyes to see Reginald sitting beside her.

  “Dearest Cousin,” she whispered into the silence. Reginald’s sorrowful eyes reflected the deep pain and sadness he felt at being accused by the Holy Father himself, a man ostensibly of infallible judgment, of the grievous sin of heresy. Such an indictment was not only unfair and incorrect, it was dangerous. On the one hand, no one had done more than Reginald to restore the English church to the true faith from the state of utter apostasy in which it had been languishing when her brother died. On the other hand, had the pope pressed his charge and tried the cardinal in absentia in Rome and found him guilty, Mary might have been obliged to burn him or stand accused of heresy herself. Never would she have agreed to such a thing. And her own peril was compounded by the fact that she now stood in danger herself of excommunication by her association with Philip. What a tangled coil!

  “There is news from the Continent,” said Reginald. “Lord Wentworth reports that there is movement on the French frontier. The French king appears to be amassing troops just beyond the Pale of Calais. He is asking for more men, more ordnance, more supplies.”

  “But surely there can be no cause for alarm,” Mary replied. “The garrison there was augmented just this summer past, and winter is no time to launch an offensive. Even I, who am no soldier, know as much.”

  And all had gone so well for Philip and for England since the king sailed from Dover all those months ago. No sooner had the English contingent arrived on the Continent than Philip set them to work to finish the siege begun by his Spanish and Flemish troops at Sainte-Quentin. By all reports, the English soldiers had acquitted themselves bravely and well; Sainte-Quentin had fallen. When the news reached England, London, still in the grip of raging illness, went mad with joy. Finally, some good news, something to celebrate!

  The fall of Sainte-Quentin emboldened Philip; he sent the Duke of Alba and the Imperial army hotfoot to Rome with terms of peace for the beleaguered pontiff. Pope Paul accepted the terms and although it was an uneasy peace, again London celebrated at the good news. The French had been beaten, the pope had been humbled and the English were on their way home victorious. With the coming of fall and cooler weather the sickness plaguing England seemed to have abated somewhat. There was much to be thankful for.

  Mary’s only regret was that Philip would not be returning with the English army. Rather, he and the Imperial troops were seeking winter quarters and he would be remaining on the Continent until the weather warmed once more.

  “Surely,” she said, “the king would be able to respond to any threat posed by Henri?”

  Reginald took so long to respond she thought that perhaps like her, he slept where he sat on the pew. But finally he said, “Indeed.”

  In that moment Mary decided that it was time. She had long since felt her child quicken. At least she thought so; who could tell the movement of the child from the errant cramp? For just a brief moment she thought of her false pregnancy. She had, considering that, no experience whatever with what a quickening felt like. Her monthly courses had long since ceased, but Beatrice, whilst she still lived, had not remarked upon it, nor had any of her ladies. Still, she had waited months beyond her original intended announcement date. Yes, it was time.

  Mary shifted on the pew and turned to face Reginald. She reached out and clasped both of his hands in her own. His hands felt warm, but thanks be to God, not unnaturally so. Reginald opened his eyes to see hers glist
ening with tears in the soft glow of the candlelight. But his cousin was not sad; she was smiling radiantly.

  “I have decided upon my New Year’s gift for His Grace,” she said. “Indeed, it is a gift for all of England. I am with child.” Even in the dim light she could see that he was stunned past speech; she continued on excitedly. “Will you write to His Grace for me? And instruct the bishops to break the news from the pulpit as soon as ever you are certain that the news has reached the king?”

  Reginald resisted the very strong urge to allow his eyes to drop, even for an instant, to the queen’s belly. Besides, the flattering stomachers that were the fashion of the day would be hiding any bulge of…he mentally counted on his fingers…six months. Dear God in heaven, if only it were true…! But whether it was or not, they would not have long to wait. The king had departed early in July; the child could not possibly be born any later than the first week in April, and must needs become apparent almost immediately.

  He composed his features and gave Mary’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I will write to the king on your behalf. I shall take care of everything, just as you have asked. And may I say that I am happier than any words can possibly express. God be with Your Gracious Majesty.”