The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Read online

  “Your Grace,” said Cromwell. “At least some good has come of the situation. The various acts that we have passed in Parliament as a result of the widening breach with Rome amount to a true revolution, a sea change in English autonomy.”

  Henry drained his wine cup and slammed the goblet down onto the table at his side. “What good is any of that without a legitimate son and heir?” He rose abruptly and began to pace the room once again. “This next child must be a son. It must be!”

  The men exchanged uneasy glances.

  “What is it?” roared Henry. “What is amiss now?”

  The clergymen looked stricken and would not meet the king’s eyes. It was up to Cromwell.

  Cromwell raised his eyes to the king’s. “There are rumors, Your Grace.”

  Henry blanched. “Rumors…of what?”

  Cromwell sighed. “It is being bruited that the queen is no longer with child.”

  “But…how could that be?” Henry clasped his hands and began working his fingers together. “What is the source of these rumors?”

  Cromwell shrugged. “The matter is delicate.” He glanced towards the supposedly celibate clergymen. Henry stared at him round-eyed. “These rumors usually start with the queen’s women, Your Grace.” He licked dry lips. “The queen’s…well, the state of her linen is always closely watched.”

  “Good God,” Henry expostulated. If anyone knew, it would be they. For a moment all was silent. “Get out!” he roared. “Get out! Leave me be!” If this were true, what hope was there? Why was God punishing him so? And that black-eyed witch had better have a good explanation for this. After all he had done for her, there was still no boy in the gilded cradle!

  The men quietly left the room, leaving the king staring out of the window.

  Cranmer crossed himself and whispered a prayer. God help Anne Boleyn. If this rumor were true, only God, or the Devil, could help her now. He wondered which it would be.

  # # #

  Anne heard the commotion and knew that the moment had come. The king was making his way to her apartments; he was almost there. She heard the metallic swish of the halberds and suddenly, there he was, red-faced and angry. How many times over the past years had she had to endure this situation? The answer was, many; but early on she had not been the subject of his ire. Now she was, more and more often, and it was truly frightening. But she would never let him see her fear. That would be fatal.

  “Is it true?” he asked breathlessly.

  Anne ignored the king and his question, idly picking out a tune on her lute as if he weren’t even there. He approached and snatched the lute out of her hands. His first inclination was to smash it, to dash it against the wall the way he would have liked to dash her. But even in a rage he still had respect for a musical instrument. He tossed the lute onto a nearby chair.

  “God damn you! Is it true?”

  Anne looked up at him, meeting his measure defiantly. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  For a moment she thought he would strike her. Instead he assuaged his rage by pounding one mighty fist into the other. “I cannot believe that this is happening to me again! You are not capable of a son, Madam!”

  “Oh, God’s blood, Henry!” cried Anne in disgust. “Did you ever stop to think that the fault might lie with you?” Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Anne forestalled him. “And don’t throw Henry Fitzroy up to me again! The boy is sickly and isn’t likely to live the year out. I know a consumptive’s cough when I hear it! Hardly the healthy boy that you are convinced you can father! You’ve had two wives and have been able to father a healthy boy with neither of us! Or girl, for that matter! Mary is not exactly in rude health either, is she?”

  Henry sputtered, searching for words cruel enough to match his troublesome queen’s. “Ha! Even if you could carry another child to term, which evidently you cannot,” he bent and shouted this last word into her face so loudly that her ears were ringing, “no court or ruler in Europe would recognize it anyway! The child would be called bastard, just as Elizabeth is, and just as you are called whore!”

  Anne rose and looked the king straight in the eye. “And whose fault is it that I am called whore? Did I ask for this? I did not. I would have been perfectly content, nay, perfectly overjoyed, to marry Harry Percy! It is your fault that I did not! You wanted me, you had to have me, and here I am! You ruined all my hopes and dreams, and for what? So that you can now stand here and blame me for what is certainly not my fault!”

  It was always the same now. He used to find her ability to meet his anger with her own attractive. Now it simply annoyed him. As Henry railed on, Anne fingered the heart-shaped diamond and ruby brooch he had given her back in 1531. Back when he was still hopelessly besotted with her. It was clear that he no longer was.

  She had once vowed revenge on him for taking her away from Harry. But it seemed now as if her dreams of vengeance had in them the seeds of her own destruction. This was a game she could not win. Only a son could save her, and how could she get a son with a man who now detested her as much as he had once loved her? Her eyes strayed to the golden table fountain she had given him as a New Year’s gift. Well, those days were past.

  “…and if I had it all to do again, Madam, I would not marry you!” roared the king.

  “Nor I you,” she rejoined, “except that I was given no choice in the matter! If you’ll recall, I never wanted to marry you in the first place! It was Harry Percy whom I wished to marry, not you!” Her eyes flashed, but the fight had gone out of her. She only parried his thrusts now so that he would not think her weak. She expected another tart rejoinder, but suddenly, he went silent.

  Henry stared at her contemptuously. Harry Percy. Yes, she had wanted to marry that unsophisticated dunderhead. Well, he should have let her, by God. But still, it gave him an idea. Perhaps she had had a pre-contract with Percy. Perhaps he could be rid of her on those grounds. There had been some ugly rumors about her dalliance with Percy; ugly enough, and believable enough, to cause her betrothal to James Butler, the heir to the earldom of Ormond, to be dissolved. This needed thinking on. Ha! That would teach her to throw Percy in his face!

  “And I would like to know,” Anne said, “why the people hate and revile me, and insist on blaming me for this whole debacle, when it was your base desires that brought it all about to begin with!”

  Henry smiled. Not a pleasant smile, but a nasty, speculative one. “That, my dear queen, is because the people love me, and hate you. And that is something that will never change.”

  “I wonder at that,” she retorted, “for it is folly to expect God to grant you a son when you are constantly breaking His commandments so brazenly. Do you pray for a son when you are grunting and sweating atop Mistress Holland, pray tell?” She glared at him through narrowed eyes. Henry always sought to convince himself that no one knew of his amours. What a royal fool he was! The accusation discomfited him, as she knew it would. But how long could she hold her own in this iniquitous situation? The more she annoyed the king, the more the people in her intimate circle moved away from her, wishing to dissociate themselves from the royal ire. Even her blood relatives would desert if she lost favor with the king. If she lost Henry, she would lose everything, maybe even her life. The only way to survive the calamity that her life had become was to produce a living, healthy boy. Could she? Could he? There was only one way to find out.

  Anne reclined on her couch and smiled. “You are truly magnificent when you are angry, My Lord.” Ever susceptible to flattery, Henry smiled back. The fool! She thought.

  But Henry too knew that there was only one way to get a son, and that it was this exasperating woman who must produce one for him. Very well, he would bargain with the devil for now. Cromwell had impressed upon him more than once that as long as Katharine lived, he could never be free of Anne. But once Katharine died, and from the reports he was getting, she could not live much longer, he would take great pleasure in visiting his remorseless vengeance upon this Jezebel to
whom, in a moment of madness, he had tied himself.

  Chapter 4

  “The rejoicing was genuine, but restrained, for the child was a girl.”

  – David Loades

  Chelveston, North Hamptonshire, September 1534

  The landscape was dreary with a gently falling drizzle. Although the leaves were just beginning to be touched with gold and crimson, the trees they passed were obscured by the curtain of rain. It was hard to distinguish between the earth and the sky, for all was a leaden gray. It was a shame, really, and had she been of a mind to ponder it, Katharine would have been disappointed in the rain, having spent so little time out of doors during the years of her confinement. But what cared she for the weather, when she was on her way at last to see Mary, who she had not seen for so many a long day?

  Mary must be very ill indeed for Henry to relent at last and allow her go to her daughter’s side. The thought that she might be hieing to Mary’s death bed made her heart twist. But she had been reconciled to death for a long time, both her own and her daughter’s. Mary had always been delicate, and the past few years she had fallen into a pattern of becoming ill with the onset of autumn. Add to that the many things that plagued the poor girl’s peace of mind, and it was no wonder she ailed.

  Katharine let the sodden leather flap fall back into place; there was nothing to see outside. Her physician, Dr. de la Sa, sat across from her in the rough conveyance, his chin on his chest in a doze. Only her personal servants and her gaolers knew that she had left Kimbolton, and none would rest easy until she returned. Katharine drew the woolen coverlet about her more closely; the day was already turning chill.

  It was not far from Kimbolton to the little hamlet of Chelveston, but the mud made the going slow. At last they ground to a halt in front of a house that was small by some standards, but was the largest in the little village. The house had one other advantage, standing at the far end of the common. No one would be likely to see the arrival of so important a visitor.

  The door to the house opened and there was the welcome face of Dr. Butts. Suddenly Katharine felt tears spring to her eyes. It was so good to see old friends!

  “Oh, my lady,” said Dr. Butts. “How good it is to see you again!” Katharine ignored the form of address; Sir William Butts was too close to the king to disregard his command, even when there was no one to hear. Katharine extended her hand, and the doctor handed her down from the carriage and into the small foyer of the house.

  “Well met, my dear Dr. Butts,” she said, “My eyes are glad of you, sir.” Katharine laid an urgent hand upon the doctor’s sleeve. “Where is my daughter? How does she?”

  Dr. Butts tried unobtrusively in the gloomy foyer to wipe his own tear-filled eyes. The sight of his beloved queen moved him deeply. “I dare say that the sight of Your Grace will be half a cure to her.” Neither of them noticed the slip. Dr. Butts extended his arm to indicate that they should proceed into a small sitting room, where a fire danced in the hearth. The house was made of stone and felt damp and cold; the fire was bright and cheerful in contrast.

  “Amen to that,” said Dr. de la Sa. He had always been of the opinion that the health of both the royal ladies would have been much improved had they been allowed each other’s company. But then, the king did not wish his wife, yes, Dr. de la Sa repeated to himself, his wife, to improve in health. Rather he wished her to decline. What else could explain the progressively dilapidated castles, the reduced staff, the increased vigilance of her keepers to make sure that the queen had no luxuries and few comforts? He knew why he had been summoned to the Princess Mary’s sickbed; it was so that if the girl died, Dr. Butts, and therefore the king, could not be wholly blamed.

  Katharine spied a jug of wine and some cups on a table near the door. There seemed to be no servants about; she assumed the role of hostess and poured three cups, handed them about, and then took a chair near the fire. She had been in England for most of her life, but she was Spanish, from a warm climate, and she always felt the cold.

  “What, in your opinion, ails the princess?” asked Dr. De la Sa, as he sat back on the shabby settle. He had never addressed either the queen or the princess, or referred to either royal lady, in any manner other than that which they deserved, and he was not about to start now. “And what is the cause of it?”

  Dr. Butts pursed his lips. “I have always been of the mind that the Princess Mary’s illnesses are somehow related to her state of great anxiety. He paused. “Did you know…that is, were you aware…that the earl of Wiltshire and Sir William Paulet visited the princess, insisting, yea, demanding, that she swear the oath to the Act of Succession? Her Grace, of course, refused to do so. But I fear me that their visit terribly upset her. It was bruited that the princess was ill following a change of residence, but this is not, strictly speaking, true. A change is always an upheaval, but the princess is used to such. No, I believe it was this visit that caused her to fall ill.”

  “And no wonder!” exploded Katharine, slamming her wine cup down on the little table next to her chair. “The princess is no longer a minor. Were the king of a mind to, he could have her put to death for treason for refusing to take the oath!”

  “There is something else,” said Dr. Butts. “When the princess fell ill, Lady Shelton allowed her own apothecary to treat the princess. The nostrums he administered made the princess even worse. The princess became convinced in herself that he was trying to poison her.”

  Dr. De la Sa snorted. “Perhaps he was. On whose orders I shall not say!”

  Katharine looked around uneasily.

  “It is all right, Your Grace, we are quite alone,” said Dr. Butts. “But I do not believe this to be the case.”

  “Why not?” asked Katharine bitterly. “Has not The Concubine been threatening for years to poison both myself and the princess? And she is not the only one who would as lief see us in the grave! Cromwell certainly would, and I am coming to believe that the king himself would be nothing loath!” Her chest heaved in her indignation.

  “But, Your Grace, surely you do not believe such a thing of His Grace, the king,” said Dr. Butts, his expression pained. He loved the queen, but he served the king.

  Katharine softened. She knew what it was like to love the king. And this man, loyal servant that he was, loved his king. “No, I do not believe that the king would take steps to murder the princess or me. But of the others, I can believe anything.”

  The two men were silent, each thinking his own thoughts. Dr. De la Sa stared at the ruby red of the wine in his cup, swirling it around, while Dr. Butts, chin on fist, stared into the fire.

  “See here,” said Katharine. “Let us not mince our words. The princess should have been married long since, and looking forward to holding her child in her arms. She should be enjoying life at court as the heir to the throne, as the royal princess she is. Instead, she has been forced for years to lead a life of semi-seclusion, she is denied the company of a loving mother, and is constantly tortured with the fear of poison and dispossession. She knows not from one day to the next whether her end will come by the illnesses which plague her or by the axe. No wonder she is sick unto death!”

  The two men exchanged uneasy glances. The queen was right. Neither knew what to say, so both took refuge in silence.

  “And now,” said Katharine with a sigh, as she rose and smoothed her gown, “I would like to see my daughter.”

  # # #

  Katharine followed Dr. Butts down a dark hallway, until they reached a small room at the rear of the house. When the door to the room creaked, Mary opened listless eyes, expecting to see Dr. Butts with another posset. Suddenly her eyes flew wide. “Mother!” she cried. “Is it really you?” She was afraid of delirium; this illness was different from her others.

  Katharine ran the few steps to Mary’s side, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her into her arms. “My Mary,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes. “My precious child!” Katharine leaned back and peered searchingly into her daugh
ter’s face. “How thin and pale you are! Oh, would that I had been able to care for you myself!”

  The Tudor temper flared in Mary’s breast. “Would that you had!” she cried. “Then I would not have come to such a pass! My father must believe me at death’s door. What else could explain your presence here?” Mary scowled.

  Katharine shifted her weight and leaned back against the headboard, gathering Mary into her arms. Mary lay her head on her mother’s breast. It was their favorite position, and one that mother and daughter had been wont to indulge in since Mary was a child.

  The bitterness left as easily as it had come as Mary looked up into her mother’s loving face. “How glad I am to see you at last! How I have missed you, Mother!”

  “And I you,” Katharine replied. Relief flooded over her; she had expected to find her daughter in much worse case. Perhaps Henry’s permission for her to visit Mary after so many years of keeping them apart had less to do with Mary’s health and more with the emperor’s threats.

  “Think you that he has had a change of heart?” asked Mary.

  Katharine snorted her derision. “Your father? Indeed no,” she said. “I suspect he wishes to placate your cousin Charles. Even kings can only tweak noses so far, and then they must relent.”