The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 7

  Lady Anne Shelton peered anxiously out of the litter. Mary was nowhere to be seen. The girl was a constant irritant, and Lady Anne was right sorry to have her in her charge. There was always a fly to spoil the honey, it seemed. Lady Anne had been overjoyed to learn that she had been chosen to head the Princess Elizabeth’s household, which was a signal honor. She had not immediately grasped the implication when she had been informed that the Lady Mary was to wait upon her new sister at Hatfield, and would also be in her charge.

  Lady Anne felt that Mary had arrived at Hatfield understandably angry, but the girl was so obviously pious and well-mannered that Lady Anne had not expected any trouble from her. And then had begun all that nonsense about the girl taking her meals alone and refusing to place herself in any situation where Princess Elizabeth took precedence over her. It made awkward practically every hour of every day. Each time the Lady Mary found herself unavoidably in such situations, she loudly proclaimed her rights as she saw them, upsetting the entire household.

  At first Lady Anne tried to accommodate Mary, and for that her now-royal niece, Queen Anne, had rounded on her most unfairly. Mary was to be treated as the cursed bastard she was, proclaimed the haughty queen. She was to be slapped and punished as any lady-in-waiting would be by the chatelaine for not behaving properly and following orders. The whole situation placed her, Lady Anne, in a most uncomfortable position, and her life had gone from smug complaisance to a daily, unpleasant challenge almost overnight.

  Lady Anne peered once again outside the litter, and this time she saw Lord Cobham on his horse. “Sir!” she called, in a hissing whisper. “Come hither!”

  Lord Cobham trotted up alongside the litter. “Madam?” he enquired.

  “Where is the Lady Mary?” she asked. “Can you see her?”

  Lord Cobham turned in his saddle. “I can, but just barely. The going is very slow.”

  “Oh, what am I to do?” wailed Lady Anne, wringing her hands.

  Lord Cobham was an eminently practical man. He did not speak unless spoken to; he believed that was the best way to stay out of harm’s way in the powder keg that life at the Tudor court had become. When he was informed that his services were required in the Princess Elizabeth’s household and that he would be leaving court, he was glad. It was an honor to be chosen to serve the new heir to the throne; heir, that is, until the chit had a brother, which God willing, would be soon. But life at court had become too uncertain for comfort, what with this faction and that battling for preeminence. Better to be on the fringe of such a roiling, boiling pot of trouble and not in the cauldron itself. But who would have thought that even here, trouble could brew so fast and get out of hand so quickly? Lord Cobham was not a man given to expressing his opinions, but Lady Anne had asked for his advice, and she should have it.

  “The Lady Mary ought to be forced her into her litter and have done,” he said without preamble. “Indulging her whims is dangerous. There have been rumors that the emperor might whisk her away to the continent and use her there as a focus for disaffection.”

  Lady Anne was kind at heart, but she was not in a position where she could afford to indulge her sensibilities. She blanched to think of what it would mean if the Lady Mary were to escape to her imperial cousin while under her aegis! The king would be so angry that he might even execute her, and the one thing she was certain of was that her niece could not be counted upon to speak for her. Lord Cobham was right.

  “Stop the cavalcade at the next likely spot,” she said firmly. “It is time for a break in any case. We will let her catch us up. Before we set out again, I want her placed into my own litter.” Lady Anne looked about her at the comfort of her litter. It was lined with velvet and had cushions. It was not as luxurious as that of the Princess, nor should it be; the Princess Elizabeth’s litter had a canopy of cloth of gold, and the princess was tucked inside of it with her wet-nurse in a multiplicity of furs to keep out the March chill.

  The Lady Mary’s litter was the plain leather conveyance of a waiting woman, with no special amenities beyond a woolen blanket. Mary had refused to ride in any but the litter of a princess, and so was walking all the way from Hatfield to Eltham. It was pitiful, really. She would be doing the girl a favor by forcing her in out of the cold. Lady Shelton sighed. This really was an impossible situation; whatever had she done to deserve it?

  # # #

  The day was gloomy, with a watery sun glowing yellow through the thick clouds from time to time. It was with great irony that Mary listened to the songs of thrush and lark as the birds flitted by on their business overhead. To her ear, such were the sounds of spring, and they were being cruelly mocked by the cold wind and the gray, sticky mud through which she slogged. Mary regarded with dismay the hems of her gown and cloak, which were mired almost to the knee, and her riding boots, which were so sodden that they threatened to come off with every sucking step she took.

  It was cold for the end of March. It would have been far better had the ground been frozen, for then the going would have been easier on foot; but it was not. The biting wind was as cold as it could possibly have been without freezing the ground. Still Mary walked determinedly on. She had stated emphatically at the outset of the journey from Hatfield to Eltham that she would not ride in the plain litter of a lady-in-waiting; in fact, she would not ride at all, if it meant walking every step of the way, in any but the princess’s litter. She was, after all, ostensibly her sister’s handmaiden. Lady Shelton could have allowed her to ride in the litter with her sister. But she would not for fear of what it might imply. It was indeed true that since the Concubine’s visit to Hatfield earlier in the month, things had gotten measurably worse for her. But how much worse they could get Mary could hardly have fathomed at the time.

  She was miserable at Hatfield. At first she had taken her meals alone in her room for fear of poison, always making sure to hand-feed the food to one of the rats or mice that lived in the walls, and which she had befriended. But when Anne found out about this privilege from Lady Shelton, she had demanded forthwith that Mary be forced to take her meals in the great hall with everyone else. This necessitated the constant speechifying that irritated all and sundry so much, and which had turned all except Mary’s own serving maid against her. But repeat Chapuys’ speech she did, morning, noon, and night, whenever she was forced through the circumstance of the moment to allow Elizabeth to take her own rightful place as princess.

  # # #

  Mary looked up; the little cavalcade was far ahead of her now. The litters and horses looked like dots on the distant horizon. She knew that she was preventing the whole procession from making the amount of progress they had hoped to make. At this rate, they would arrive at Eltham well after dark. It was a pity they could not have stayed at Hatfiled, but that place was in desperate need of sweetening after so many months of occupation, so it was for Eltham that the household was bound.

  When Mary looked up again, the little party looked closer; they had stopped and were waiting for her to catch up. Well, let them wait, thought Mary, as her thoughts strayed once again to Anne Boleyn.

  Anne had come in February to Hatfield to visit her infant daughter. Mary had avoided all contact with her, as had they met publicly Mary would have been forced to recognize Anne as queen; not to do so, at this point, was treasonable. So she had sought refuge in the quiet, pretty little chapel, as was her wont. But it seemed that even there she was not safe. Anne had come in on silent feet. Mary had not heard her until she was practically in front of her, so intently had she been praying.

  “How now,” said Anne familiarly, as if addressing an old friend. Mary was, after all, her step-daughter. Had there been none of the impediments and animosities that must perforce exist between them, they would possibly have had an easy friendship.

  As it was, Mary rose from her knees, stood as if pole-axed, and said nothing.

  “See here,” said Anne with a smile. “There is no need for this bitterness between us. What is done, is do
ne. Why cannot we be friends? If you will only acknowledge me as queen, and submit to the law that is the Act of Succession, I will speak to the king on your behalf. Your position will be restored, and then all will be well between you and your lord father.”

  In a flash Mary realized that Anne was making an overture; she could have insisted that Mary curtsey to her, but she did not. Instinctively, Mary’s eyes strayed to Anne’s belly. Rumors had reached Hatfield in late January that the Concubine was once again with child. And what if this time, it were the long-awaited prince…?

  Mary stiffened her spine. Through her mind went the news, just recently received through Chapuys and her maid that the Rota had finally reached a verdict in her mother’s case, and that Clement had, at long last, pontificated on her parents’ marriage. They had found for Queen Katharine, but it was a hollow victory. If only Clement had ruled years ago, before her father had marched so far down the road to perdition! As it was, it was too late. Her mother had remarked that she did not know who was guiltier, Henry for initiating the wickedness of the divorce, or Clement for hesitating so long in denying it.

  Anne stood eagerly awaiting her answer. Well, thought Mary, she should have it. “I am sorry, my lady,” said Mary. “I know of no queen of England save my mother. But if you, as the king’s mistress, would speak to my father on my behalf, I should be very grateful.”

  Anne stood as still as a statue for a moment, and her face first blanched and then turned red as fire in turn. “You will be sorry for that remark,” she hissed, then she turned on her heel and left the chapel with as much dignity as her wounded pride and her intense anger would allow.

  Not long after, men had come and stripped Mary’s rooms of the finery she had taken with her from New Hall, and they had confiscated her jewels. The men even took all of her clothes, save two gowns and her riding habit. When Mary protested, the two men explained sheepishly that their orders were to take all of Mary’s jewelry; that order included any gowns sewn with jewels, which most of hers were.

  So now, here she was, standing on principle and endangering her health by walking miles in the cold and damp, and ruining one of the only two dresses that remained to her. She had left Hatfield destitute of almost everything she needed for her comfort. When her few remaining servants had been dismissed due to Anne’s spite, Mary had sent her faithful page, Master Dodd, to appeal directly to the king on her behalf. So far, her plea had gone unheeded; even the anniversary of her birthday had come and gone with no word from her father. It seemed to her that he had abandoned her and her mother as thoroughly as if they had never existed.

  Early in March came the news that her cousin, Henry Brandon, was dead. He was the only son of her beloved Aunt Mary, who had passed away not nine months before. He was so young to die, she thought; just three days shy of his eighteenth birthday. The earl of Lincoln had been first in line for the throne until the Act of Succession. Mary often wondered why her cousin had been excluded completely from that perfidious law. It was obvious why her half-brother Fitzroy had been excluded; he was a bastard. But in his seeming mania, her father had barred all from the succession save Anne’s children, born and unborn.

  It was frightening in a way. The Act stated that if Henry were to die, Anne would be regent for the heir. No one doubted that if that day should come, Anne would have herself and Katharine executed at once. What could her father be thinking? Rumor had it that he did not even love Anne anymore, that, in fact, he loathed her. So why invest so much potential power in her hands? Was the woman a witch, that she could so influence a king who now cared nothing for his Great Folly, as he had once called her?

  Lost in her thoughts, Mary did not realize how close she was coming to the bedraggled litters and riders, nor had she noticed that Lord Cobham was waiting for her in the middle of the road. Well, that meant nothing to her; she continued to walk, ignoring Cobham and the others.

  Suddenly she felt strong hands seize her, and before she knew what was happening, she had been lifted bodily off the ground as if she weighted no more than a bird, and thrust unceremoniously into Lady Shelton’s litter. Lord Cobham slammed the door shut behind her and with that the litter jolted into movement.

  She started reciting her protest, but Lady Shelton raised a hand and interrupted her. “Please,” she said. “Spare me another rendition of this parrot’s speech!”

  Mary stopped abruptly. There were, after all, only the two of them present. And then to Mary’s vast annoyance, tears sprang hot and wet into her eyes. I will not cry, she thought. I will not. I must endure, as my mother has endured for so many years. But there was a difference, and Mary knew it. Her mother was old and in ill health; she, Mary, was young with her entire life before her. She was simply not capable of the same patient resignation that her mother displayed. She fought back the tears, and rode the rest of the way to Eltham in silence.

  Chapter 3

  “Her main significance was as a token of hope.”

  – Antonia Fraser, “The Wives of Henry the Eighth”

  Eltham Palace, April 1534

  Mary gazed disconsolately out of the window of the small cupboard-like space that was her room in Eltham Palace. A wave of bitterness swept over her as she recalled times in the past when she had stayed at this very palace in the royal apartments now occupied by her bastard sister.

  She heard a baby crying off in the distance. It must be Elizabeth; there were no other infants in the palace. Tears of frustration filled Mary’s eyes. She should be married by now, with children of her own. For a moment her arms seemed to ache in their emptiness. It simply wasn’t fair. But then, none of what was happening either to her to or her mother was fair. She straightened her back as she resolved for the hundredth time that she would accept without question or complaint whatsoever God gave her, and not regret that which He withheld. He must have His reasons for all of this. It was not for her to question His purpose.

  Mary gazed through tear-filled eyes across the deer park to the edge of the woods. The day was very fine. It was exactly the sort of day upon which, in the old days, she would walk for miles or ride her horse. But those activities were forbidden her now. Her stable had long since been disbanded, and she was forbidden to walk outside the garden for fear that she would escape. Escape! If only it were possible!

  She sighed and picked up her Book of Hours. Well, at least she had not been forbidden the consolation of her religion. Not yet. It was her only solace in this intolerable situation. But who knew what the future held? In her mind’s eye Mary could see the altar in the quiet chapel. It seemed to be calling her. She tucked the book under her arm.

  The chapel smelt of incense, beeswax, and flowers. These were comforting, familiar smells. Mary closed her eyes and breathed deeply in the silence, recalling better times when her father and mother had been together, and she herself had been given the respect she deserved as a royal princess of England.

  A faint rustling noise behind her jerked her back to reality. Her eyes flew open. Before her stood a monk, his cowl pulled far over his face, his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves.

  “Brother,” whispered Mary. “Welcome. Are you in need of alms?” Mary had little money, but she always set aside a few coins to fulfill her religious obligations.

  “Nay, Most Gracious Madam.” said a familiar voice. “I come hither to give, not to receive.” He held out his hand to her. Upon it was the familiar ring the Imperial Ambassador always wore.

  “Chapuys!” she exclaimed. “How good of you to come! But why are you cowled as if for a masque? And why has it been so long since I have seen you?”

  Chapuys threw back his hood and looked furtively around the chapel.

  “There is no one here but myself,” Mary assured him.

  Chapuys nodded. “To answer your question, Your Grace, I have been forbidden your company, as well as that of Her Grace, the Queen. Here then, let us hide, so that we may talk freely.” He strode to the confessional booth, and bid Mary take a seat in
the small enclosure on the other side of the screen. No sooner had she settled onto the cushioned kneeler than Chapuys threw back with a smart snap the wooden screen covering the lattice.

  “Now, then,” he said. “First things first, Your Grace. Her Grace, your mother, sends her love and fondest regards.”

  “Oh, good Chapuys,” exclaimed Mary, “have you a letter for me from my mother?” She had received no letters in many a long day, and had surmised that Anne had instructed Lady Shelton to intercept her messages.

  “I do indeed,” Chapuys replied. “In fact, I have several. Were you aware that the king, your father, forbade you any letters upon your arrival here at Eltham?”

  Mary shook her head, at a loss for words. She managed to croak, “No, I was not.” She had assumed that Anne was intercepting her letters. But to hear that her father was complicit in such a scheme! Mary shuddered. That did not bode well. She cleared her throat and said, in as normal a voice as possible, “And how fares my mother?”

  Chapuys drew a ragged breath. “Her Grace has been moved to Kimbolton.”

  Mary’s hand flew to her mouth. “Jesu, that vile place! It is so damp! Does my father seek to kill my mother, then?” Mary scowled.

  Chapuys considered the question dispassionately. As a diplomat, he was trained to do so. “I am unhappy to say, Your Grace, that your royal father would not be disappointed if Her Grace should chance to die. I am sorry.”

  Mary recalled the gossip she had overheard that Anne had given her father a beautiful golden table fountain for his New Year’s gift. It was styled in the device of Anne’s crowned falcon. She had remarked to herself at the time how strange it seemed that her father would accept such a gift from a woman whom by all accounts he loathed, and yet he refused to accept the simple, humble love of his lawful queen and wife. See to what a pass things had come! And now it seemed that her father wished her mother dead!