The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  …and with us all, he added to himself.

  Hatfield Palace, January 1558

  It was good to be back at Hatfield; no matter where she went, Elizabeth always thought of Hatfield as home. Ashridge was almost as dear, but not quite; if not at court, it was there that she usually stayed while Hatfield was being sweetened. Both estates had been bequeathed to her by her father and in her estimation were proof that despite what others might think, or in Mary’s case, say whenever she was angry, that in the end her father had claimed her his. As if the mirror did not tell her this every time she looked into it!

  The door creaked and Kat peeked around. “Sir William for you, my lady,” she said. Kat had once asked did she not wish for the hinges on the door to be oiled; but Elizabeth had only smiled her enigmatic smile and said no. All her doors creaked and that was the way she wanted it. Forewarned was forearmed.

  She turned to see Cecil standing there, the look of perpetual worry on his face even more pronounced than usual.

  He bowed and said, “The day is fine, Your Grace. Would you fancy a walk to the tree?”

  Elizabeth raised a thin, red eyebrow. “Whenever you make such an offer of late, Sir William, it is either bad news or a lecture,” she replied.

  Cecil smiled. “Or both, my lady.”

  “Very well, then, let us go,” she said. It had become something of a jest between just themselves; the great oak tree that sat atop the highest hill on the estate was where they held discussions too private…or too dangerous…to be risked inside the palace.

  # # #

  The smile faded as soon as Elizabeth’s eyes left his face. This was bad news indeed, and doubly so. He knew the princess well, and her temper better. These were tidings best imparted far from the prying eyes and listening ears of the palace.

  They walked along in companionable silence through the knot garden. She stole a sideways glance at Sir William; his lips were moving ever so slightly. She knew him well enough to know that he was composing his thoughts for how to break to her whatever fresh catastrophe he must impart.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “The news must be bad indeed.” But her attempt at flippancy fell flat and she became serious. She knew Cecil at least as well as he knew her; he feared her reaction and sought her away from the palace where she might explode her temper in private. “Whatever it is, can it be remedied?”

  Sir William did not break his stride; he was anxious to reach their destination, for he dare not risk telling her within earshot of the palace. Still, a royal princess must be answered.

  “That all depends, Your Grace.”

  Elizabeth considered. An evasive reply…that certainly did not bode well. Both unconsciously quickened their pace. The day was fine for January, but suddenly Elizabeth felt a chill in the very depths of her heart.

  When they reached the great oak tree, neither of them sat down. Elizabeth turned to Cecil, arms wrapped about herself as if in protection. She said nothing and waited.

  Sir William suppressed a sigh. The bad moment was here and there was no sense in delaying it. The princess would expect nothing less from him than the bare truth, and quickly. “Calais has been lost to the French,” he said.

  Elizabeth at first stood stock still, too stunned for speech. Then her head began to jerk, as if she sought to shake her head in denial. Her lips worked but no words came out. Cecil knew that this was only the calm before the storm, and he did not have long to wait.

  At this blunt announcement, Elizabeth’s face had gone as pale as death. And then suddenly she turned as red as her hair and the dyke of her anger burst wide open.

  “Christ’s wounds!” she expostulated. “Of all the…how in God’s sacred name did that happen?” Her eyes smoldered and she began the erratic pacing that seemed to be a Tudor trait.

  “A surprise attack,” Cecil replied. “We have known for some time that the King of France was planning something, but it was thought that the objective was Hesdin, or perhaps Luxembourg. No one believed…that is, no one thought that His Grace would launch an attack in the dead of winter. But evidently Henri was so determined to redeem the disgrace of his defeat at Sainte-Quentin that he would brook no delay…and he sought not just conquest but to inflict the same humiliation on England that France was made to suffer.”

  Tears of impotent frustration shone in Elizabeth’s eyes. She ceased pacing and leaned one arm against the solid old tree. After a few moments she dropped her arm and began pacing once more.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, Sir William, but did not the French break the Truce of Vaucelles by launching an attack on Douai in January last year? How could anyone conceive that they would shrink from a winter offensive, when they had already employed such a tactic with great effect?”

  Cecil said nothing, for how could one reply to such a statement?

  Calais! For over two hundred years a possession of the English crown. A major port, a vital center of England’s wool trade. All that was left of that which her ancestors had ruled of France, the last Plantagenet stronghold on the Continent. Lost! If only she were queen, she would…

  Elizabeth sighed. “What action is being taken to regain it?”

  Sir William sighed. “None, my lady. England has not the resources and His Grace of Spain has not the desire to make the effort on our behalf.”

  Elizabeth stopped her pacing and nibbled her thumb. “To whom has the news been broken? What was the queen’s reaction, the Council? What of the people? How stands London to these dire tidings?”

  Sir William hesitated just that moment too long.

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed and she strode straight up to Sir William; for perhaps the first time she noticed that he was slightly the shorter of the two.

  “What?” she demanded.

  Cecil swallowed involuntarily. “Your Grace, I was made privy to this information by one of my most trusted informants. The news so far has been told only to Her Grace the queen and only certain members of the Council. It will not be told to the public until after tomorrow morning, but most likely on Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  The first forebodings of fear smote her heart, and the chill that she had felt earlier radiated out from its center until she felt as if she were a statue of pure ice standing there under the great oak tree.

  “Why not?”

  For a moment Sir William doubted the wisdom of dealing such a double blow; but there was nothing for it. To withhold any information from the princess was simply not an option.

  Sir William drew a deep breath. “Today is Saturday, Your Grace. Tomorrow morning, from every pulpit in the land, the priests will impart the…” he coughed; how to say it? “…‘glad tidings’ of the news that the queen is with child.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes first grew wide and then narrowed to mere slits. “I do not believe it,” she said. “And neither will anyone else!”

  Sir William shrugged. “That is as may be. But only consider, Your Grace; think of the timing of the thing. Such a thing must needs become obvious immediately. Such a child would have to be born in early April.”

  “God’s blood!” she shouted. “Has the whole world gone mad? My sister is as barren as a blown egg! Are we all to be subjected to yet another of her fantasies?”

  In that moment, Sir William actually breathed a sigh of relief; such news must be told to his mistress as soon as he became cognizant of it. He had been right to do it here, away from the palace and its walls with ears. The princess could have been accused of treason for that statement alone. And with so many looking for any excuse…!

  Elizabeth began her pacing again, her hands on her hips. It was an interesting amalgam of her father’s old stance when in a temper and Mary’s habit of rapid movement when agitated. He spared a moment to ask himself how anyone could look at Elizabeth, observe her, and not know for certain that she was the daughter of Henry VIII of England?

  “Christ on the Cross!” shrieked Elizabeth. “What a coil! What a disaster! I have never seen England weaker in st
rength, money and men! The treasury empty, the people bowed under the strain of taxes, the realm exhausted with sickness, justice but a dream! The queen deludes herself yet a second time that she will deliver a child, embarrassing England in the eyes of all Christendom again, and I am shunted aside as if I am of no importance whatsoever! Can my sister not see into what confusion she is likely to cast this poor, tortured land if she will not name her successor whilst she may? The priests rule all, daily good men and women suffer the agonies of the stake for no reason that I can understand, we are divided amongst ourselves, we are at war with our enemies who are richer than we and, it would seem, smarter! My sister has proved herself a lover of strangers, putting England under bondage to the Empire with her foreign marriage! And now of all the ridiculous follies, she has gone and lost us Calais! She will end by utterly destroying this realm! There will be nothing left for me to inherit, Cecil, when she has done!” She stopped her pacing and her chest heaved in breathlessness after her tirade.

  It was best, thought Cecil, to let her get it all out, here under the great oak tree, where none could see or hear. Elizabeth had always had a flair for the dramatic, but this time her words rang all too true. He looked away to give her a chance to collect herself. The palace and its grounds were far below; they looked like a living painting from where he stood.

  Perhaps there was one small offering he could make to ease the princess’s mind.

  “You asked, Your Grace, if these things could be remedied. Time alone will tell, but know at least this; where Calais is concerned this may be a blessing in disguise. For anything that serves to lessen the queen’s popularity cannot help but be to your advantage. And there are other ways to regain Calais than armed conflict.”

  Elizabeth instinctively knew when to cut her losses. It was one of the many things that Cecil had always admired about her. She smiled her enigmatic smile and raised the familiar thin red eyebrow.

  “So you say,” she quipped. “A Pyrrhic victory indeed then for the French king. For what has he really gained at such a cost? A swampy marsh that has always lost for England much more than she gained by it.” True words perhaps, but they discounted the shattering blow to English pride at the loss of their last possession on the Continent. But Good Cecil was right; perhaps Calais could be restored by negotiation rather than by war. There would be another time.

  But her sister’s claim to be with child could not be so easily dismissed.

  “I must see for myself,” she said.

  Their minds were so attuned that Sir William knew immediately that to which Elizabeth now referred; she had moved on to the queen’s supposed pregnancy, a condition that certainly must be subject to the proof of the eye by now.

  “A visit to court without an invitation, Your Grace?” asked Sir William. “Upon what pretext?”

  Elizabeth turned her steely gaze upon him. “Why, to render my sisterly felicitations and an appropriate gift to celebrate the occasion, of course. Let us go back to the palace, Cecil. Whilst you are making the arrangements for our journey, I have some sewing to see to.”

  Whitehall Palace, March 1558

  Of all the royal castles and palaces, Whitehall was Mary’s least favorite. It had at one time been York Place, the London residence of the Archbishop of York. That was years ago, in Cardinal Wolsey’s time, when amongst all of his secular offices and religious livings, Thomas Wolsey had claimed as his the archbishopric of York. When Wolsey was out of favor for failing to obtain the coveted annulment of her father’s marriage to her mother, King Henry had seized York Place, renovated it, and presented it to Anne Boleyn. That had been a deliberate slap in the face for Pope Clement VII; the palace was not the wealthy Wolsey’s personal property, but the property of the Holy See of Rome. The message was clear; the King of England would have what he wanted regardless of what Rome did or did not do.

  But both Westminster and St. James’s were being sweetened and Mary did not wish to venture outside of London in her condition. Greenwich and Hampton Court were too far; so was Richmond. That palace, and even close-in Chelsea Old House, still held painful memories of Anne of Cleves. And so to Whitehall she had repaired to await the birth of her son. She had no doubt the child would be male. No elaborate lying-in had been arranged this time, but she was prepared just the same. She was aware that some viewed this pregnancy with a jaundiced eye because of the debacle of her false pregnancy; in her heart she understood. No one wanted to be disappointed a second time, least of all herself. So even though the birth of this child was the most important event to occur in England since her marriage to Philip, the event itself would be unobtrusive and all the more dignified for being so.

  She sat in the middle of the big bed, her legs spread wide and her distended belly lying like a lump between them. In front of her, spread out so that she could see every exquisite piece, was the layette with which Elizabeth had presented her upon hearing the happy news that she was soon to be an aunt. Every item was sewn with stitches that were so tiny as to be invisible; each garment was edged with the finest lace. Each time she looked at the collection of miniature clothes her arms ached for the day when she would hold her child and see these little things put to the use for which they were intended.

  She picked up each item, each little garment, and studied it. Even the inside of the bonnet was carefully embroidered, with daisies so petite that one had to look closely to see each individual petal; and inside the circle of each was a barely perceptible yellow center. She smiled. It was the first time she had thought of Elizabeth with anything but enmity for many a day.

  Her sister had been amongst the first to make their way to court to congratulate the queen on her good news. Elizabeth had arrived, gift in hand, tears moistening her eyes; at first Mary had assumed that the tears were for her own dashed hopes, but her sister had been so kind, so seemingly genuinely moved by the fact that Mary was at last with child that she began to question her suspicions. She had never believed wholeheartedly in Elizabeth’s conversion; she had always entertained serious doubts about her loyalty. But this visit had gone a long way to convince her that Elizabeth had finally accepted that she would never be queen.

  If only she could stop thinking about Calais she should have been truly happy.

  The door opened and Jane looked in, a wide smile gracing her almost perfect features and a becoming pink blush on her cheeks.

  “Do not tell me,” said Mary, with an indulgent smile. “The Count de Feria is without and seeks an audience.”

  The pink blush deepened to bright red and quickly climbed from Jane’s creamy cheeks to her forehead and then slid gracefully back down her face to rest on her swan-like neck. She was so tongue-tied she could not answer.

  Mary laughed. “Bring him in,” she said, “and Dormer, you may stay.”

  To Mary, any emissary sent by Philip was an extension of the man himself, and she had gotten into the habit of receiving them informally as if it were Philip himself who had come to see her. But in the name of modesty, Mary drew up the counterpane, scattering the items of the layette across the bed.

  “My dear Figueroa!” she exclaimed as a still-blushing Jane drew him into the room by the hand. It was no secret that the two had fallen in love and wished to marry. Mary was glad now that she had shooed away as unworthy all the other eager suitors for Jane’s hand. Gómez Suárez de Figueroa y Córdoba, the Count de Feria, was a splendid match for her favorite maid of honor. Jane was twenty now and ripe for marriage; indeed, if she made her wait much longer she would begin to wither on the bough, as it were. Besides, it was Mary’s responsibility to see Jane suitably wed. The girl’s mother had died when Jane was very young; her father remarried and had a second family. Sometimes she felt almost as if Jane were her own child.

  The Count approached, bowed, extended his hand for her own in the Spanish style, brushed it lightly with his lips and stepped back. “Your Grace,” he said with another courtly bow.

  “Please,” said Mary. “Do sit.”
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  The Count obeyed and Jane busied herself at the sideboard pouring wine for them all. It was difficult for him to take his eyes from his beloved, but he had work to do. His instructions were clear; he must ascertain to the best of his ability if the queen were truly with child; he must convince her to force the Princess Elizabeth to marry the Duke of Savoy; he must ensure that she agreed to make her will and named her sister as heir, barring her delivery of a healthy child. There was no other way to ensure Hapsburg control of England if both the child and the queen should die in childbed. Also, he must obtain more men, money and ordnance for the prosecution of the king’s Continental war.

  De Feria studied Mary carefully but could discern nothing of her figure with the counterpane bunched about her body. That was inconvenient for his first purpose, but he should be able to obtain enough information to judge the queen’s state from questioning Jane if he were unable to actually see Mary’s bulk with his own eyes. But those same eyes, looking at Mary’s face, were convinced that the queen was more ill than pregnant. Unless the laws of the universe were to be relaxed for the Queen of England, her ordeal must be imminent. But she had none of the healthy bloom that one expected to see on a woman who had, by virtue of her royal position, taken every care and had everything she needed, except perhaps true happiness and a worry-free existence, to deliver a normal, healthy baby. Her skin was pale and seemed to have a greenish tinge, her eyes were sunken and had dark rings under them, and although she was thin to the point of emaciation, she seemed somewhat bloated in appearance. He wished he could see her feet and ankles; he was almost certain that she was dropsical. Jane would know such an intimate detail; he would carefully coax the information from her.

  The Count’s eyes surveyed the tiny garments spread out all over the bed. Mary saw his glance and said, “A gift from my sister, who is an excellent needlewoman. Are they not beautiful?” She lifted one of the flowing robes and held it up for his inspection.