The Baker's Daughter Volume 1 Page 8

  Mary regarded Chapuys. He was right to assess such situations with a minimum of emotion. How else was one to keep a clear head and make sound decisions? She was desperate to help her mother, but how? She must think clearly, dispassionately, as Chapuys seemed able to do with such ease.

  “What is to be done, Chapuys?” she asked. “Perhaps you might make yet another appeal to my cousin, the Holy Roman Emperor?”

  Chapuys shifted his weight on the hard wooden seat. He considered his response carefully. He may not be able to see the princess again for a long time; it had become very difficult to smuggle letters to her. He may not get another chance to lay his scheme before her. The time was now. But he must be careful, he must be cautious. He stared down at his hands for a few moments, and then lifted his head. He could see Mary’s eyes, although his view of her face was dappled by the latticework of the confessional screen.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “Your royal father has more than once bade the Emperor Charles to mind his own business where you and Her Grace, your royal mother, are concerned. The Emperor has no wish to go to war, or to cause any situation that might interfere with trade.”

  Mary heaved an exasperated sigh. “But, surely…” She stopped herself. Where was her new-found resolution not to reply in the grip of strong emotion? She took a deep breath. Calmly she said, “Is trade, then, more important to my cousin than the English succession? Is it more important than my fate, or my mother’s?”

  “At the moment, yes.” The answer was brutal, but she had a right to know. And it was the only way to spur her to action.

  Her resolution forgotten again, Mary bristled. “So my royal cousin wishes to see a bastard on the throne of England?”

  “A bastard is not the only choice,” Chapuys replied. “What of James of Scotland?”

  “You know as well as I that my cousin James was excluded from the Act of Succession,” said Mary. She had heard that her father refused to even consider naming his sister Margaret’s son as heir, calling him an impudent whelp, after James had blustered and threatened his royal uncle not to treat with the Earl of Angus, James’ erstwhile stepfather. What a tangle!

  “The Act could be altered, or ignored, at a critical moment,” said Chapuys.

  Mary considered. “True, that is true,” she agreed. One of her deepest fears about the Act, however, was not that it excluded herself or James; it was that those who refused to swear to its validity were deemed guilty of treason. She shuddered at the thought; neither she nor her mother would ever consent to take such an oath, even with reservations.

  Already both Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More had been attainted, ostensibly for complicity in the matter of Elizabeth Barton, the Nun of Kent, who had predicted dire outcomes if the king married Anne Boleyn. But all knew that the real reason for the royal harassment was their refusal to swear the oath upholding the Act of Succession. Bishop Fisher had been reinstated on payment of a heavy fine, and Sir Thomas More had parried the thrust by producing a copy of a letter he had written to Elizabeth Barton warning her not to meddle in state matters. But the message was clear; woe betide those who dissented at the cost of defying that which was the king’s pleasure.

  “And remember, Your Grace, that the Act also contains a provision that The Concubine shall be named regent for The Bastard should the king die.” He disliked worrying the princess, but somehow, he must find a way to gain her consent to his plans. It was his, and her, only hope.

  “Think you that I could forget such a thing?” He had hit upon one of her deepest fears regarding the Act of Succession. If Anne were named regent for the infant Elizabeth, many believed that she would have both Mary and Katharine executed without a moment’s delay. Mary frowned. “It is treason to conceive of, let alone speak of, the death of the king, as you well know,” she said. “Besides, my father is healthy enough.”

  Chapuys tried another tack. “The Concubine is now four months gone with child.”

  There was a hissing sound at Mary’s sharp intake of breath. “This is certain?”

  “I am afraid so. Already the lady has a goodly belly. There can be no doubt.”

  Mary was vastly disappointed. Like her mother, the true queen, she harbored a secret conviction that her father, who had grown to hate Anne if the rumors could be believed, would give his sham queen no more children. She realized now that this was a vain hope. What had love and hate to do with the perpetuation of the Tudor dynasty? Her father was a sentimental man, but he would do his duty. Mary laughed a bitter inward laugh to think of her father viewing begetting another bastard on Anne Boleyn as a duty instead of a lustful pleasure. Serves him right, she thought.

  Chapuys regarded Mary carefully. It was not enough. The girl had lived under the threat of death for a long time. And what mattered it if the king produced yet another bastard child whom Catholic Europe would never recognize as heir to the throne of England?

  He lobbed another salvo. “Fisher and More are in the Tower.”

  Mary’s head flew up and her eyes went wide. “Never! They have both been absolved in the matter of the Maid of Kent!”

  “Elizabeth Barton was hanged at Tyburn nigh on ten days ago.”

  Mary’s head swam. The execution of the Nun of Kent was not so surprising; Mary was astonished that the woman had managed to keep her head on her shoulders as long as she had. But Fisher and More, men who were revered and respected throughout Christendom for their piety and learning! What could her father possibly be thinking? It was Anne. It had to be Anne. Anne was a witch and she had bewitched her father, as so many claimed. It was the only explanation for such rash behavior.

  Mary shook her head. “What of the others?” she asked.

  Chapuys shrugged. “What think you, Your Grace? Good men stumble in their rush to take this loathsome oath. Most have not the courage of their convictions, and have no wish to die for such a cause.”

  Mary smiled, but her smile was vicious. “Of which cause do you speak? Do not these men have a care for their immortal souls?”

  Chapuys was silent for a moment, then he drew a ragged breath. “I regret, Your Grace, that it seems that there are few men willing to compromise their life on this earth for the good of their souls.”

  Mary shook her head in disbelief. “What of the Bishop of Durham? Surely he has not taken such an oath!”

  “I am afraid, Your Grace, that he has, albeit with reservations.”

  Mary made a most unfeminine sound at this, almost a snort. “With reservations! As if that absolves him!”

  “It keeps him out of the Tower,” said Chapuys matter-of-factly. The princess was naïve; he knew that and must lead her where he wanted her to go, but carefully. He was in a most dangerous position, having placed himself at the center of a widespread network of conspiracy that included half the nobility of England, including the king’s own first cousin. But he must go slowly. He had failed utterly to gain Katharine’s agreement to his plan, and she had refused to support Mary’s complicity. Without her mother’s blessing, Mary would never consent to be the figurehead that would spark a revolt in England. He hated fooling her, but it was the only way. For without either the queen or the princess, there was little hope of ousting Henry and replacing him with his elder daughter on the throne.

  Chapuys was not a religious man, but he knew that Mary was devout in the extreme, as was Katharine. Perhaps an appeal in that direction?

  “You seem concerned about the souls of the men taking the oath to uphold the Act of Succession,” said Chapuys quietly. “What if I told you that all the people of England are in peril of their souls?”

  Mary’s eyes went wide. “How so?”

  “The Pope has decided to promulgate the Bull of Excommunication drawn up against the king last July. If executed, it would place all of England under an interdict.”

  “God’s teeth!” Mary exclaimed, then she glanced at the altar and quickly crossed herself. “Why would Pope Clement do such a thing? Think of the needless misery that
would inflict on innocent people!”

  “King Henry’s failure to comply with the Rota’s decision concerning his marriage to Queen Katharine is paramount; however, it is not the only reason. His Holiness fears that worse may be to come.”

  “Good God, man,” declared Mary, crossing herself again in exasperation at taking the Lord’s name in vain for a second time. “Short of my death or my mother’s, what more could happen?”

  “Your Lord Father is contemplating declaring himself the head of the Church in England.”

  The shock was numbing. “H-How could he do that?” she asked.

  Again Chapuys shrugged. “His Grace does as he pleases, as you well know.”

  “No wonder Clement seeks to excommunicate him! Oh, Chapuys, what is to be done? Are we all doomed, then?”

  Once again Chapuys cautioned himself to go gently, tread lightly. For years he had worked to muster enough support amongst the English nobility to precipitate a rising in the name of Queen Katharine. The queen was a foreigner, it was true, and a Spaniard; but in her veins ran just enough Plantagenet blood to ensure that the English people would support her if she would but agree to raise her standard in defiance of her royal husband. In the end, however, all was for naught. Katharine had refused absolutely to defy her husband. She would never consent to be used as a weapon to spur a rebellion in England. She longed to be a martyr to her belief in her destiny, and so persisted in her stubborn refusal to disobey the king in any matter save that which touched her conscience. But Mary was still young, and not so resigned as Katharine was. Mary was his only hope.

  “We are not doomed,” replied Chapuys. “But your lady mother stands firm in her conviction that she cannot disobey her king and husband. Not even to save her own life, or yours.”

  Mary looked at him sharply. “What do you fear?”

  Chapuys shrugged. “What I have always feared, Your Grace. There is the danger of poison, of course. But now, with the blatant harassment of Fisher and More, the handwriting is on the wall. I tremble for Your Graces, every moment of every day. I feel compelled to take some action.”

  “What sort of action?”

  “Your Grace,” Chapuys said, almost in a whisper, “the English people, high and low, deplore what your lord father has done to Your Grace and to the queen. If the situation were right, they would support your cause.”

  “My…cause? What cause?”

  “You are the rightful heir to the throne.”

  “Only in the event of…you know.” Inexplicably, Mary’s hands began to tremble. Such talk was treason. The walls had ears. Were they safe, even in the chapel? She opened the door to the confessional; no one was about.

  Mary’s deep voice became gruff. “What are you saying?”

  “You asked what is to be done. I but suggest…”

  “I cannot do what you suggest,” said Mary. “I am sorry. Such an undertaking would require my mother’s consent, and that, I know, she will never give.”

  Chapuys looked stricken; she was seized with a feeling of desperation. If only she could consider such a scheme! But what if it failed? The result would be certain death. There must be another way.

  “I am sorry,” said Mary again.

  “Do not distress yourself, Your Grace,” said Chapuys gently. He had always known in his heart of hearts that his plans might never come to fruition. He had tried to strike a balance between promises to the English conspirators and his ability to convince the Emperor that his plans had their support and could be successful. But Charles had never supported his scheme for fomenting rebellion in England. Such was bad for trade. It was a disappointment. But perhaps Mary was right, after all. Perhaps there was another way.

  While Chapuys thought his secret thoughts, a sunbeam broke through the clouds and illuminated the entire chapel with its glow. At that moment, a thought struck Mary, an idea so clear that it was almost tangible. She would be God’s instrument, and no one else’s. Her heart went out to those who would wallow in the misery of an interdict, should Clement actually excommunicate the King of England. But, all of a sudden, her mission was clear. She must restore England to the Holy Catholic Church. She could see that Rome was losing its grip on England; there was naught that she could do to change that right now. But perhaps there would come a time when she could, and until that day she must resolve to live and wait in the hope that one day she would be Queen of England, as surely God must intend.

  “Escape,” she said aloud. “I could escape.” Only that morning she had looked out of her window and wished for deliverance.

  Chapuys roused himself from his reverie. Suddenly a new vision, a shining vision, replaced the old one. Instead of Katharine wearing armor and galloping her horse across the plain, banners flying, to take the throne from the tyrant, he saw Mary at the altar, marrying a Hapsburg prince. Together they would return to England at the head of an Imperial army. England would become part of the Holy Roman Empire. Surely Charles could not refuse to aid such a scheme as that!

  “Your Grace,” he said excitedly. “I will get word to the Emperor at once. We will scheme. We will plan. Be on your guard. Study the habits of the palace. Become aware of the routines of the guards. Then, when the time is right…”

  Mary’s eyes shone with new excitement. “Yes, and yes, and yes! Let us make such a plan!”

  Chapuys heaved a heavy sigh. He disliked distressing the princess, but forewarned was forearmed; he must tell her. “There is one other thing, Your Grace.” Even through the dim of the confessional, he noticed the barely perceptible straightening of the spine, saw the wary look in her eyes. She did not reply.

  “Very soon, Your Grace, men will be sent to persuade you to swear an oath upholding the Act of Succession.” Chapuys never knew what to expect from Mary; one moment she was cool and rational, traits she had inherited from her Spanish forebears; the next she was pure Plantagenet, and capable of displays of temper that rivaled her royal father’s.

  Mary replied calmly, “And if I refuse to swear such an oath?”

  Chapuys considered. “Who can say, Your Grace? That will be up to your lord father, the king. But I cannot think that he means to harm you. He wishes, I think, only to see you bend to his will.”

  Mary shook her head. She looked away; he could see the tears glistening on her lashes. “That I will never do,” she said, almost in a whisper. “My mother has stayed true to her beliefs for so long, even in the face of great pain and even greater danger. Can I do any less?”

  “Your Grace must do as your conscience bids you, as your lady mother has done for so many years.”

  Despite her worries, Mary smirked. Spoken like a true diplomat! Still, she admired Chapuys greatly, and trusted him. “That I will most certainly do,” she replied. “Tell me, whom shall they send? Shall I be able to withstand them, think you?” Her thoughts recalled the many times her mother had been confronted by Henry’s creatures, men willing to do his bidding at any cost, and how she had faced them down.

  Chapuys smiled, too. “Of that I have no doubt, Your Grace. I believe that the earl of Wiltshire and Sir William Paulet have been given the honor.”

  Mary snorted. “The father of The Concubine, sent to harry me! How fitting! I shall have no trouble facing him down, I trow. He who would shift his sails to any wind, just to turn a groat, or gain a title!” Mary resisted the urge to spit, a habit that she had observed the grooms of the stable indulge in when similarly challenged. Oh, to be able to show her true feelings in such a situation! But she would not. She would face down Thomas Boleyn as effectively as she had the haughty duke of Norfolk. Suddenly a thought struck her.

  “What about my mother? Will she also be harangued on this matter of the Act of Succession?”

  “Of a certainty,” replied Chapuys. “The king will use different tactics with your lady mother, sending the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham to work their persuasions on Her Grace.”

  “Huh,” said Mary in disgust. “Much good may it do th
em. My mother will never yield on any point in this matter. Why should she?”

  Chapuys did not reply. What was there left to say, after all?

  “I see,” said Mary coldly. So her father and his goggle-eyed whore sought at least to humiliate them, if they could not get away with judicial murder. She sighed. “Well, let them come and do their worst.”

  Chapuys heaved a heavy sigh. Mary’s bravado was commendable, but foolhardy. “Let us hope it does not come that, Your Grace,” he said. He wanted Mary to live and be queen. But the path would be treacherous in the extreme. Would either of them, he wondered, still have their head on their shoulders at the end of the road?

  Kimbolton Castle, Cambridgeshire, May, 1534

  Katharine could not resist looking past the two clergymen, ostensibly to see who else was with them. The implication was clear: Is it only the two of you, come to persuade me to deny my marriage, my daughter, my rights as Queen of England? That will not be enough!

  But in her heart of hearts, Katharine truly believed that this was the end. She had nearly succumbed the previous December when the duke of Suffolk had been sent to remove her from Buckden. And yet somehow, she had managed to prevail. How long could she hold out in the face of such adversity? At that thought, a feeling of great peace, such as she had not known before, swept over her. If this was to be the end, so be it. She had fought the good fight. All knew that Henry was wrong, and in consequence, in grave peril of his immortal soul, and that she, Katharine was right. Had not the pope himself said so? Henry’s stubborn refusal to obey the pope, reinstate her as his queen and deny Anne Boleyn bordered on the ridiculous. But she also knew that The Concubine was with child again, and that Henry would do anything, anything, to ensure that the child born this time was legitimate in the eyes of Catholic Europe, no matter what crimes he had to commit. She knew now that he would not stop at murder. So this was to be the end.

  Katharine squared her shoulders. She could not see her keepers, but she knew that they would be within earshot of her interview with Edward Lee, the Archbishop of York, and Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of Durham. She gazed placidly at the two clerics and raised her eyebrows just a fraction, as if to say, “And what do you gentlemen here at Kimbolton?”