The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Read online

  “Well,” said Mary. “I care not why he has allowed you to come to me, I care only that he has! What will people say, I wonder?” Mary laughed and wrinkled her nose. It was a childish gesture that she was not aware of making, but the sight of it made Katharine’s heart swell with love. She held Mary even more tightly, and began to rock her back and forth.

  “People will not be saying anything at all,” said Katharine. “The king has stipulated that no one, absolutely no one, must know of this visit. Secrecy is vital.”

  “Such a hypocrite he is!” said Mary. “So he cannot even let the world know that he has done us a kindness for fear of angering The Concubine.”

  Katharine nodded. “It will be bruited that he continues to keep us apart. But do not be fooled. Your father no longer fears angering her. I think he rather despises her. This could work to your advantage. My very presence here confirms, in my mind, your father’s need to placate the emperor. If he must needs do that at the expense of The Concubine, no matter! You may also be seen to be treated better by your father, and soon. If so, do nothing, in your pride, to anger him.” Katharine shook off her frown and smiled. Her time with Mary would be short, she knew. “But what care we for all that? We have not much time. There are things that I would speak of.”

  The room was quiet except for the pitter-patter sound of the gently falling rain, and the intermittent bleating of sheep. Such peaceful sounds, thought Katharine. How she longed for a peaceful existence. She should have been at court, looking out for Charles’ interests, and holding her grandchild in her arms. If a son was not God’s will, why could Henry not have waited for a grandson? They were not old. There was time for a grandson to grow up…

  “Mother?”

  “I am sorry, my dear,” said Katharine. “My mind will tend to wander these days, and I am apt to brood. Mary, have you heard aught of a plan for Charles to back an Irish insurrection?”

  Mary looked blankly at her mother. She shook her head. “I know nothing of it. What does it mean?”

  Suddenly the room filled with golden light. Katharine lifted the sheepskin covering the window and looked out. “The rain has stopped. A pity. I was hoping that it would continue and make the roads impassable.” She turned back to Mary. “Chapuys has been trying to convince Charles to back an Irish insurrection against England. If this were to be successful, the Irish would then, in their turn, support likewise a revolt in England.”

  Mary stared wide-eyed. “For what purpose? That would be treason!”

  Katharine shifted around to face Mary. “It would be indeed. Listen to me, Mary. Chapuys means well, but you must never, never, be found to be complicit in any such scheme.”

  “I would not dare,” said Mary. “What did my cousin say to this?”

  Katharine rose and tied back the window covering, letting the late afternoon light stream into the room through the window. With the change in weather a sharp wind had arisen; Katharine let it sweep the sickroom odors away. Mary pulled her rough blankets close, sitting now, her arms clasped about her knees.

  “Charles had the good sense to recognize such a plan for the dangerous folly it is. But Mary, I must warn you. Escape is no alternative.” Mary started to shake her head in protest, but Katharine continued. “Hear me out, Daughter. I understand your desire to flee the unpleasantness of life under the aegis of The Concubine’s relatives. At least I am spared that indignity! But Mary, I have no pretensions to the throne.” Katharine peered at Mary intently.

  Mary released her hold on her knees and Katharine took both her hands. “It is not an impossibility, Mary. You are his heir. What has Anne Boleyn given him, for all this trouble and heartache? Another girl! The people love me, Mary, and they love you. Bide your time. Be patient. One never knows what God has in store.”

  Mary frowned impatiently. “I know that which my royal father has in store for me! He will not even visit me when he comes to see Elizabeth! He will never allow me to succeed.”

  Katharine sighed. She ran ringless fingers through hair that was rapidly graying, dislodging a strand that hung down around her ear. “Your father is moving farther and farther away from God, Mary, for the sake of having his own way. Oh, to be sure, he does not view it this way. Among his many talents is a profound ability to justify amply to himself any course of action he chooses to take. This I know well. But God will not be confounded, Mary, nor will he be mocked. I am, and have been for some time, afraid for your father’s immortal soul. But if he continues on his present course, I fear me that he will be lost beyond recall. Do not think that it does not pain me to say this. But love aside, and I do love your father, despite all, I must view the situation as a queen. There is certainly a possibility, Mary, that you might someday be queen of this realm, by right of blood. I must ask you to promise me, promise, that you will never seek to leave England. To do so could lose you a throne.”

  Mary saw a strange light shine in her mother’s eyes. She was adamant, to be sure, but there was something else; it was as if some mania had her in its grip. Ah, well, thought Mary, she has been through so much, and I am her only hope.

  Mary drew a deep breath. “All right, Mother, if that is your wish. I promise.”

  The light in Katharine’s eyes dimmed almost as suddenly as it had flared. “That is as well, then.” She leaned back, and once again Mary lay in her mother’s protective arms. A knock at the door made her jump.

  A muffled voice through the door said, “My lady, it is time.”

  “Oh!” cried Mary. “Must you go so soon?”

  Katharine took Mary’s face in her hands. She knew that this might very well be the last time she ever saw her daughter on this earth. “Look to yourself, my precious child.” She kissed Mary’s brow and drew away; she opened the door without looking back. She did not want Mary to see her tears.

  Hampton Court Palace, October 1534

  Anne stepped carefully from the slippery stone water steps onto her barge. The rowers were dressed in her livery of purple and blue, and on each breast was sewn a badge with her device of the crowned falcon. But the trappings of royalty no longer made her heart sing. Only a son, or at least the promise of another child, could do that. She sighed and walked to the private enclosure at the rear of the boat, which was draped in elaborately embroidered cloth of gold. She pulled up one side and entered.

  “So you came!” cried Mary Boleyn. Her expression of complete despair made Anne’s heart ache.

  Anne tried to muster a smile. “Of course I came,” she said. “I would not invite you and then not come.”

  Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “You are ashamed of me,” she cried on a sob. Why else would her sister have sent the royal barge for her at a landing far downstream, and then meet with her in the privacy of the barge on the river, instead of in the palace?

  “I am not ashamed of you, Mary,” said Anne testily. She must try to keep her temper in check. Mary may not be a useful ally, but Anne could afford to make no more enemies. “I am not ashamed,” Anne said softly, taking Mary’s white, dimpled hand into her own.

  But even as she said the soothing words, in her mind she was thinking that if she were ashamed of her sister, there would be ample reason. Mary had played the whore to the entire court of France as a young girl, paving the way for many an unpleasant moment for the young Anne at that same court. Anne’s only defense against insistent French courtiers had been to say, “My sister may be a whore, but that does not mean that I am one as well!” She had been forced to seek the protection of Her Grace, Good Queen Claude, to ensure that she left the French court a virgin. And then she had met Harry Percy, and he had escorted her back to England. But was not what she did with Percy on that idyllic journey home from France enough to brand her a whore as well? No, she protested, it was not! We were in love; we planned to marry! We…

  “Anne?” said Mary softly.

  “I am sorry,” said Anne, with a sheepish smile. “I fear me that my mind has a tendency to wander these days.”
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  Poor Anne, thought Mary. But I tried to warn her. I did try. “What thoughts distract you so?” asked Mary kindly.

  Anne’s temper flared again. “Well, if you must know, thoughts of you, for one thing! God’s teeth, Mary, what possessed you to do such a foolish thing?”

  Mary’s flagrant behavior at the French court not being sufficient to shame her family, hard upon her arrival home she had become the mistress of the king. When he had tired of her, Mary, having asked for no boons, had been flung back to her relatives without so much as a groat. To silence their pleadings, the king had married her off to plain Sir Harry Carey, an impecunious non-entity, by whom she had two children. Her husband had then died of the sweat, causing Mary to foist not only herself once again, but her children as well, onto the unwilling charity of her family. Now she had committed yet another folly by marrying Sir William Stafford, who was not only far beneath the social class of the Boleyns and the Howards, but was a second son at that.

  Mary could take no more; suddenly she burst into tears. “Oh, Anne, how could you? I thought you had forgiven me…” Mary cried, her words made almost unintelligible by her heaving sobs.

  Anne was cold to all emotional outbursts save her own; her loathing of them had its roots in Henry’s frightening rages. She was at first taken aback by the violence of her sister’s grief, then made cool by it. Best to let her cry it out, she thought.

  But then something happened; Anne had a fleeting vision of herself in the depths of despair over Harry Percy. Who had been the only one to soothe her when she cried her heart out night after night? Who had been the only one to understand and sympathize? Anne heaved a heavy sigh. She went to her sister’s side and took her in her arms.

  “There, there,” she said. After all, Anne knew that she herself was not blameless in this dreadful situation. She knew that Mary, in desperation, had appealed to Henry for help. Mary and Stafford were heavily in debt. Without help they were both in danger of being flung into the Fleet. A fine thing to happen to the sister of the Queen of England! Henry, indifferent to the plight of his ex-mistress, had not even graced Mary’s pleadings with a refusal. Mary had then appealed to her Uncle Norfolk, her father, her brother, and finally, to her sister, the queen, all to no avail. And what had my response been, thought Anne? She bit her lip as she remembered the scathing letter she had written to Mary, banishing her from court.

  “There, there,” she said again. Anne lifted Mary’s chin with her finger and with her other hand, smoothed the stray honey-colored hair from her sister’s tear-stained face. She pulled a linen square embroidered with forget-me-nots from her sleeve and dabbled at Mary’s eyes and nose. “There now,” said Anne. “No more sniveling. See what I have for you!” Anne turned and pulled a parcel from underneath the couch on which they sat.

  Mary, as easily distracted as a child, said, “Oh! What is it? Is it for me? It’s very heavy!” She pulled at the string and the gold cloth fell away, revealing an over-sized, bejeweled and lidded golden cup “Oh, how very beautiful!” she cried, turning the cup this way and that, watching the jewels wink in the muted sunlight.

  “Look inside,” said Anne with a smile. Inside the cup was a jeweled velvet pouch. Mary set the cup aside and pulled the golden strings to open the pouch. When she turned it over, a seemingly never-ending stream of gold sovereigns fell into her lap.

  “Oh, Anne!” she cried. “Oh, Anne!” Tears filled her eyes. “We are saved!” It was enough money to pay their debts and keep them comfortable until…and the cup and pouch could be sold, as well. “Oh, Anne…you asked why I married William. I will tell you. It is because I love him truly.”

  Anne stared at her sister incredulously. “You love him? You love him? Are you mad? Love is not for such as we.”

  Mary clutched some of the golden coins in both hands; the rest lay in her lap. “You sang a different tune when you were in love with Harry Percy.”

  Anne opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it; one never knew what ears were listening. She longed to shout that she loved Harry Percy still, but what good would that do? “You are right,” said Anne, “but had I married Harry Percy I would have been countess of Northumberland, and would not have been reduced to beggary for the sake of it.”

  Mary looked at Anne with her sad, amber-colored eyes. “That is as may be,” she replied. “But I had rather beg my bread with William than be the greatest queen in Christendom.”

  Anne smiled. “Touché,” she said. “But let us talk of other things. You have been from court. Henry has a new mistress. And I will wager that gold sovereign in your hand that you cannot guess who she is.”

  Mary was not quick-witted like Anne, and was not good at guessing games. “No,” she said seriously. “I cannot.”

  Anne settled back against the soft velvet cushions. “It is Bess Holland.”

  Mary’s mouth was a round “O” of astonishment. “Never! But what of our Uncle Norfolk?”

  Anne grunted. “Hmph,” she said. “As we well know, when the king of England asks for a girl, she cannot very well say no. Besides, Bess and our Uncle Norfolk have been known to quarrel. Perhaps there are a few sour grapes that Bess wishes to stamp upon.”

  “Perhaps,” Mary replied. “But what of you?”

  “I care not with which harlot the king passes his time.” Anne looked away as she said this, reaching out to pull the string that rolled up the window flap. A breeze wafted in, smelling of the river. Mary knew that Anne did care, and her heart went out to her sister.

  “What bothers me most is that Bess has taken it into her mind to use her position to restore the Lady Mary to the king’s favor.”

  Mary frowned. “To what purpose?”

  “I know not,” said Anne. “Mary Tudor can never be anything but my enemy. If the king takes his daughter back into favor, I am doomed.”

  Mary said nothing. She knew that people thought her slow-witted and stupid, but it was not so. She wanted to tell Anne that it seemed she was doomed in any case, but she dared not.

  “On the strength of this renewed favor, courtiers have begun visiting the Lady Mary to pay her their respects. The king even allows her to ride in a velvet litter, and permitted her to stay on at Greenwich on her own, after the court had departed,” said Anne peevishly. “I was much annoyed.” Anne was silent for a moment, then she turned to Mary. “You are wondering,” said Anne vehemently, “why I do not ask you back to court, are you not?”

  The non-sequitur caught Mary off guard. “I…”

  “I will tell you why,” said Anne. “It is not that I have not forgiven you for acting foolishly. God knows, I have acted foolishly in my time. It is because it is safer so.”

  Mary reached out and took her sister’s hand. So she did know, she was aware, that her position had become very dangerous.

  “I understand, sister.”

  Tears filled Anne’s eyes. She snatched her hand away from Mary’s and clutched both of her own arms. “I am blamed for everything, by everyone,” she said. Suddenly a laugh escaped her lips, but it was not the mirthful laugh Mary knew; it was maniacal.

  “Whenever anything goes amiss, when the weather is bad or the harvest is poor, it is always because the king put the old queen away for me, or that I am a witch. For pity’s sake, Mary, if I were a witch I would have killed them all with a wave of my hand! I would…”

  “Anne,” whispered Mary. “Anne, do not. Please.”

  Anne stopped and her face became expressionless. “You are right,” she said. “I…” Just then Mary shifted in her seat and her shawl slipped away. The tiny bulge was unmistakable. Oh, dear God, she thought; no wonder her sister was so desperate. What was to become of them? Between the king and their own family, they were both ruined.

  Just then the barge scraped the stone of the water steps. They had sailed back to Mary’s landing.

  Mary gathered her coins and her cup and smiled her beautiful smile. “Thank you, Anne. I will…we will be all right now, William
and I. Thank you.”

  Anne helped her sister to rise in the rocking boat. Mary had never been a good sailor. “Do you need an escort?”

  “Thank you, no,” Mary said. “William will be waiting for me.” She kissed Anne and a boatman helped her up the slippery stairs. She turned back at the top of the landing and waved.

  “God keep you,” said Anne. She had done her best; only He could help Mary now.

  Palais du Louvre, Paris, November 1534

  The queen of Navarre lay back on her velvet couch, the gossamer fabric of her robes trailing to the floor. The sun streamed in through the windows, making the golden fleur-de-lys that decorated the walls wink and shine. She eyed her brother carefully. He had entered the room reading a dispatch, and had not looked up from it.

  “Hmph,” he grunted.

  Marguerite waited. He would tell her in his own time. Her eyes strayed to the window. The day was fine for November. Some of trees still held stubbornly to autumn leaves of red and gold, orange and brown. Perhaps she could persuade François to go riding with her later, when the sun was at its warmest.

  She worried about him; he worked far too hard. Marguerite smiled to herself, recalling François as he had been when he had first ascended the throne of France. All he had wanted to do then was play, and to rival in his exploits Henry of England, himself a young king in those days. So much had happened in the almost twenty years since their cousin Louis died and left the throne to him. So many births, so many deaths, so many wars. They had lost their dear maman. But they still had each other, thanks be to God.

  “Hmph,” grunted François again.

  Curious now, Marguerite took a shot in the dark. “What has Henry of England done now?” she asked mischievously. François looked at her in astonishment just as she plucked a fat, purple grape from the stalk she held and popped it into her mouth.

  “I should have you burnt for a witch,” he said with a smile. “How did you know this concerns Henry?”

  Laughing, Marguerite tossed François a grape. “You get a certain look in your eyes,” she replied. “What is to do? Has he discarded yet another wife?”