The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  Some believed that all of her misfortunes were nothing more than the just and meet punishment for her sins. And exactly what were those, might one enquire? No one was able to level at her anything more damning than the burning of heretics. And now here was that poor, misguided fool of a Protestant, John Knox, a coward who from the safety of Geneva called her a bloody tyrant. Was she the first English monarch ever to burn a heretic? She was not! She was burning heretics in the name of God and the preservation of the Catholic faith in England; how could that possibly be wrong? The simple answer was that it was not, could not, be wrong to burn heretics. In fact, all the signs, all the ill fortune that she was experiencing, pointed to the fact that she had not yet burnt enough heretics. Therefore, she must burn more. Not to do so would be to let Satan win. If she stayed the course that she believed to be right, and God smiled upon her once again, perhaps there was a chance that her courses would return, her husband would come back to her, and she would, after all, bear a child. It was a frail hope, but it was hope.

  Mary opened her eyes and sat up in the bed. The light was now golden and strong. It must be late afternoon. As this frail hope rekindled, a thought crossed her mind. What would her grandmother, the redoubtable Queen Isabella of Castile, have done in this crisis? Would she have given up? Given in to despair? She knew in her heart that the answer was a resounding no! To face one’s problems head on, no matter how daunting they were, took far more courage than giving in to them.

  She stirred. To rise and fight required sustenance. She remembered that Clarencius had earlier, for probably the tenth time, brought the inevitable tray of food. Susan knew better than to coax, or even to speak to her mistress at this point. But she had nevertheless come into the room and, clattering both the trays and the dishes, removed the old tray, set down the new one. Waited for some response. And when there was none, Susan had heaved a defeated sigh and left the room.

  Very well, then, she knew what she must do. She must take up the cudgels once more and deal with her quarrelsome Council, her recalcitrant Parliament, the hostile populace that had nothing for her now but enmity and hatred. She was their queen, their ruler; very well, then, she must rule.

  First things first, then; there would be food on the tray; there would be garments laid out as usual. She must eat, she must call her ladies to dress her, if she were to continue to discharge her duties as queen. And she was, whatever she was not, still queen of this realm.

  Mary swung her legs over the side of the bed. With one hand she shielded her eyes from the light outside the bed, and with the other gripped the curtains and tried to stand. Her head swam. She turned and regarded her bed. Safety, refuge, nowhere else to be found. She retreated and closed the curtains behind her, this time ensuring that no errant ray of light should penetrate her sanctuary.

  Perhaps tomorrow...

  Somerset House, June 1558

  Somerset House, the Princess Elizabeth’s London home, was a regal residence, opulently furnished, with meticulously kept gardens. The ill-fated Duke of Somerset had built it, but not long after had lost his head; as a traitor, his property had reverted to the crown. The palace had then been bestowed upon her by her brother, King Edward VI. Elizabeth thought it the perfect setting for a meeting between a visiting diplomat and the heir to the throne of England.

  Just as she predicted, her sister had failed to produce a child, and it was becoming evident to all that it was just a matter of time before the Bastard Elizabeth ascended the throne. She snorted. She knew what her detractors called her, and exactly who they were. And she would have her revenge on all of them…in good time. One of the most valuable lessons that life had taught her up to this point was patience.

  But learning lessons and benefiting from their wisdom was only part of what was required to be a successful monarch. One must also be able to accurately read people, and situations; one must know how to set a scene; how to disarm one’s opponent without him suspecting that it was so; and one must always be at least three moves ahead in any confrontation. And if life was like a game, how much more so was ruling a kingdom?

  It was a sunny June day, a beautiful day, and Elizabeth was taking her first step in the chess match she was about to play with her brother-in-law, King Philip of Spain, by walking to the water steps to greet his envoy, the Count de Feria. She knew for a fact that her sister was unaware that de Feria was to call upon her. Even just a few months ago, she would have refused to see him without Mary’s knowledge and permission. Now it hardly mattered. Her sister had been entrenched at Greenwich since the end of April, despondent and desolate in her abject misery over yet another false pregnancy. It was a matter of debate as to whether she would ever emerge from her chambers again, so sunk in gloom was she.

  The Spanish were extremely formal; de Feria would not expect to be met at the dock by the princess herself as if he were a friend or a relative. Doing so should serve to confuse him and, she hoped, disarm his suspicions where she was concerned. She hoped to charm him with the familiarity of meeting him here instead of having him led through the palace by a servant to a formal audience in her presence chamber.

  Just as she emerged from under the last pergola along the walkway from the outermost garden to the river’s edge she spotted de Feria’s barge. The scene she had set was worthy of one of her father’s legendary masques. For there she stood, clad in a cloth of gold gown that shone so brilliantly in the summer sunshine that it hurt one’s eyes to look upon it; and to call attention to her beautiful white hands with their exceptionally long fingers, she held a red rose. She twirled the flower to ensure that the movement would catch de Feria’s eye.

  But the flower also served another purpose; the rose was the symbol of the Tudors, and she held it to remind this Spanish envoy just who she was.

  The pergola under which she now stood was covered with climbing roses, tiny, pink and very fragrant. She knew that she must present quite a picture, standing under the rose-covered archway in her golden dress, her red hair streaming down her back, the flower twitching in her hands. And behind her the magnificence of Somerset House against the backdrop of a sky that was as clear as a bell and as blue as a robin’s egg.

  De Feria emerged from the curtained cabin, unsteady on his feet. Elizabeth stifled a laugh; the man was no sailor. He was dressed in the unrelieved black that all Spaniards seemed to favor. Seeing her standing there, his eyes went wide, but he soon collected himself.

  Elizabeth watched him closely. Spanish men mingled their respect for women with a certain contempt; the same contempt that they would feel for any weak or inferior creature. And she was anything but weak and inferior. This was going to be an interesting interview.

  As he stepped gingerly from the barge Elizabeth noted that de Feria was like most Spanish men in that he was diminutive in height but with a well-proportioned, elegant build. He was not a soldier, so he had not the muscular look of one who wields a sword; rather, he was very slight. Good! On her father’s side she was of Viking stock, a family of golden-red giants; even her mother had been taller than usual for a woman. As de Feria drew closer, she realized that she would tower over him. That was certainly an advantage.

  De Feria regarded the Princess Elizabeth not, as she had hoped, with dismay, but with an emotion very close to loathing. Greeting him at the water steps was such a breach of protocol, of etiquette! The king had warned him that the princess was sly, devious, cunning. And forward! All English women were, in his opinion, far too independent and outspoken. Even the queen, a model of decorum, still managed to defy her husband and king whenever she saw fit. Else why was he here, in this Godforsaken country, at risk of contracting the mysterious ague that was afflicting high and low, rich and poor alike?

  He gave the princess his most elegant bow, took the proffered hand, brushed it as lightly as possible with his mustache. “Your Grace,” he said.

  Elizabeth greeted him in perfectly accented Spanish.

  He had heard that she spoke their languag
e, but had not quite believed it. Let us see how well her linguistic abilities stand up to this discussion, he thought. For he had been entrusted by the king with the task of gaining the princess’s agreement to marry the Duke of Savoy, and this he meant to do.

  Elizabeth waved an expansive hand at the elegantly manicured parterres, each section planted with colorful blooms in pleasing combinations. “Shall we walk, Your Excellency?”

  Such an address was gratuitous and meant to compliment; strictly speaking, de Feria was not an ambassador, merely an unofficial envoy. If the princess thought to ingratiate herself that way…

  Elizabeth chose the middle path through the garden and sauntered slowly down the gravel walk, twirling the rose by its stem.

  De Feria, along with Philip, loathed the idea of a Protestant queen in England. But now, for him, suddenly it was much more than that. He had taken an instant dislike to this forward and very presumptuous female. It was patently obvious to him that the princess needed the firm hand of a husband to curb her coquettish manner and high spirits. She simply must agree to marry the Duke of Savoy.

  “His Grace the king wishes me to say, Your Grace, that he intends to remain your very good brother, just as he has always been.”

  Elizabeth turned her dazzling smile upon him. “A sentiment for which I assure you I am most profoundly grateful, Count de Feria.”

  De Feria nodded. This was going well; an expression of gratitude supposed obligation. “In that spirit, Your Grace, the king also desires me to remember to you that you owe His Gracious Majesty your life.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Indeed?” she said. “Upon what occasion did the King of Spain save my life? I cannot recall.”

  At this seemingly innocent question, de Feria was taken aback. Was she sincere or was this mockery of his words? Scorn, perhaps? Sarcasm?

  “Why, His Grace refers, of course, to the time when Your Grace was in the Tower.” Again that smug smirk!

  “I recall right well, being in the Tower,” said Elizabeth. She began rubbing her chin. “But I cannot recall an occasion when the King of Spain saved my life.”

  De Feria turned a most interesting shade of pink and began to sputter, but before he could respond, Elizabeth said, “My dear Count, you may say to His Grace for me that I am not unmindful of the times when he spoke to my sister on my behalf, and was responsible for perhaps mitigating somewhat the unpleasant circumstances in which, through no fault of my own, I found myself. But I do assure you, and you must ensure that His Grace understands this, that in no wise did he have anything to do with my survival, for the simple reason that the Parliament, the Council and the people of England would never have allowed my sister to execute me.”

  De Feria’s eyes squinted until they were mere slits. Very quietly he replied, “That, Your Grace, is a matter open to debate. But even so, Your Grace must still own that if you come to the throne, you will owe that circumstance to none but the king; and His Grace is willing to support your claim, with force if necessary, provided that you will agree to marry the Duke of Savoy.”

  Elizabeth walked along in silence for a few moments, twirling her rose. The wind had risen and it gently lifted a lock of her red hair, which glinted in the sun. Finally she turned to de Feria and with her most disarming smile she said, “You may inform His Grace that I shall never agree to marry the Duke of Savoy.”

  De Feria looked so stricken that she almost laughed out loud.

  “But…” he sputtered, obviously nonplussed at this statement.

  Elizabeth stopped and turned to face him. “You may further inform His Grace that I have no intention of marrying anyone.”

  He had already heard this assertion of the princess’s from Philip himself, who had it straight from the queen’s own lips; the very reason he was here to persuade her himself was because of Queen Mary’s failure to convince her sister that she must marry Emmanuel Philibert. But not to marry at all! What a preposterous notion!

  “But Your Grace must marry someone, after all; no woman can rule a country alone.”

  This time, Elizabeth turned on him not the sunshine of her smile, but her iciest glare. “Indeed? I fail to see why not. And I can think of many reasons why ruling alone will be to my advantage.” Had not her sister’s mistake of marrying given ample evidence of that? “And when I do attain the throne, sir, it will be due to no man, least of all to Philip of Spain!” She laughed, but the sound was anything but mirthful.

  De Feria noted that her laugh was most unfeminine. He opted to take refuge in incredulity. “I think mayhap that Your Grace has misunderstood. Perhaps Your Grace’s command of Spanish…”

  “On the contrary,” she replied. “My Spanish is excellent. When I come to the throne of England, Count de Feria, I will owe that eventuality solely to the English people, who love me. You may tell His Grace that I am profoundly grateful for his care of me and for anything he might have said or done to my benefit in the past, but in my estimation, I owe him nothing save the love of a sister for a brother, and the respect due to a fellow monarch.”

  They had reached the very center of the garden, at which was a stone seat that afforded a view of the expanse, the thin blue line of the river in the distance. Elizabeth sat down and invited the Count to do the same.

  Very well, he thought. He could see the direction their discussion was taking. One could not be as diplomatic as he would wish to be with so uncouth an adversary.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “Those are brave words indeed from someone whom, and correct me if I am wrong, will have almost all of Christendom against her.”

  “Ah,” replied Elizabeth. “You refer to my conversion and what the king fears I may do as it concerns religion in this country. I can only assure His Grace that I will do what I believe is best for my people in that regard.”

  A slippery, enigmatic answer if ever there was one!

  “Consider, Your Grace, that Mary of Scotland will be a viable threat to your throne, should you ever attain it. Her Grace is descended from your father’s elder sister, Margaret, is she not? Also, she is known to be a good Catholic, and is indisputably legitimate.” He saw the red color rise in the princess’s cheeks at what was tantamount to an insult. But she remained silent. “And Her Grace of Scotland’s recent marriage to the French Dauphin means that she now has the might of France behind her.” There! Let that hit home, as it were.

  Again that raucous laugh! Perhaps the ability to frustrate was a trait shared by all Tudors; at that moment he felt exactly the same exasperation that he had experienced in her sister’s presence. He wished that he could take her by the shoulders and shake her until that smug smile left her lips.

  “Certainly, that is so,” agreed Elizabeth. “But there are other candidates for my sister’s throne, are there not?” She placed a long, elegant finger to her chin and pursed her lips. “Let me see,” she said. “There is also the Lady Catherine Grey and her sister, the Lady Mary Grey, descended from my father’s younger sister. Forget not that they are named in my brother’s will. But both have the taint of the common, of course, their grandfather having been a landless knight and a commoner until my father promoted him and he had the audacity to marry a royal princess. And despite my cousin Mary of Scotland’s flawless pedigree, she has, as you say, married a Frenchman; I doubt if that should sit well here in England! No, Count de Feria, none of the other candidates is a viable successor to my sister. I, on the other hand, am in the direct line of descent from my father, am named heir to the throne of England in his will, and can support my claim with an Act of Parliament. And as for the English people ever accepting as monarch any queen of Scotland…” She spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders in dismissal of such a ridiculous idea. “And correct me if I am wrong,” she cocked an eyebrow and he knew that her use of these words was in direct mockery to his earlier use of them, “but the last thing the King of Spain wants is a French queen on the throne of England! All things considered, Count de Feria, I should say that the King of Sp
ain needs me far more than I need him.”

  De Feria prided himself on his unemotional temperament and his staid Spanish disposition. He had always regarded himself as an excellent royal representative, and the fact that he had been entrusted on many occasions to speak on the king’s behalf bore out this self-assessment. And he was diplomatic enough to know when it was prudent to concede a point. Such a state of affairs was usually reached after logical reasoning and emotionless dialogue or debate. Therefore it was hard to reconcile the red mist that swam before his eyes at that moment or his impulsive desire to slap this chit’s face, front hand and backhand. He longed to see the red marks of his fingers on the pale skin of her cheeks, to see the tears spring into her eyes.

  Very calmly he arose, bowed and said, “Your Grace, I will impart to His Grace all that you have said. I fear me, however, that I must away. The tide, you see…”

  Elizabeth inclined her head. She did not offer her hand. “I understand fully,” she said. “And may I wish Your Excellency a pleasant voyage?”

  De Feria bowed shortly once again, turned on his heel and walked away as fast as he dared without breaking into a run. She had enjoyed their interview immensely. But she enjoyed even more the thought that de Feria had placed his bargemen in a most unenviable situation. One could not live in London as many years as she had without knowing something about tides. And she knew that the tide would not flood again for another six hours.

  Greenwich Palace, June 1558

  The Archbishop of York was only newly risen from his sickbed, having suffered a most debilitating bout of the new ague; he had not ventured far from his rooms when he felt the familiar fatigue set in and sensed the sweat of exertion breaking out on his brow. There was hardly a creature, high or low, who had not been stricken; even his own attendants were sick abed. The corridors were all but deserted and his footsteps echoed in their emptiness. But it was vital that he reach the rooms of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and so he pressed on. Never had the distance between them seemed so great!