The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Read online

  The sudden silence brought Fisher out of his reverie. The scaffold was complete. The headsman, a tall, strong fellow, was grunting under the weight of the heavy wooden block as he carried it up the steps. A soldier was scattering straw on the platform. Fisher raised his head and looked about him. He wondered if More could see him from his cell. One of the Tower ravens called raucously and was answered by another. The sky was blue; the sun was shining. A slight breeze had blown up from the south, bringing with it the still pleasant scent of the river. In all, a beautiful day on which to go to God’s grace. The word must have gone out, because the small crowd of witnesses had gathered. The three men of the drum corps had arrived. It was time.

  Fisher had heard that Henry had watched in disguise the others who had gone before him being hung, drawn and quartered. He looked around; he saw no one large enough to be Henry. Perhaps the king was watching from a window. But perhaps not; mayhap his death was just one more in the parade of men who would be sent to their death in the name of the king’s pleasure, and was of no great moment to the now jaded king.

  Fisher mounted the steps. There was no priest. He himself was no longer a priest. But was that indeed so? The pope and the Catholic world still looked upon him as a cardinal. Even unshriven, he was certain that God would forgive him and take him to his own. The drums rolled, his eyes were blindfolded, and he knelt to lay his head on the block. And then he knew no more.

  Palace of Whitehall, July 1535

  Henry paced the room like a nervous lion. Anne watched, wondering at what moment the volcano would erupt. The doleful tolling of the bells evoked no disquieting emotions for her; the executions would continue until all who opposed them were no more. She had ceased, with the birth of Elizabeth, to entertain squeamish thoughts, or indeed even a semblance of pity, for those who let their prideful piety ruin them.

  “Those bells are driving me to distraction!” Henry bellowed. “Why cannot they have done?” He gulped some wine from a golden flagon and slammed it back onto the sideboard.

  Anne cocked a derisive eyebrow. “You could hardly refuse the people their chance to mourn so greatly respected a man. All of Europe revered him.”

  The hot retort died on Henry’s lips. He had loved Thomas More like a father, for years he had laughed with him, studied with him, sported with him, and depended upon his wise counsel. Then his anger and frustration returned, banishing such sentimental thoughts.

  “He betrayed me for that conniving, lecherous Italian who calls himself Pope Paul the Third! Why, did you know that his first act upon gaining the papacy was to raise his own illegitimate grandsons to the cardinalate? And to add insult to injury, they are fourteen and sixteen! And this is the church that the people beg to kowtow to, and send their hard-earned Peter’s pence to! Well, I have stopped all that!” Henry’s face was almost purple with rage and indignation. His chest heaved in righteous anger.

  Anne knew a fleeting wish that he would drop down dead where he stood. Then would her troubles be over! She would be regent, ruler of England! Her first act would be to throw her ungrateful Uncle Norfolk and her spiteful father into the Tower, followed by the executions of both Katharine and Mary. Her face flushed with the thought of having such power.

  “Are you listening to me?” Henry roared, hands on hips, his face inches from her own.

  “No,” Anne replied. She reclined on her couch and played with the lace at the sleeves of her dressing gown.

  “That scheming Italian who calls himself pope but is nothing more than the bishop of Rome had the nerve to tell me, me, that all would be forgiven, and that I would be welcomed back into the fold, if I would concede on all points and get virtually nothing in return! I hope his ears are still burning from my reply!”

  “Humph,” said Anne. “For certes, I’m sure they are. You have dismayed all of Europe with your antics. Even the Lutherans are shocked.” Anne held a golden pomander to her nose. She had filled it with the strongest frankincense, the mingled odors of London being particularly noisome that hot July. The smell of it brought the Church to mind. “Henry,” she said carefully, “the Church needed reforming, but many believe that you have now gone too far. Indeed, the tide of approval has turned.”

  The king stopped his pacing. Anne was grateful that he was on the other end of the long room when he bellowed his reply. The mirrors and even the crystals of the chandeliers seemed to tremble.

  “Who are you to preach to me of church reforms? Was it not for your sake that all this,” he waved an expansive hand, “has been done? And what have I to show for it, eh? Where are the boys you promised me?”

  “The boys will come in good time, Henry. But what good will it do for you to spawn a nursery full of sons, if they are all deemed bastards by the whole of Europe?” Anne tossed her head and her waterfall of black hair shimmered in the strong light slanting in through the window.

  “I care not for the opinions of the whole of Europe!” he replied in a mocking tone.

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you better had, Sir King! Already Elizabeth is branded bastard from the day of her birth! But, given time, the people, and the Christian world, might perhaps have forgiven you for your tantrums and the laws and the deaths that resulted. But I fear me that with the executions of Fisher and More, you may have gone too far.”

  Henry stopped in front of her. She had always been magnificent in anger, but something had changed. Now she was cold and calculating. He shivered, but he held her gaze.

  “And now,” Anne said, so quietly that he had to strain to catch her words, “after you have denied and dishonored the Church and murdered her sons, now you would rape and pillage her! No one will stand for that, Henry. And don’t bleat at me that this was all done for me! This despoiling of the monasteries for their wealth and lands goes far beyond what is needful simply to get you a son on a new wife.”

  Henry poured himself more wine and took a long draft from the flagon. “And you,” he said, matching her cold quietness, “have you not profited by this despoiling, as you call it?”

  “I?” said Anne. “The only thing I have garnered from all of this is the unflinching hatred of the whole of England!”

  “Perhaps I should change my tack,” laughed Henry. “Perhaps I should burn a few heretics, as your beloved François is doing across the water. And forcing his sons to watch!”

  It was Anne’s turn to shiver. She had had many a frightened moment because of the king of France when she had been a lady-in-waiting to Queen Claude. Of all the men trying to lift her skirts, François had been the most persistent. She had been disgusted to learn that he had pressed his suit so hard because he wanted to compare her charms to that of her sister Mary’s.

  “Henry, you cannot compare the burning of a few heretics to what you have done, and what you are about to do, to the church.”

  As always, thoughts of François raised his ire. “François is a worse enemy to me than the bishop of Rome. I am convinced in myself that he plans to kidnap Mary and marry her to the dauphin.”

  Anne sneered. “That is nonsense, Henry, and you know it to be nonsense. François has made several offers for Mary’s hand, all above board.”

  Henry snorted. “Yes, I know. And he knows he will never get her. I will not give that blackguard a tool to use to invade England at the head of a French army! He will have to find another dupe, or more likely, another way to get his hands on my daughter!”

  “Well, it would certainly help matters if you would cease allowing Bess Holland to influence your thinking!” Anne lifted her chin defiantly; she was on dangerous ground now.

  To her surprise, Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You are right,” he said. “Yes, I must not allow Mary so much freedom. I must move her further from the river and double her guard.”

  “That would indeed be wise,” Anne said, placated. “But I do not believe that the threat lies with France.”

  “Why, what mean you?”

  “I believe,” Anne said, “that
it is far more likely that the Emperor would wish to seize Mary and use her as a tool. He would marry her to a Hapsburg prince as quickly as this” – she snapped her fingers – “and send her back to England with her Catholic husband at the head of an imperial army!”

  Henry’s eyes went wide. “Think you so? And Sir Pope would certainly support such an effort. Anne, you should be on my privy council.” He chucked her under the chin, then leaned over to kiss her. His breath was hot and his hands were searing through the thin stuff of her dressing gown. He bared a breast and began to nuzzle it.

  This was what she had been waiting for; now was the time to press her advantage. “Henry, I have been told by a soothsayer that I cannot conceive while Katharine and Mary live.”

  Henry’s hand slid up her thigh, his fingers searching. “What errant nonsense,” he whispered. “Anne…”

  Still she persisted. “The Nun of Kent proclaimed our marriage cursed.”

  Henry was pulling the tie of his own dressing gown. “And I executed her and all her cronies,” said Henry, his breath hot in her ear. “So much for her predictions!”

  Anne recoiled mentally and only stopped a physical recoil with great effort. After all, there was only one way to get a son.

  Chapter 5

  “…a female heir created almost as many problems as she solved.”

  – David Loades

  Palace of Hatfield, September 1535

  Mary awakened to an unrelieved black darkness and a profound silence. No candle flickered at her bedside. There was no soft breathing to indicate the presence of another living soul. She was breathing. She was thinking. And even though she could not see her hand in front of her face, she surmised that she was still alive. So…not dead yet, then, despite the seeming efforts of Lady Shelton. What day was it, she wondered? How long had she lain here, ill, untended, sick unto death?

  Her stomach gave a mighty growl. For the first time in as long as she could remember, the thought of food did not sicken her. It seemed a lifetime since she had last eaten, or had so much as a sup of ale. Mary stirred, very carefully, lest the overwhelming sickness return. The linen sheet below her, and her shift, were wet and clammy. So her fever had broken at last.

  Mary sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. An involuntary shudder racked her as her feet touched the cold, bare floor. Officially a lady-in-waiting to her sister Elizabeth, she was entitled to a small room of her own. In the black darkness Mary could only picture in her mind the bare starkness of her chamber. Hers was an ill-defined position, really; she was to wait upon her sister, but was not allowed her company for fear she might harm Elizabeth in some way. Ironic, considering that rumours were rife that Anne was still using her considerable influence to do away with Mary and her mother. Poison was a woman’s weapon, and was what Chapuys most feared. He warned her to be very careful what she ate whenever he managed to communicate with her.

  Buy Mary knew that this most recent illness of hers was none of Madame Pembroke’s doing. The last thing Mary remembered, besides an indeterminate interval during which Lady Shelton and her despicable sister, the Lady Alice Clere, had visited her to ascertain if she were still alive, was a fearful row with Lady Shelton over the visit of the Bishop of Tarbes to Hatfield. The bishop had come, on his way to St. Albans, to pay his respects to the Princess Elizabeth, heir to the throne of England.

  How angry she had been then! Aside from the absurdity of the bishop paying court to a two-year-old child, Mary, as well as striving to uphold her pretension that she was the rightful heir to the throne, and Elizabeth the bastard daughter of the king, had an old bone to pick with the bishop. For it was he, long before this whole sorry situation had begun, who had first questioned Mary’s legitimacy. The occasion had been the mooting of her betrothal to the French Dauphin, when she was still a child. The betrothal had taken place after all, but to Mary, the slight was unforgivable and she wanted to meet, and chide, the man who had had the temerity to cast such a slur upon her.

  But Lady Shelton had her orders; Mary was not to have (give!) an audience with Bishop Grammont. Her orders were to present the Princess Elizabeth to the bishop, and that Lady Shelton would do. Mary was to remain in her chamber and be silent for the duration of the bishop’s visit.

  For the first time, something in Mary had snapped, and Lady Shelton had been the target of a display of Tudor temper that she would not soon forget. When Mary did not appear at supper, Lady Shelton shrugged and assumed the girl was sulking; perhaps missing a meal would serve to cool that raging ire! But when was not in her place at breakfast the next morning Lady Shelton, taking Lady Clere as witness, entered Mary’s chamber to find her writhing in a fever.

  Mary was conscious and bid them both leave her be; she neither needed nor wanted any of their tender mercies.

  “Well, then,” said Lady Shelton with a sneer. “Then none shall you have. And no matter, for you are next to the block in any case. Think you that the good king means to abide your stubbornness any further? Methinks it is for certes that the next visitor to Hatfield will come hither to take you to the Tower for not signing your loyalty to the Act of Succession.”

  “Well said, Sister,” added lady Clere. “Why, I heard that the king said that this bastard daughter is his worst enemy. You stand for naught but trouble to the king, your father, and are nothing more than a rallying point for disaffection. The Tower and death are just what you deserve, Girl!”

  Mary regarded these two night crows with glassy eyes through her fever haze. “I am a Princess of England…” she began.

  Lady Shelton rolled her eyes and took her sister by the crook of her elbow. “Come, Sister, let us away,” she said, “before we must needs hear any more of this parrot’s speech. She raves.”

  Mary sighed at these memories. She was thirsty, but she was too weak to stand. Where were her faithful servants? Forbidden her chamber, in hopes that she would die, no doubt. A blind exploration of the table beside her bed yielded neither cup nor candle, nor the means to light one. There was nothing for it but to try to find a dry place on the small bed and lie back. She stripped off her sodden shift and curled up beneath the blanket.

  When next she woke, the room was gray with the dawn and she could hear voices. The door creaked open.

  “My Lady?” whispered a tentative voice.

  “I am here,” Mary replied.

  “Thanks be to God,” said a voice. A flame flickered and drew nearer. Above it Mary beheld the worried face of Dr. Butts.

  “We feared the worst for you, My Lady,” he said. “When we received word of your illness, the king himself bade me ride forthwith. Indeed, we feared the worst.”

  In the growing light Mary made out the shapes of others, but the light was too dim for her to see. “Who is there with you?” she asked. Remembering the discarded shift, she drew the blanket up as far as it would go, as Dr. Butts approached and set the candlestick on the table.

  “It is I, My Lady,” said a heavily accented voice.

  “Dr. de la Sa!” exclaimed Mary. “How fares my mother?”

  Dr. de la Sa laid a finger to his lips. Mary peered beyond him and made out the figures of Lady Shelton and Lady Clere.

  Dr. Butts lifted the candle and studied Mary’s face. Then he turned to Lady Shelton. “How long has the Lady Mary been in a fever?” he asked sternly.

  Lady Shelton pursed her thin lips. “Twelve days,” she replied.

  Dr. Butts’ mouth dropped open. “Twelve…? Madam, you take too much upon yourself. She could have died.”

  Lady Shelton’s eyes narrowed. “But His Grace the king wants her dead. I have heard many say as much.”

  Dr. Butts turned on her angrily. “Do not presume,” he said, “that because you think you know the mind of the queen, that the king is of like mind. You may find yourself a head the shorter!”

  Lady Shelton stood her ground. “I will not be bullied! I have heard that Cromwell himself said that by her very existence, the Lady prev
ents good relations between England and the Empire. If she were to die, it would promote peace between our two kingdoms.” Lady Shelton’s chest heaved in her indignation, and she had thrust out her chin most unbecomingly.

  Dr. Butts stared at her incredulously for a moment. Then in a quiet voice, he said, “Lady Shelton, you astonish me. Kindly remove yourself.”

  “I will not,” Lady Shelton said. “My orders are to be present at all…”

  “I said,” repeated Dr. Butts, “remove yourself or I shall have you removed.”

  Lady Shelton said no more and left the room, her thin lips pressed into an impossible line.

  Dr. Butts turned back to Mary.

  “How did you know I was ill?” she asked.

  Dr. Butts smiled. “Lady Bryant bade Randall Dodd ride to Wolf Hall to find the king’s Progress. I sent word to Dr. de la Sa at Kimbolton, and we met on the road.”

  “Good Randall,” smiled Mary. “No one ever had a more loyal servant or a better messenger. And Lady Bryant does her best for me here against fearsome odds.”

  “Many are willing to serve Your Grace,” said Dr. de la Sa. He refused absolutely to address either Katharine or Mary as anything other than their rank demanded.

  Mary regarded the two men. She knew why Dr. Butts had immediately sent for Dr. de la Sa. If she chanced to die, the king her father did not want to be blamed, as well he might be. Only Dr. de la Sa’s counterbalancing presence and testimony to her good treatment could allay such rumours. She sighed. How had things come to such a pass?

  Dr. Butts placed his hand on Mary’s brow. “When did the fever break?” he asked.