The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Read online

  Brandon sighed. “I feel as if I will be betraying Mary,” he said, shaking his head.

  Henry laid a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Nonsense. Get you a new wife, man, and get you some more boys on her. You are Duke of Suffolk, man, not some yokel with nothing but a donkey and a plow to leave behind you when you die.”

  Brandon laid his hand upon the king’s. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “Yes, I am certain of it. And Lady Catherine will be so pleased.”

  Henry winked. “And you will be nothing loath, eh, my friend? They say that the best thing to do after falling from one’s horse is to remount. Go and mount your new mare and have no regrets. My sister was a royal princess and a queen. Whilst the woman in her may not have been able to stomach your remarriage with the lady, the queen in her would have understood. Do this with a glad heart, Brandon, and worry no more.”

  The practical soldier in Brandon knew that the king was right. But he knew a fleeting moment of regret for the bereaved husband.

  Ampthill, Bedfordshire, July 1533

  Katharine bit down hard upon the leather strap between her teeth as Dr. de la Sa made the incision into the tender flesh of her foot. As he did so, she felt through the grinding pain a strange sensation and heard a sound almost like a pig’s bladder deflating. Yes, that was it; she remembered being a small child, playing with her sister Maria in the dusty streets of Santa Fe. The two little princesses had blown up a pig’s bladder and were knocking it back and forth with their sticks when suddenly it burst, making a sound much like that which Katharine had just heard emanate from her painful, swollen foot.

  Dr. de la Sa stood up and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Your Grace is most fortunate,” he said. “The wound had festered. The incision will allow the poison to drain. I…I am sorry for the pain I caused you. Your Grace was very brave, if I may say it.”

  Several thoughts flashed through Katharine’s mind at that moment. Dr. de la Sa, who had been her personal physician for years, still addressed her as Your Grace and would never be able, she knew, to do any differently. She hoped that this stubborn adherence to the past would not someday cost him his life.

  Then she thought about what he had said about her bravery, and once again her mind flashed back to the hot, dusty streets of Santa Fe in Granada in southern Spain, where her mother, Queen Isabella, had been engaged in a ten-year struggle to drive the Moors from their last stronghold on the Iberian Peninsula. Her mother had built Santa Fe, the City of Faith, in order to house in more comfort the Spanish soldiers fighting her religious war, and to send a strong message to the enemy in their shining white Moorish fortress of Granada; Spain is here to stay. During their years in the little impromptu city, the Spanish princesses had seen, had lived with, the ravages of war. Katharine recalled the many times that she watched wide-eyed as a soldier endured an amputation with little more than a measure of whiskey and a leather strap, similar to the one she had just removed from her mouth, to help him through it.

  Katharine held the strap out and regarded the deep impressions that her teeth had made in the soft leather. Would that she could purge the pain in her heart by such a simple expedient as a little nick with a knife!

  “I am not so brave,” she replied. “And had it not been that I wished not to summon forth Dona Maria, I would have howled like a banshee!”

  Dr. de la Sa rolled his eyes. The difficult personality of the queen’s formidable lady-in-waiting, Maria de Moreto, was beyond even his patient ability to cope. “I know what Your Grace means,” he said with a conspiratorial grin.

  The queen had lost her sewing needle and then found it a few days later sticking up between the floor boards. Unfortunately, she had found it with her bare foot. Wishing not to make a fuss, Katharine said nothing until her foot had become so swollen and red that she could not walk upon it. Maria fussed, as was her wont, and tried remedy after remedy to no avail. Finally admitting defeat, Maria called upon the doctor to try his hand. Katharine had wisely chosen a time for Dr. de la Sa to come when Maria would be absent, to avoid any further ministrations from her determined lady-in-waiting.

  Dr. de la Sa was just binding up the wound when Maria came hurrying in. “Your Grace, what is this? Why did you not call me? I could have attended you and helped the doctor.” Without giving either Dr. de la Sa or Katharine a chance to reply, she placed a plump hand to her heaving chest (she was very fat and had run all the way from the courtyard) and said, “His Excellency the Imperial ambassador has just arrived. He will be here momentarily.”

  “What deplorable timing the man has,” said Katharine, almost to herself. “Maria, give me my good shawl, if you please.” Henry had never overtly refused her nephew’s ambassador’s requests to attend upon her, but ever since Henry married Anne, he had insisted that the ambassador delay his visit to Katharine upon one excuse or another. Katharine wondered what had made the king relent.

  She winced as Dr. de la Sa gently placed her foot upon a cushioned footstool. “Your Grace, it would be wise for you to stay off of the foot for as long as possible,” he said.

  “Yes, I will do that,” she replied, eyeing her foot. The swelling had already abated considerably. Then she smiled her sweet smile and said, “I am certain that it will mend more quickly now. Thank you, Dr. de la Sa. Maria, remove those soiled cloths and show the ambassador in.”

  # # #

  Eustache de Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador, bowed low as he entered the room, looking over his shoulder towards the open door as he did so. “Your Highness,” he said, rather more loudly than necessary. His eyes darted to her bandaged foot. “I hope I do not find Your Highness indisposed?”

  She waved a derisive hand. “A mere trifle,” she replied. Her foot was throbbing painfully, and felt much worse than the dull ache that had accompanied the swollen, festering wound. But it would heal cleanly now that she had submitted to the knife. “If you cannot address me properly, Your Excellency, I am afraid that I must dispense with your company, as much as that would pain me.” Katharine liked and respected her imperial nephew’s ambassador to the English court. She knew Chapuys to be an ardent supporter of her cause. But he was first a diplomat.

  Casually, Chapuys strolled back to the heavy oak door and gave it a substantial push with his foot. It swung silently on oiled hinges, closing with a soft thud. When he replied, his voice came out in barely a whisper. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but even the walls have ears. One cannot be too careful.”

  Katharine sighed. She refused absolutely, on principle, to engage in discussions with anyone who would not recognize her status as queen. Having the courage of her convictions had led to some very difficult situations, not the least of which was the animosity between herself and her keepers at Ampthill. The members of her household were under strict orders to address her as Her Highness, the Princess Dowager of Wales, and, except for her Spanish attendants, they all refused utterly to use her rightful title, Her Grace, the queen of England. She would therefore have no truck with them. She communicated with her keepers, for to her they were nothing more than such, only through intermediaries such as Maria de Moreto, Dr. de la Sa, and her sewerer, Francisco Filipez. This annoyed her guardians considerably, and they treated her accordingly.

  Katharine composed her features into a mask of a smile and said, “To what do I owe this visit, Your Excellency? It has been long since I have had the pleasure of seeing you.”

  Chapuys was a man of action, for all his polished diplomacy. He came straight to the point. “The Lady Mary is ill and asking for you.”

  The mother in Katharine longed to cry out at this news, to ask what the matter was. But the queen said coldly, “Indeed. I know of no such person.”

  Chapuys glanced nervously at the door. Lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper, he said, “Your Grace, my apologies. I feel these days as if I am leading a double life! I refer of course to the Princess Mary.”

  Katharine nodded. “What ails her? Is she all right?
”

  “It is the same malady that seems to strike Her Grace every fall when the weather turns. The princess’s bowels are in distress, and she has…female problems. The court physicians believe that the early onset of illness this year may perhaps be due to the princess’s extreme distress over the recent proclamation depriving her of her status. She also grieves most sorely over her aunt’s death, and for her separation from yourself.”

  At the thought of her sister-in-law, tears welled up in Katharine’s eyes. She, too, missed Henry’s sister Mary most sorely. The French Queen, as Mary Tudor had been known due to her brief tenure as queen of France, had been Katharine’s best friend ever since she was fifteen, when Katharine arrived from Spain to marry Prince Arthur.

  Mary Tudor was the only person besides Katharine herself, and her daughter Mary, who had dared to openly defy the king over his attempt to displace his wife and daughter with Anne Boleyn and her bastard. Well, that was not quite true, she mused; Sir Thomas More and Bishop John Fisher had also done so, the former covertly and the latter openly, to their great peril. And Reginald Pole still languished on the continent because of his refusal to accept Henry’s stubborn blustering on his “Great Matter”. But what were these few against so many willing to say anything, do anything, to keep the king’s favor, and to keep their heads upon their shoulders?

  Katharine sighed. “What do the princess’s doctors say?”

  Chapuys, who had been musing to himself during Katharine’s silence, looked up in confusion and said, “Forgive me, Your Grace?”

  “About Mary. What do the doctors say about my daughter? How ill is she?”

  Chapuys shrugged. “She is not so very ill. The king has kept you from each other for many a long day, but now His Grace is willing to move the princess closer to you, and to allow Dr. de la Sa to attend her, if the two of you will but recognize Cranmer’s decree.”

  “I see.” Katharine narrowed her eyes. All I need do, she thought, is deny my marriage, agree to brand myself a whore and my daughter a bastard in the eyes of the world, and I will be able to do what any common farmwife has the right to do; attend her sick child. Still, it was tempting. Why continue to fight? The English people loved her and despised Anne; they were firmly on her side. But the people were as powerless as she was herself. The people who could really help her, Pope Clement and her nephew, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, had no intention of doing so. Too many other issues were at stake. She believed, indeed, everyone believed, that her situation was hopeless and that she was to be denied justice. So why stand so stubbornly upon a principle? Why not just give in and retain Henry’s support, if not his love or his person, get her daughter back, live in the comfort that the king’s widowed sister-in-law had every right to expect?

  She realized that her foot was almost asleep and sought to shift it on the footstool upon which Dr. de la Sa had placed it. As she did so, a jarring pain gripped her. The thought of the soldiers at Santa Fe flitted once again through her mind. She saw her mother’s face, not in armor on her horse, as the legends told, but praying before the makeshift altar in her quarters at Santa Fe, which were not much more comfortable than the meanest soldier’s. Would her mother have given up in face of opposition? She would not.

  “I am sorry,” said Katharine with a sigh. “But I cannot concede on any point, even if it means that I would be able to see my daughter again. But tell me, good Chapuys, why now? Why does the king choose this time to yield? The princess has been ill many times since this whole tragedy began.”

  Chapuys shifted uneasily in his chair. Katharine was a smart woman; he could not help thinking that she was far too clever by half. The king, alas, could deny her, make her unhappy, mistreat her; but he had never been able to win an argument with her. “It is this, Your Grace. The king is desperate for your capitulation before the qu…the concubine delivers her child. If you would but give way now and recognize the divorce, it would pave the way for many others to accept the situation, and for them to recognize the coming child as heir to the throne of England.”

  Exactly that which she had been trying to avoid! Katharine struggled to keep her face unreadable and her demeanor calm. “And you, Your Excellency? What is your counsel?”

  “Need I even say it?” Chapuys replied. “Your situation is desperate, madam, and no mistake. Among other things, there are rumors that the king plans to force the princess into a convent. If such benign threats will not suffice, the king will try to implicate you in this unfortunate business of the Nun of Kent.”

  Katharine guffawed. “That horse will not gallop and Henry knows it. He has already tried to implicate Fisher and More, and was unable to do so. Thinks he that I am stupid? I have never laid eyes upon the woman, I refused her correspondence, and I have publicly denounced her as a fraud.”

  “True, true,” Chapuys replied. “But if such roundabout tactics fail, the king will have no choice but to attack you frontally. He will accuse you of inciting the people with your blatant disobedience. If that does not work, he will seek to undermine you through attacks on your servants and…others whom you love.”

  Again Katharine snorted derisively. “The fact that he blusters and threatens such things only further brings to light his desperation. When my mother was fighting the moors when I was a child, she said once that she knew that the end was near when her spies started reporting the absence of the sounds of dogs barking and horses neighing inside the fortress. Figuratively speaking, His Grace is preparing to eat his horses. I assure you that I shall do nothing to stop him!”

  Chapuys looked at her in wide-eyed shock. “But Your Grace, do you not fear what His Grace might do if…if pushed too far? The princess fears being poisoned, even as I know you do. And that is the least of what could befall you!”

  “Do I fear these things?” she repeated thoughtfully. “No, I do not. Shall I tell you why? It is because my conscience is clear. The validity of my marriage and the legitimacy of my daughter are issues that only God Himself can decide. Pope Clement is Christ’s vicar on this earth, and so these decisions must be made by him, and only him. Henry cannot decide these matters, nor can I express any opinion that would have any value at all on Henry’s misguided proclamations. I can only ask that you beg His Grace on my behalf not to do anything that would sully his own conscience any further.”

  Chapuys winced. “Do you mean you fear that the king might go so far as to irrevocably harm you, or the princess?”

  “Let us not mince words, Chapuys. You are asking, do I fear execution? Again I must say, no, I do not. I fear no one who has power only over the body. I fear only He who has power over my immortal soul.”

  Chapuys regarded the queen, really looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. She was haggard, and her skin was pale. Her eyes were hollow with lack of sleep, and there were dark circles underneath them. Her nose seemed pinched; she was probably not eating well due to the very real threat of the poison he knew that the Princess Mary also feared.

  But no one, not even the lady herself, could deny that she was brave. He was glad that he was not in the king’s position. As powerless as she was, Katharine was an adversary to be reckoned with. Chapuys knew a fleeting moment of contempt for his master, the Holy Roman Emperor and this courageous woman’s blood nephew. But even as his anger flared it died. Charles was pragmatic enough to realize that he could not throw caution, and peace, to the winds on his aging aunt’s behalf, as much as her neglect might pain him. It was indeed a very sorry situation.

  “Do not distress yourself, Your Excellency,” said Katharine kindly. “You have done all that you can to help me, this I know, and I understand my nephew’s position, truly I do. But I must just go on being stalwart here in England, even if it is to no avail. I must trust to the king’s good mercy not to harm myself or the princess, or to suffer others to harm us. In my heart of hearts, I know Henry to be incapable of doing so.” She smiled. “Perhaps that is why I am so brave in my defiance!”

  “Oh,
Your Grace…” said Chapuys with a catch in his throat. “Would that I could…”

  “No, my good, good man,” she said, laying her hand atop his. “Do nothing. Do as your master bids you. Say what you must and do what you must. I shall be all right, I assure you.” But despite her reassurances, Chapuys would not meet her eyes. “What is it?” she asked.

  “His Grace bade me say that if you would not agree to his terms, you were to be moved back to Buckden.”

  “Jesu,” she said. “That unhealthy place. Perhaps you are right, perhaps he does mean to do me an injury. But nothing so obvious as public execution! He wishes me to die slowly, as if it were no fault of his own. Very well.”

  “Your Grace,” he said. “I will speak with your imperial nephew. Surely he…”

  “No,” said Katharine. “Do not make things any harder for Charles. When I said that I understand his position, I meant it. I do understand. There is more at stake here than you realize.” Once more the fleeting vision of the bleeding men, the dead and dying soldiers at Santa Fe appeared in her mind’s eye. She could not save Henry’s immortal soul; that was beyond her now. And incite war, to better her own lot or Mary’s, she would not. “Tell my nephew to do nothing on my behalf,” she said. “Tell him that he has my unquestioning love and forgiveness.”

  Chapuys wiped a tear from his eye. “I will tell him, Your Grace.”

  Greenwich Palace, September 1533

  The music seemed slightly out of tune and over-loud for the small chamber. But then these days, nothing seemed right. Anne caught her brother George’s eyes from across the room; she raised an eyebrow for the briefest of moments, and he responded by starting across the room to her.

  He took her hands in his, searched her eyes and said, “What ails you, sister?”

  Anne patted the cushioned settle. “Sit beside me for a while,” she said with a smile. Then her expression darkened and she said, “What does not ail me? This bulk discomfits me. I cannot dance. I cannot even play my lute, for where would I put it?” She looked down in distress at her distended belly. Before George could draw breath to respond, she continued. “The king’s eye begins to wander. Father will not even speak to me for Lord only knows what reason, Mother follows his lead, and our Uncle Norfolk, I am certain, plots my destruction. And as if all that were not enough, I look like an inflated pig’s bladder, with these swollen hands and feet, and this puffy face! And what if…”