Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (17 page)

In a way it was quite lovely. I looked forward to getting up and moving about every day, instead of being stuck inside a stuffy room unable to get out of bed. On the other hand, this pregnancy was difficult and I was so exhausted by the end of the day that some nights I longed for the comfort of my lying-in room back in England. Above all, I worried incessantly about my labour. Back home I had a midwife I trusted. She had been there to deliver all of my children and she knew my body as well as her own. I knew of no midwives here in Frankfurt and Isabell was past the point of childbearing so she had none to recommend.

One evening in early December I pulled Matilda aside and confided my anxiety. She promised that she would visit the homes of the other exiles in the community until she found a proper midwife. The next morning, dressed in my warmest cloak and muffler, she set off into the village. I waited anxiously all that day for her return. True to her word, as always, Matilda arrived, her nose reddened with the cold, eyes shining with hope and a stout little gnome of a woman in tow - the midwife that would deliver my baby.

I looked hesitantly from Matilda to the midwife and back again. The woman looked as though she had seen seventy winters. Her wiry grey hair stuck out from underneath a woollen cap perched on her head. She was diminutive in stature but looked sturdy and strong. Matilda caught my eye and nodded vigorously, a wide grin on her face.

“She came highly recommended.”

I took a deep breath and nodded, trusting in Matilda’s confident smile.

I gestured for them to follow me up to my room where the old woman could examine me. Matilda took her leave, discreetly heading to the children’s room, and the woman followed behind me. She shuffled from side to side as she walked, almost as if she were in pain. I was certain that at her age her bones would wearily give out by the first landing, but she never made a sound of complaint as she followed me up the stairs.

I led her inside my room and pointed towards the bed. “Here?”

She nodded, still never making a sound. I reached behind to loosen my stomacher and then lay down on my back. She shuffled over and placed her gnarled, swollen hands on my belly, caressing it like a crone divining a fortune. Then she bent over and laid her ear against me. Just at that moment the baby kicked and I saw it make contact with her ear. She gave a great bellow of laughter and I could see the gaping holes where her teeth had rotted out. But I was relieved to finally receive a sign of life. I allowed myself to relax as she continued her examination.

Eventually she straightened and offered her hand to help me sit up. She held up two fingers and I nodded, “Yes, about two more months.”

She smiled that toothless grin again and grunted, “Good, good.”

I didn’t know how much English she knew but I asked, “Matilda can get you when it is time?”

“Yes, fine,” she replied, nodding emphatically.

I heaved a sigh of relief. I would not know until the time came if she was as skilled as it was claimed, but something in that laugh of hers gave me hope. I had to have faith that she would take care of me.

My time came as a snow-storm raged outside our window at the end of January. True to her word, the midwife returned, shuffling into my room behind Matilda. I accepted the pain and gave myself over to her practised hands.

The wind howled through the eaves as I laboured for four days. There were moments when I thought I would die from the agony, but I pressed on. Having not eaten a scrap of food in days, I hardly had the strength to push, but I refused to give up and, finally, on the evening of the fourth night, I gave a final push and fell back in exhaustion.

The child unleashed a great yell at the indignity of it all and I knew as soon as I heard his scream that he would survive. I closed my eyes and tumbled into the darkness of sleep.

While the rest of the household celebrated Candlemas, I trudged through a dark dream-world of my own creation. I awoke only twice, soaked in the sweat of my fever. The first time was after a searing pain across my belly brought me screaming into consciousness. The second was during one of the many blood lettings that I was told later were performed on me. Before I emerged through the haze of childbed fever, I dreamt of my aunt, Anne. Her raven hair billowed behind her, her shadowy body wrapped in an ethereal glow. Her deep brown eyes alighted on mine and she whispered, “Not today, Catherine.”

Much to everyone’s relief the fever broke, but I was heartbroken that I had missed my son’s first week and I still did not even know his name. It was the first question I asked when I finally found my raspy voice.

The midwife grinned as she placed the squirmy bundle in my arms.

“Thomas, his name is Thomas,” replied my much relieved husband. He looked as haggard and exhausted as I felt.

Thomas curled his delicate hand over my finger and tried desperately to pull it into his mouth.

“For my grandfather Thomas, or my uncle Thomas?”

“Neither,” he replied.

I looked up and Francis’s face was twisted in emotion. He glanced at the midwife busily folding blankets in the corner and then looked back to me. “Thomas for Thomasine - the woman who saved your life.”

I grew stronger each day. We didn’t have a wet nurse in exile so, as with Maude, I was able to breast-feed again. I felt as though I had missed out on precious bonding time all those years I had handed over my child to the wet nurse so it was a bit of a thrill for me to ignore all those traditions of the nobles. I nursed my baby and rocked him to sleep instead of employing someone else to do those motherly duties.

Shortly after Thomas’s birth we learned that Calais had fallen to the French. It was England’s punishment for supporting King Philip’s attack on France.

“This is what happens when the queen marries a foreign prince!” raged Francis that night.

All of England had been in uproar when Mary married the son of the Holy Roman Emperor, Prince Philip of Spain. The union had come as no surprise to me. The emperor, Charles V, was Mary’s mother’s nephew and the only person who truly aided Mary throughout the years of her mistreatment, first by her father then by her brother and his councillors. He even offered to spirit Mary out of the country during her brother’s reign so she could be free to worship in the Catholic faith in Spain. While the people of England saw Prince Philip as a foreign invader, Mary must have seen him as her saviour. Saviour or not, now that Prince Philip was King Philip after the death of his father, all of England’s treasury and military were at his disposal and he did not hesitate to put them to good use.

The people of England would never forget this loss.

In September, word reached us that the queen was deathly ill. She believed up until the spring that she was with child, but once again it was a wish that would go unfulfilled. While I mourned the inevitable passing of my half-sister, the rest of the exiles celebrated.

“Why are you so glum Catherine?” Francis asked one night during a raucous celebration in the Weller home. “The queen is deathly ill with no son to inherit the throne. King Philip will be on his way back to Spain where he belongs and Elizabeth can take her rightful place on the throne. Most importantly, we can all go back home.”

“Francis,” I replied. “I have known Mary since she was just a girl. The girl I knew then was nothing like the queen we know now. That Mary was graceful and regal. Her compassion knew no bounds. She practically raised Elizabeth after Anne was murdered. She doted on Edward and even in the beginning of her reign sought to dole out mercy to the likes of Northumberland and Suffolk. She did not even want to execute poor Jane Grey until the rebels made it impossible for her not to. I didn’t need to see the way she was treated by our father and the neglect she suffered at his hands to read it all over her face every time I saw her at Court. Mary was not always the monster you see her as. Above all, she is still my sister. We share blood and I will mourn her as I have mourned my aunt, uncle and mother.”

Francis quieted for a moment. Finally he stood, walked over to me and kissed my cheek. “I understand, my love. While I will not mourn her death, I will respect your wish to do so. You have always been so kind-hearted, seeking the good in people when others cannot see it. It is one of the many reasons I love you.”

He kissed the back of my hand and took his leave. The next day preparations began for our return trip home.

The frigid winter air could not push out the muggy heat from the press of bodies that crowded the corridors at Whitehall. There was a new monarch on the throne and everyone who was anyone in England was there to swear fealty to the steely-eyed ginger beauty who only a few short years ago languished in the Tower waiting to climb the scaffold. The dirt of the Great North Road was packed down by the feet of pilgrims making their way to Court.

I kept my pomander to my nose to guard against the stale musky scent of sweaty bodies and gripped Francis’s hand to avoid being trampled. As soon as we arrived at the presence chamber, I dropped his hand so I could straighten my skirt. The buttery silk had become wrinkled in the crowd and I did not want to meet our new queen looking dishevelled. A familiar voice caused my heart to stop.

“Mother!”

I jerked my head up and searched for the source. My daughter, Lettice, was pushing through the crowd towards me. The girl I had left behind nearly three years ago was now a young woman. She wore a brocade bodice and skirt in a dusky russet, and a kirtle of deep gold that set off the golden red ringlets that cascaded over her shoulders. A white lawn ruff graced her slim shoulders, a new style I was sure she had picked up from her time at Hatfield with Elizabeth. I threw my arms around her in a warm embrace, burying my face into her soft rosemary-scented hair.

“Oh how I have missed you,” I whispered.

She stepped backwards and broke into a confident smile. “Are you pleased?” She asked. She held out her skirts and twirled around, the brocade billowing out around her.

I grasped her smooth hands. “You look wonderful. You have grown into a beautiful young woman.”

She knelt down for my blessing, “It was a gift from the queen.”

I had a feeling that Elizabeth would continue to be very generous to Lettice after she had spent so much time with her during her exile at Hatfield.

Francis leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I am sure you have been a fine example of the loyalty the Knollys have for their queen. She will be sure to reward you as you continue to serve her as a maid-of-honour. Your mother has already been made chief lady of the privy chamber and will serve as one of her closest intimates. Soon, I imagine we will be asking her permission to make you a match.”

Lettice’s cheeks flushed crimson red and she straightened up, arching her back. I heard a silky voice call out Francis’s name. Robert Dudley sauntered over to us in a dark emerald satin doublet. The sleeves were slashed to show the silky fabric beneath and his dark blue hose highlighted his well-muscled calves. He too wore a stiff white ruff. So it begins, I thought to myself. Soon everyone would be sporting this new accessory to please the queen.

Seeing Robert in these fine clothes told me that he had begun to rebuild his influence. Robert and Francis were well-acquainted during Edward’s reign. Robert’s father, the Duke of Northumberland, had lost his head on the block after his failed attempt to place Lady Jane Grey on the throne. Robert and his brothers had spent many months in the Tower as the sons of a traitor, living in constant fear of their own lives. But when they were released, they served King Philip so well in his wars that Mary allowed them to go back to their lives and their properties. However, they had never been allowed back at Court.

“Lord Knollys! I am thrilled to see you have returned to us from the Low Countries,” Robert cheered, giving Francis a hearty slap on the back.

Francis nodded. “I am thrilled to have returned. By the time we left I had had enough of the tumultuous bickering between the settlements. Do we use this prayer book or that one? Which hymn is proper? We want this preacher, not that one.” He sighed heavily. “It is a wonder that we accomplished anything.”

Robert grinned. “I saw your boys, William and Edward, quite frequently while you were gone. Fine young men they are. Ambrose was happy to have them and I trust they learned much during their stay with him. Elizabeth will be glad to have them at Court.”

As the men talked I glanced over at Lettice. She was watching Robert intently and laughing demurely at everything he said. Her face still carried a light blush and I noticed that she was trying to force her bust out, hoping he would notice the womanly curves she was developing. She was every bit as coquettish as the maids that had come before her. I would have to rein her in before she made a fool out of herself. Robert was a married man and certainly not in the market for a new wife.

I placed my hand on Francis’s arm. “I am so sorry to interrupt, my love, but I am certain the queen is waiting for us.”

“I can take you,” offered Robert. “I am due to see her as well. We need to discuss which palfreys would be best for her coronation.”

“Master Dudley is the queen’s new master of the horse,” explained Lettice, a dreamy smile on her face. “He spent much time hunting with Her Grace at Hatfield and she was so impressed with his loyalty that she promoted him straight away.”

Ah, so that was how Lettice was familiar with Robert. I am sure he had ingratiated himself quite well to Elizabeth when it had become obvious that the former queen was on her death bed. Francis seemed to think highly of Robert, but I would take more convincing. I had seen far too many men play the dutiful courtier when favours were freely flowing only to turn tail when it suited them better, and I would not have Lettice being taking in by one of these men only to wind up with an illegitimate child from a married man and an unsavoury reputation. I would have to keep my eye her...and him.

I put an arm around Lettice’s shoulder and guided her in the direction of the presence chamber.

“The queen is waiting. Let’s go.”

The presence chamber was filled to bursting with eager courtiers pacing over the newly polished floors. It had been many years since I had been to Whitehall, but I noticed that in the three months since her accession the queen had made some alterations. The holes had been patched in the tapestries and new rugs had been laid down. A crackling fire flickered in a hearth that had been scrubbed to gleaming. I inhaled the scent of fresh pine and juniper and wallowed in its familiarity. The foul smells of our home in exile had become a distant memory.

It was at Whitehall where I made my entry into the court and laid my eyes upon the Princess Elizabeth for the very first time and it would be at Whitehall where that princess would begin her reign as Queen Elizabeth. It was hard not to think of Anne as I waited for her daughter to come out to greet us. She would be thrilled beyond words that Elizabeth had rightfully inherited the throne. After the pain of birthing twelve children of my own, I thought of Anne giving birth to the baby girl who would grow up to be a queen. It was terrifying enough to go through childbirth for the first time without the pressure of a king’s desire for a prince. I could not begin to imagine her distress when it was revealed that her child was a girl. She must have been disappointed but, according to my mother, she had never let it show. Anne hid any terror, disappointment or fear she ever felt to the death.

The door opened and immediately we all dropped to show reverence to our new queen. I waited patiently with my head bowed for Elizabeth to raise us. When I finally lifted my eyes, I was amazed to see the young woman before me. Her hair was piled on top of her head and studded with a vast array of emeralds and rubies that sparkled in the firelight. She wore an elaborately embroidered brocade gown that matched the green of Robert’s doublet over a wide farthingale. Her gold necklaces glimmered down the front of her bodice and, just as I suspected, it was topped off with an enormous ruff trimmed in gold lace and diamonds. In her long pale fingers, she carried an ornate white ostrich feathered fan.

“Lady Catherine! Mine own sweet cousin,” she called out, pointing at me with the fan. “Please come tell us about your time abroad. We are overjoyed to have you back and in our service.”

It was a strange feeling hearing her use the royal pronoun. I was certain I saw the same sparkle in her eyes that I often saw in our father’s eyes. “I am pleased to be back, Your Grace. I have missed the rolling green hills of England and I am so grateful for my appointment to your Privy Chamber. Thank you.”

Her amber eyes flashed and she lowered her eye lids as in remembrance, “That day at Westminster, before I left to go back to Hatfield...I have thought about that day several times since then. I feel as if I owe you
my
thanks. Not one person before or since has taken the time to speak to me of my mother. It meant the world to me and for that I would love to have you by my side.”

I was speechless. It surprised me that she had thought of that incident so often. As if reading my mind, she fumbled at her girdle pulling a small frame out of a fold in her gown. It was the miniature I had given her all those years ago.

“I keep it with me always,” she whispered. She brought the miniature to her lips and placed a delicate kiss before she tucked it back into the fold.

I wanted to reach out and hug her, but I knew that would be inappropriate. Now that she was queen, her body was holy and untouchable unless bidden by her to do so. I gave her a warm smile instead and curtsied again.

“Doctor Dee has chosen a most auspicious day for my coronation, but before we get there I have some knights to make. I am sure you are pleased that your brother Henry will be made a knight of the bath the day after tomorrow. I will also be promoting him to the peerage. He will now be known as Baron Hunsdon. Unlike my dear cousin, Lady Lennox, Henry Carey did not abandon me in my time of need, nor did he see fit to torture me with the sound of clanging pots and pans during my time at my sister’s court so he will be justly rewarded. I hope you will be there for the ceremony.”

“I would not miss it if my life depended upon it,” I laughed and sneaked a glance over at Lady Lennox. Her face was red with fury. She yanked on her poor young son Lord Darnley’s arm and dragged him out of the room. I assumed there would be no knighthood for him.

Elizabeth held out her arm and Robert hustled over to take it. She gestured to us. “Come, a feast awaits us.”

That night we ate until our stomachs could hold no more and danced until our feet gave out. The next morning we processed by barge to the Tower where Elizabeth, like all the monarchs before her, would lay claim to the mighty fortress before being crowned. There Henry’s ceremony was celebrated with much pomp. His wife, Anne Morgan, was dressed in her best and wore a giddy smile, no doubt thinking of the new lands that Henry would be given.

The next morning we bustled around Elizabeth, preparing her for the procession to Westminster. She looked regal in a gown of cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver with Tudor roses woven into the fabric, trimmed in ermine. Rubies and drop pearls were draped across her bust and emphasised the point at the bottom of her bodice. The long train trailed behind her. Her hair cascaded down her back, worn loose in the way that only virgins can wear it and worn like that of her mother at her coronation. I had giggled at this because it had been quite obvious that Anne was no longer a virgin at her coronation. She was visibly pregnant with Elizabeth at the time, but that was of no consequence to her. She was determined to be crowned like a virgin just as her predecessor, Catherine of Aragon, had been.

We stepped outside into the dazzling sunlight. A light snow had begun to fall dusting the streets, covering up the filth and grime. Robert Dudley lifted Elizabeth into her litter. He was dressed like a nobleman in a crimson velvet doublet with cloth-of-gold sleeves that contrasted well with the pure white of the queen’s palfrey. It was his duty as master of the horse to lead out her personal horse. They painted a pretty picture together riding out into the street, reminiscent of Guinevere and her knight. As we left the Tower the lions in the menagerie gave a great roar. Everyone else was startled at the thunderous growl, but it made me giddy with pleasure. I knew the roar was a message from our father, the lion-like king, a message of pride that his cub was continuing his legacy.

We were greeted by a quivering mass of people. They pushed and shoved trying to get closer to their queen. Proclamations of ‘Long live the queen’ and ‘Long live good King Harry’ were shouted from shopkeepers and street urchins alike. Children perched on the shoulders of their parents to get a better view and more than one rooftop was occupied. Through it all Elizabeth smiled benevolently, waving graciously to her admirers.

Along the way, we were treated to pageants and plays honouring Elizabeth and her family. At Fenchurch the children recited poems and songs, and at Gracechurch the past was resurrected in a series of tableaux. Three stages were erected with the figures of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, our father Henry VIII and Anne, and the queen herself on the third. All hailed the unity of the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York. The roses themselves were strewn as far as the eye could see.

Festive banners and streamers were hanging from every window and the conduits ran with red and white wine. From Cheapside to Ludgate and beyond, Elizabeth was met with enthusiasm and reverence. When she stopped to make one of her many gracious speeches, she knew how to play to the crowd. She impressed them with her humility and charmed them with her wit. The frigid air set my teeth chattering, but I knew that it was not only the cold air that sent shivers down my spine. It was as though a younger feminine version of our father were walking among his people. At the mention of old King Harry, an elderly man in the crowd turned from the queen weeping. In that moment, I felt the old king’s presence acutely.

We finally arrived at Whitehall where we would spend the night before the ceremony. I waited for Elizabeth to climb out of her litter so I could escort her back to her rooms. When she finally reached me, her face was flushed and she took big gulps of air as if she could not catch her breath.

Concerned I asked, “Are you all right, Your Grace?”

She nodded slowly, her hand raised to her chest.