The Baker's Daughter Volume 2

by Bonny G Smith

  De Feria breathed a sigh of relief. The food and wine had restored him, but at the exertion of trying to rise from the bed, beads of cold sweat had broken out on his brow. He sank back gratefully against the pillows.

  “I did not expect you back so soon,” said Philip. “What is the news? What is so dire that you have returned to tell it me personally?”

  It was true that he had returned of his own accord, without a royal summons, and without having completed the mission that he was set by the king himself. But even for the sake of Jane’s company, he had no wish to remain in dreary, disease-ridden England. And this news of the marriage suit of the Swedes for the hand of the Princess Elizabeth was best brought by himself…at least he thought so. Also, the request for the return of the ships needed to repulse a possible Scottish invasion should be made in person. It was true that the request came not, strictly speaking, from the queen’s own lips; but at the present time, Cardinal Pole and the Lord Chancellor must needs speak for Her Grace, since she refused to speak for herself.

  He sighed. If he must report failure, it was best to do so first, before broaching other issues with the king. “Your Grace,” he said. “I am sorry, but I fear me that I was unable to persuade the Princess Elizabeth to marry the Duke of Savoy. As Your Grace knows, the princess has expressed a strong desire never to marry. I believe this to be mere histrionics, rather than maidenly coyness. The difficulty is that should Her Grace ascend the throne, she shall be in a position in which none can force her to marry if she truly chooses not to do so. I tried most vehemently to make the princess see the absurdity of such a position. But I doubt, Your Grace, that the Almighty Himself could convince the princess that the sky is blue were she not already inclined to believe it to be so. Her Grace is haughty, proud, and highly opinionated. She is a very vain and clever woman. She must have been thoroughly schooled in the manner in which her father conducted affairs!”

  Philip snorted. He was well aware not only of the Princess Elizabeth’s stubbornness and capacity for obstinacy but of her high opinion of herself and her abilities. Mayhap it would be politic at this point simply to cut his losses and support her position. It was now painfully obvious that there would be no heir of his body to keep England in the Hapsburg fold; he could not force the princess to marry, and his wife refused to do so on his behalf.

  And it was not only Mary who must shoulder the blame for the loss of Calais; he had borne his share of the censure as well, and it had considerably weakened his position in England. He had been unable to secure any further support for the war; even his pensioners, men such as Pembroke, Petre, Arundel and Paget, refused to support his requests and even went so far as to raise difficulties in that regard.

  All things considered, he must find a way to stay on Elizabeth’s good side; supporting her stance on marriage was the only way that he could see of doing that.

  “It is doubtful, Your Grace,” said de Feria, “that the English Parliament will approve any marriage for Her Grace that is aligned with Hapsburg interests. However…” he paused for effect.

  Philip looked up expectantly. “Yes?”

  “Well,” said de Feria, “it is entirely possible that a marriage proposal from some other quarter may find more favor.”

  Philip’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “What other quarter?”

  “King Gustavus of Sweden has sent a formal delegation to England seeking the hand of the Princess Elizabeth for Prince Eric.”

  Philip was silent for a moment. And then he said, “There is no need to fear such a proposal. The princess has said that she will not marry and I am inclined, despite Her Grace’s formidable capacity for dissembling, to believe her.”

  “But Lutherans, Your Grace!” cried the Count. “Would not the English Parliament support such a match? I fear me that less than half of the English people are truly Catholic. Hardly anyone attends Mass anymore.”

  Philip smiled and shrugged. “It matters not,” he said. “The princess will agree to marry no one. I would wager my kingdom on it.”

  Raul, if not de Feria, believed it; Philip was a cautious man and not one given to gambling.

  “There is another matter, Your Grace,” said the Count.

  Philip accepted a goblet of wine from Raul, sipped it, and set it aside. “Indeed? And what is that?”

  “The Lord Chancellor requests that Your Grace return as many ships of the English fleet as possible, to defend the Scots border. There is intelligence that indicates an imminent threat.”

  “God’s wounds!” cried Philip, employing in his irritation a blasphemous English oath that he hardly knew that he knew. “Out of the question. Our victory at Gravelines was followed quickly by defeat at Thionville, and we are presently engaged in a battle for possession of Brest. I can spare no ships. You may tell the Lord Chancellor, and anyone else who believes the Scots to be a threat, that Scotland will never attack England at the behest of Mary of Guise. She has filled all the important offices of the Scottish government with her own countrymen; the French have settled on Scotland like a plague of locusts. Not to mention the fact that Her Grace has her hands full with the Lords of the Congregation and the Protestants they represent. The Scots are heartily sick of the Auld Alliance and Madame of Guise at this point. The English need have no fear of any attack from that quarter.” He snorted his derision. “I trow that the Scots wish the French would leave Scotland as heartily as the English are looking forward to seeing the back of the Spaniards!” He retrieved his wine cup, drained it and set it down with a bang. “You may go back and tell the Lord Chancellor that I will be returning no ships until I have fulfilled my mission here in France.”

  Count de Feria’s stomach gave a sickening heave. “Go b-back?” he asked.

  Hatfield Palace, August 1558

  After a delightful spring, the summer had proved cold and wet. The inclement weather exacerbated the new ague that had England in its merciless grip, and in almost every parish across the land, burials exceeded baptisms. The crops lay neglected in the sodden fields. But even if the weather had not been so miserable, there was no one to reap the harvest; which was a great pity indeed, for despite the foul weather of late, it promised to be a very good one. Half of the people of England were afflicted with the terrible sickness, and those who were not must care for those who were.

  And still the burning of heretics continued. Why, wondered Elizabeth, could her sister not see that what angered God was not the Protestants, but the taking of innocent lives? It was true that in the beginning of the great religious persecution for which Mary was responsible, many high-ranking clergy had been burnt. But now those being burnt were mostly illiterate men and women who had made enemies spiteful enough to accuse them of heresy whether they were guilty or not. After so many years of clerical confusion, should an ignorant villein be burnt alive simply for an inability to recite the Creed in Latin? It was beyond ludicrous, it was tragic. If only…! But she must bide her time. From the looks of things, it should not be long. Her sister had been ill off and on all summer long, each turn for the worse sapping her waning strength; it was taking her longer and longer to recover from each bout of sickness.

  Elizabeth sat in the window seat watching the rain pour down in sheets. She longed to discuss certain pressing issues with Cecil, but there would be no walk to the great oak tree on the hill today.

  “Your Grace,” said a soft, serene voice.

  Elizabeth turned to see Blanche Parry, one of her ladies. She loved Blanche for herself, but even more so because she was part Welsh; she was part Welsh herself through her father, and all things Welsh made her feel closer to him. No, that was not quite true; her father as a father had been a dismal failure, but as a king…that was something different. She was heir to the throne because she was her father’s daughter, the daughter of a king. Solely in that regard, she reveled in anything that made her feel closer to Henry VIII.

  She yawned and stretched. “Another dismal day, Parry,” she said. “I confess
that I should be right glad for a sight of the sun.”

  Blanche curtseyed and replied, “Indeed, Your Grace. But even so, Sir William awaits without in his litter and begs a word with Your Grace.”

  Good Cecil! Along with a firm belief in the stars, Elizabeth also believed in clairvoyance; at least where her factor was concerned. It seemed that he could, and did, often read her mind.

  Elizabeth arose and said, “Good Blanche, a cape, if you please.” Mistress Parry departed for the robing room, and Elizabeth for the front of the palace, where Blanche would meet her.

  Caped and hooded, she stepped out into the deluge. Three steps took her to the waiting litter. The sedan chair was drawn by a horse at both front and rear; the canvases were drawn down and tied tightly against the rain. A flap in the center opened and she stepped inside.

  Elizabeth threw back her hood while Cecil tied the canvas back down. “So now you add mind reader to the roles of factor and councilor,” she said with a smile.

  Cecil shrugged. “It is only good English rain, Your Grace. No need to postpone our assessment of the walnut grove.”

  “Humph.” Elizabeth dried her face with a linen square. “And the horsemen?”

  “Trustworthy,” replied Sir William. He banged his stick on the ceiling of the wooden litter, which jolted into movement.

  “I am vexed by some words spoken to me by the Count de Feria,” said Elizabeth. “King Philip offers the might of Spain to support my claim to the throne, should it come to that. But we want no Spanish armies here!”

  Sir William smiled. “It is that very subject that I wish to discuss with Your Grace,” he said. “Sir Thomas Parry has been approached…cautiously…by Sir John Thynne of Wiltshire. He offers his support should Your Grace require it. Sir John has a goodly muster of men. And his loyalty is beyond reproach. Aside from proclaiming Queen Mary at Warminster in 1553…at the queen’s own orders…he has remained in obscurity throughout the reign of your sister.”

  “Jesu,” said Elizabeth. “And so it begins! But we shall need more than that. I have pondered the situation at great length and I believe Sir Thomas Markham to be key to any military force that might be needed.”

  Sir William regarded his protégé. “You astonish me,” he said. “Commander of the garrison at Berwick! Certainly he commands hundreds of men, battle-ready due to their proximity to the Scots border. But the north could possibly yield thousands if approached by one they trust; Markham should be requested to canvas the northern magnates for their pledges of support. I shall send Parry to him. We dare not put such in writing.” Why had he not thought of such a thing?

  “The north is mostly Catholic,” said Elizabeth. “But it is my firm belief that even the Catholic of England prefer myself to the Spaniard or the Scottish Queen.”

  They bumped along in silence for a while, with only the monotonous sound of the rain on the roof in their ears. The litter tilted slightly; they must be approaching the last hill before the descent into the valley where the walnut grove was.

  “I have drawn up a list for Your Grace’s consideration concerning your Council.”

  “Tell it me,” said Elizabeth. “And then destroy the list.”

  Sir William smiled. “I have myself committed it to memory,” he said. Never had he ever been in such accord with another human being, not even with his dear wife, Mildred.

  When he had finished his recitation, Elizabeth considered for a few moments. “A goodly list,” she said. “I shall think on it.”

  “I have news from the Continent,” said Sir William. “The English fleet has aided the king in his quest for the capture of Dunkirk by beating off a French attack.”

  “I am glad to hear that someone is getting good use of the English fleet,” she said dryly. Philip’s refusal to lend England back her own ships rankled. If she were queen…! But she was not. At least not yet. Elizabeth snorted inelegantly. “At least there is not another Calais to be lost. But it galls me to think of English blood being spilt in the cause of Spain.”

  Sir William nodded. “I agree. Many feel that the loss of Calais is the worst failure of the queen’s reign.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “Her childlessness is that.” It was a paradox that the childlessness that she laid at her sister’s door as her worst failure as queen was the very thing that might bring herself, someday, to the throne. And then where would her own refusal to marry lead? One could not have an heir of one’s body without a husband. And she had long since concluded that a husband was a commodity that she could not afford. Ah, well…she was young. Plenty of time to worry about that if…when! …she gained the throne.

  The litter jogged along and suddenly Elizabeth realized that the rain had stopped. She lifted the flap and looked out. She longed for a clear night so that she might gaze at the stars. She had been told that her father had also loved the stars and spent many happy hours gazing at them with his favorite, Sir Thomas More.

  “Have you seen the great comet that has been in the sky of late?” she asked.

  “Indeed, yes,” replied Sir William. And he was well aware of its significance; the appearance of such phenomena often predicted the deaths of great personages. God send that the end was near and that soon He would see fit to place this lively, intelligent young woman onto the throne of England. Things could not go on for much longer as they were; if they did it could very well spell England’s doom.

  Suddenly the wind rose and the clouds parted. “Look!” cried Elizabeth. “The sun!” Tonight she would go to the roof of the palace with her astrolabe and view the comet again, with its tail so long and bright. She liked to think that the comet was God’s message to her. What else could it be?

  St. James’s Palace, November 1558

  “Your Grace, you must name the Princess Elizabeth as your heir. There can be no more delay. The fate of England is at stake. Do you wish to die knowing that you are responsible for visiting civil war upon your unhappy land?” With Reginald sick unto death in the rooms just below the queen’s, the distasteful task of convincing…forcing if necessary! …the queen to finally, unequivocally name her successor fell to him.

  Nicholas Heath, as Lord Chancellor, possessed a remarkably flexible conscience in matters of religion, for an archbishop; his first loyalty was to England and to the Tudor succession. And suspected Protestant or not, that meant Elizabeth. The queen simply must give in and sign the document naming her sister as the next sovereign of England. Old King Henry’s will was just that; a will. A statement of his desires. It was not a legally binding mandate. And the Act of Parliament naming Elizabeth as heir was open to dispute; a former law making the princess illegitimate and ineligible to succeed had never, through an oversight, been formally repealed. The Catholic faction in England, and it was thought that fully half the country, especially in the north, were truly Catholic, upheld the belief that the princess was a bastard and their loyalty was therefore suspect.

  It had been a disappointing summer. Mary had wandered from place to place, sometimes sick, sometimes shaking off the maladies and melancholy that plagued her, but found nowhere that she truly felt comfortable and at home. When she had rallied at Greenwich after hearing of the arrival of the Swedish delegation, it was thought, she had believed herself, that there was some reason for hope. Even Philip’s anger was better than his indifference; and he had been very angry…or had at least pretended to be…about the arrival of the Swedes. Short of calling her a liar, her husband had expressed his incredulity in no uncertain terms that Mary had been unaware of the Swedish suit before the arrival of King Gustavus’s emissaries. She had hoped that his anger would spur him to return to England with Emmanuel Philibert in tow, to reprise his own suit to Elizabeth, to try once again to convince her sister to marry where he desired her to. Even the heartbreak of owning up to the fact that the entire ado was a preparation for her own death was overridden by the possibility of seeing Philip again. But the whole affair died down as quickly as it had flared up. The Swedes
were subtle and knew when they were not wanted; they departed diplomatically and with their dignity intact. There was no further talk of Elizabeth and Eric.

  And so from Greenwich she had, after all, gone to Richmond. Even Anne of Cleve’s ghost would have been comforting company. While there she had fallen ill again, and when she was well enough to leave, she had wanted to return to London. But only Whitehall was habitable and she disliked Whitehall. Westminster and St. James’s Palaces were being sweetened and the Tower was out of the question; she would never willingly abide there after its threat had hung over her for so many years. And so she had gone to Hampton Court, only to fall ill yet again.

  At first she suffered from nothing more serious than the early onset of her old autumn illness. Her black depression was like a pall that hung over the entire court. And then Jane fell ill of the new ague. Mary nursed her as devotedly as if she had been her own child, calling in the royal physicians and sitting vigil with her favorite maid of honor, just as she had done with Anne. Jane was young and strong and was soon on the mend. But when the fevers and chills struck Mary, the entire court was thrown into a panic.

  She had shaken the illness off and rallied; by then St. James’s Palace was ready to receive her and it was there to which she had removed. Once there she relapsed, again suffering the intense fevers and chills all now knew to be the ominous symptoms of the new ague.

  As ill as she was, the Council had bullied her mercilessly, until finally she agreed to make a codicil to her will; but she would say no more than that she bequeathed her throne to the next rightful heir. She had stubbornly refused to name Elizabeth as that heir.

  And so it had been for almost a month.

  # # #

  Sir Nicholas had never thought to be glad to lay eyes on the Count de Feria; he disliked all Spaniards, although he went to great pains to conceal the fact. But all efforts to convince the queen to name the Princess Elizabeth as her heir had failed. De Feria, now officially the Spanish ambassador to England, was the only hope of the Lord Chancellor, the queen’s Council, and the Parliament. It would have been far more preferable for the king himself to have come to talk sense into the queen; but short of that, de Feria would have to do.