The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  He turned the corner and was faced with the familiar flight of stone stairs leading up to Reginald Pole’s apartments in the palace. To his eyes they seemed daunting, insurmountable. Could he climb them? He must! At least the cardinal was here at Greenwich, having also been stricken unexpectedly; he had been unable to get back to Lambeth. He could only hope that the cardinal’s bout of the ague had been similar enough to his own in both its timing and severity so that he was also on the mend, and not too ill to rise from his bed.

  The archbishop climbed the steps slowly, hands on the rope that was looped through thick iron rings set into the stone walls. He proceeded gingerly, pulling himself along, both feet on each step, until finally he reached the top. Facing him were the thick oaken doors of the cardinal’s rooms. The doors stood unguarded and slightly ajar; unacceptable at any other time, but right now, it was more than likely that the cardinal’s watchmen also ailed with fever and chills, and were sick in their beds. What a predicament!

  He pushed open the doors and the sight that met his eyes was a most welcome one; he sighed with sheer relief. For in a chair by the hearth sat the cardinal, holding a cup of steaming liquid in both of his cadaverous hands.

  “Nicholas!” cried Reginald. “I heard that you, also, were grievous ill. Have you recovered? May I offer you a sup of mulled ale?”

  Nicholas Heath gained the chair opposite the cardinal’s and fell into it, exhausted from the walk and the climb up the stairs. He signed to Reginald’s attendant that he did, indeed, wish to have a cup of the inviting ale. Perhaps that would restore him.

  “Brother,” said Reginald. “What is amiss? What has forced you from your bed? You look very ill.”

  Nicholas took two sips from his steaming mug and replied, “I am on the mend. As it seems you are. I am here, brother, not in my capacity of archbishop, but as Lord Chancellor. There are doings afoot that require the queen’s attention, but none can rouse her. She has languished in her bed, refusing all but wine and bread, for over a month now. Between Her Grace’s indisposition and the raging sickness that has swept the court, affairs are at a standstill. And now events have occurred that can no longer wait. Her Grace must rouse herself, but she will not; you must convince her to rise and attend to her responsibilities. She will heed none but yourself, I am sure of it.”

  Surprisingly, Reginald chuckled, shaking his head. “Just look at us!” he said. “Two sick old men who likely cannot walk the length of the palace without aid. But I agree, this has gone on long enough. Perhaps we can find some stout men who have not been afflicted by this scourge to carry us to the queen’s apartments. Thomas!” he called, to Thomas Goldwell, the Bishop of St. Asaph and one of his closest attendants.

  The bishop appeared, was given the order for a sedan chair, and departed, seeking a page.

  “Now, tell me, Good Nicholas, what is amiss?”

  Nicholas heaved a sigh. “Father Peto is dead of the ague. He passed on early this morning.”

  The easy tears of old age clouded Reginald’s eyes; he crossed himself. “God rest his soul,” he said. “The queen will be most grieved.” It was a frail hope, but now that Peto was gone, perhaps the pope would see fit to restore the legatine authority in England to himself. It rankled that as far as the Catholic Church was concerned, he was a fugitive heretic. Absurd!

  Nicholas set aside his cup and held his head in his hands. “Her Grace has not yet been informed. But Father Peto was her mother’s confessor, and later, her own; she must attend his obsequies.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Reginald. But he could see that this was not the only matter that was weighing on the archbishop’s mind. “What else is amiss?” he asked.

  The sedan chair arrived, with four stout men to convey the cardinal and the archbishop to the queen’s chamber. “I will tell you the rest on the way,” he said. “Let us hie to the queen.”

  # # #

  “But Your Eminence,” argued Susan. “Her Grace was most adamant. She will see no one.” Unconsciously she moved to bar the way to the queen’s bed chamber.

  Reginald nodded. “I understand, Mistress Clarencius. I will take full responsibility if Her Grace is displeased. But I must speak with her.” Leaning heavily on his stick, he gestured towards the door; Susan reluctantly opened it for him and the Lord Chancellor, then just as quickly closed it behind them as soon as they had both hobbled through the doorway. Mary was usually gentle and polite, unfailingly gracious and kind to her servants, the soul of patience; but she could be formidable when in a temper. Let the cardinal and the archbishop take their chances alone!

  Reginald and Nicholas regarded each other in astonishment. The curtains on the windows were drawn close, as were the bed curtains; no candles were lit, although it was nigh on dusk. The room was stiflingly hot and emanated the sickly-sweet odor of a place occupied well past the time when sweetening was called for. Why had no one told them…?

  “Mary,” called Reginald softly into the gloom. “Cousin, I must speak with you.”

  There was no answer, but they could hear Mary stirring in the bed.

  Reginald’s eyes adjusted to the dimness and he could see that Nicholas was as pale as death. He gestured towards a chair and bade him sit.

  “The Lord Chancellor is here with me,” he said. “We have both been ill of the ague.”

  Still there was no reply.

  A wave of fatigue struck Reginald with the force of a blow and he also groped for a chair. “I am afraid, Your Grace, that the Lord Chancellor and I must sit. Forgive me.” It was a grievous breach of protocol to sit in the queen’s presence without having been given leave to do so.

  “I have sad news,” continued Reginald. “Father Peto has died of the ague.”

  There was still no response from behind the bed curtains.

  Well, reasoned Reginald, Father Peto was very old and could not have been expected to live much longer in any case. Mary was royal and a good Catholic; she did not need to be told that as queen, she must attend the obsequies of one who had been both her and her mother’s confessor, and who, in addition, whether he had sought the post or not, was the current Papal Legate in England.

  “Mary,” said Reginald. “I know you can hear me. I know you are disappointed. But there are other matters that must be seen to. You are queen. You must not be neglectful of your duties.”

  The bed coverings stirred but still there was no reply to his words.

  Reginald looked at Nicholas, who spread his hands and shrugged. There was nothing for it but to continue on. “There is movement on the Scots border,” he said. “Mary of Guise is prepared to press the claim of her daughter as heir to the throne of England. Even more so now that it appears that Your Grace is ill. There are rumors that you are dead because no one has seen you for many a day. Mary, these problems must be faced. We do not want to be caught short again, as we were with Calais.”

  There was a pause and then from behind the bed curtains Mary said, “Calais was ill-equipped, under-manned, and Wentworth a craven coward who was far too young for his post.”

  Reginald and Nicholas regarded each other; finally, a response! This was progress!

  “I agree,” said Reginald. “And if that storm in the Channel had not scattered the ships Your Grace sent to his aid, Calais might not have been lost after all.”

  “Yes,” said Mary. “Such a storm was surely an Act of God, but hardly evidence of divine favor!” Her voice was infused with sarcasm. “Calais was lost due to English incompetence and Spanish indifference.” It was the closest she had ever come to a criticism of her husband.

  “Your Grace,” said the Lord Chancellor. “If I may be permitted, it is imperative that you write to the king asking to borrow back some of the ships we have lent him. We must send a fleet to defend the Scots border.”

  At first there was no reply, but after a few moments Mary said, “Very well. Draw up the request and I will sign it.” Now go away, she thought, and leave me to my grief!

  Reg
inald and Nicholas exchanged worried glances. Mary had not written to Philip for several days; His Grace had sent a letter to the cardinal expressing his concern, for it was utterly unlike his wife not to write every day. Reginald had written back telling the king that the only sovereign remedy for Her Grace’s condition of profound melancholy would be a visit from himself; to that there had been no reply.

  Reginald exchanged a glance with Nicholas, who nodded. If the possibility of a Scots invasion would not provoke her, perhaps the possibility of the ire of her husband would incite her to action. If not, then perhaps, after all, there was no hope.

  “Your Grace,” said Reginald. “A delegation from King Gustavus of Sweden has arrived at court from Hatfield.”

  The bed curtains were thrust aside with such violence that both men were, for a moment, taken aback. Mary, disheveled and wild-eyed, shouted, “From Hatfield? What mean you? What do they seek?”

  “They are here to ask for the hand of the Princess Elizabeth for Prince Eric,” replied Reginald. “The princess, very correctly, informed them that she is unable to discuss such an issue with them directly, and that they must gain an audience with Your Grace if they wish an answer to their suit.”

  “How dare they make such a proposal directly to my sister? Am I not queen? Why did they not come here to seek my permission? Has the king been told of this? He shall most assuredly hold me to blame!” Mary climbed down from the great bed and began pacing up and down the room, her wrinkled linen gown following her as she spun around each time she came face to face with the wall.

  “Your Grace,” said the Lord Chancellor. “That is the very problem that we have been trying to speak of. There are rumors that Your Grace is already dead. This misstep of the Swedes merely demonstrates…”

  Mary strode to the door and yanked it open. “Clarencius!” she bellowed. “Oh, there you are. Bring hot water. Light some candles. Call my women. Get my scribe! Oh, why did they have to come now? If they went to Hatfield in error, all the court knows of it by now. De Feria has probably already dispatched the news to His Grace, who will blame me! The princess has refused to marry, and the Parliament will never agree to her marriage with the Duke of Savoy.”

  “Yes, it is certain that His Grace shall be most displeased to learn of the arrival of the Swedes with such a proposal,” said Nicholas.

  Mary rounded on him. “Well, in that case, perhaps His Grace would care to return to England and bring Emmanuel Philibert with him! Perhaps between them, they can convince not only my sister, but the Parliament to sanction a Hapsburg match! I know my sister’s mind on the issue of marriage. Hah! She received de Feria without my leave for the pleasure of refusing Savoy to his face, but the Swedes she coyly refuses to receive, sending them here to me instead! She does not fool me, my lords…the answer is simple! My sister will agree to marry no one! But the king will think I have deceived him! Oh, where is that scribe? Reginald, will you…? My writing desk…”

  “Your Grace,” said Reginald. “You ask why the Swedish delegation went directly to Hatfield. The reason, when coupled with the rumors of your death, is that the princess has been assembling a…well, a sort of shadow court these past weeks. Many believe, the princess among them, that if Your Grace is not yet dead, you soon will be. In any case, you have ceased to manage affairs, and many now look to the Princess Elizabeth to do so in your stead.”

  Mary clasped herself with both arms, threw back her hair, and her eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Yes, well, we shall see about that!” she said icily. But her mind was racing. The Swedes! Lutherans! Never would she agree to such a match for Elizabeth, even if her sister were so minded and the Parliament agreed.

  Into the confusion Mary’s women arrived with hot water, Susan darted about the room lighting candles, and Reginald began a letter to Philip on the queen’s behalf, asking for ships and explaining that the Swedish visit was both unexpected and certainly unsolicited. Susan shooed the men out of the innermost chamber, but not before Mary signed her name to the sheet of vellum thrust under her nose by Reginald.

  The cardinal and the archbishop hobbled out of the room to allow Mary to wash and dress; once outside they called for a page who took the letter and ran for the courier’s quarters.

  Once back in the sedan chair Reginald and Nicholas both heaved sighs of relief. Faith might move mountains, but only the fear of her husband’s wrath was enough to move Mary to put aside her apathy, self-pity and despair. God send that they had been in time.

  Gravelines, July 1558

  The ship had docked hours before, but the sickening motion had not ceased; each time de Feria tried to rise from the miserable wooden box that the ship’s captain was pleased to call his bunk, the nausea hit him in relentless waves. The cabin was stiflingly hot and the air within it the only thing that was still. If things went on this way, he was very much afraid that he might die. And then a thought struck him; perhaps that would be best. At least then this unbearable state would end.

  Footsteps in the companionway were a regular occurrence, so he did not expect it when the door to his cabin opened and a figure appeared there. He had thought rather to be left here, alone and forgotten. He could not open his eyes; every time he did so the cabin would spin and he would be sick.

  “How long has he been like this?” asked a voice from what seemed to be miles away.

  “For the length of the entire voyage, Your Grace, and ever since we arrived.”

  A groan escaped his lips. The king! And he unable even to open his eyes, let alone rise to his feet!

  “We must get him off the ship and onto dry land. Have some stout men lift him and carry him to the litter.”

  “Immediately, Your Grace,” replied the ship’s captain. Such a coil about a little sea-sickness!

  The voices receded and once more he was alone. Some little time passed. Had they forgotten about him again? If only the ship would stop its unceasing movement, perhaps he could regain himself…

  After what seemed like an eternity in a hot, swaying cauldron, he again heard voices. This time he felt strong hands lifting him gently and he felt himself being moved, carried; oh God, he prayed, of Thy mercy, please do not let me be sick on these men…that would be the ultimate indignity! Oh, why must England be across the water? Why could it not be on the Continent, with the rest of the civilized world…?

  Suddenly a blinding light stabbed his closed eyelids, but at the very same moment he became aware of fresh air washing over him. He opened his mouth like a fish and began gulping it. He was placed into a sitting position, and, miracle of miracles! …all was, at long last, still. He ventured to open one eyelid a crack. The glare was merciless, but he could tell by the quality of the light that it was late afternoon. Perhaps the glare would gradually decrease as the sun disappeared and he would be able to open his eyes all the way.

  Suddenly his peek at the world revealed the King of Spain sitting across from him. “Oh, Your Grace,” he said, but his words came out in barely a whisper.

  Philip reached over and placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “Do not fret,” he said. “Not everyone was meant to sail the seas.”

  Had de Feria been able to speak beyond a croak, he would have heartily agreed; but then all of a sudden the sickening swaying motion began all over again. Merciful Christ, was this misery never to end…?

  “It is but the swaying of the litter,” said Philip. “We have not far to go, and then you shall rest.” He was in no hurry to hear the tidings from England; he felt certain that his requests had not been heeded, in fact, he suspected that he would hear little but bad news and supplications for his return to England. As if he ever would! Nothing should ever induce him to go back there. He had told Raul that if he ever escaped England’s shores again, never would he go back, and he meant what he said. “Close your eyes now, my friend,” he said to de Feria. “All will soon be well.”

  When he woke again it was to the sound of a crackling fire. At first he was afraid that the scent of wood s
moke might bring back his nausea, but it was not so; it was, in fact, quite a homely, comforting smell. All of a sudden his stomach gave a loud growl; he could not remember the last time he had eaten.

  “Here,” said a kindly voice. “Eat this. It will help to restore you.”

  De Feria sat up in the bed and blinked like an owl. Thanks be to God, the world was no longer spinning. It was full dark outside. The room was dim, lit only by a single candle.

  Raul stood beside the bed holding a plate with some plain biscuits on it. “Do you think you could drink some wine as well?”

  At first de Feria shuddered at the mention of food and wine, but again his stomach made a loud protest to its emptiness. He nodded. He nibbled a biscuit; he took the goblet of wine from Raul’s hand and sipped at first gingerly, and then more avidly.

  “Better now?”

  De Feria tried his voice. “Y-yes,” he said. “Better now.”

  Raul laughed. “You should have seen His Grace and me when we sailed from Corunna to Southampton all those years ago. I assure you, the king knows exactly how you feel, and there is no need to be sheepish. Shall I fetch him now?”

  De Feria nodded; his mouth was full of biscuit, which he was now wolfing as fast as he could. He had just finished the last of the wine when Philip and Raul returned.

  “Ah,” said Philip. “You are looking much better.”

  “I feel better, Your Grace,” said de Feria.

  Philip sat down in a chair opposite the end of the bed, from which de Feria was struggling to rise. “No, I beg you, do not rise. We are all friends here. There is no need.”