Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (6 page)

The queen had been found out without my intervention. Archbishop Cranmer courageously presented the king with the evidence laid against his wife after a service in the chapel. The roar of anger escaping His Majesty could be heard throughout the palace. After a week of being locked up with his councillors, the king made haste down the Thames to Westminster so he would not have to look his queen in the face again. That was his way. No goodbye, no raging, no cold looks. He left Katherine just as he left her cousin that May morning five years ago, with no warning of what was about to befall her. He passed me in the corridor on his way to the river and I could see the red rims around his eyes. I felt pity for him. For once he was the victim. I wondered if he believed that this time God truly did punish him because he had spent so much time accusing the Lord of doing just that in his last marriages.

Whatever love the king had for Katherine was gone now and she was treated accordingly. The yeoman guards set up outside her bedchamber and she became a virtual prisoner. The only ladies allowed to serve her were Lady Rochford, Mistress Tylney and Lady Rutland. I suspected that Lady Rutland and Mistress Tylney were there to spy on Jane and Katherine once I learned they had both already testified against her. As we shuffled out of Katherine’s rooms, the muffled sounds coming from the bedchamber grew from quiet murmurs to sobs and then wailing. The keening sound of Katherine’s cries echoed in my ears long after that night.

I spent much of the next weeks pacing. Katherine had been sent to Syon Abbey to await her trial and Lady Rochford, Culpeper and Dereham had been dragged to the Tower. Dereham had taken Katherine’s maidenhead and believed they had been pre-contracted. It must have been quite the shock for him to come back to England and find that the woman he believed to be his wife was now married to the king, and he could not help promoting himself when the chance arose.

The terror on Jane’s face as she marched out of the palace with the guards set me on edge. I sobbed when word came from the Tower that she had gone mad. I wanted desperately to visit her but Francis forbade me. As much as I wanted to comfort my aunt, I knew he was right. I was ashamed that after railing about the Howard and Boleyn families’ abandonment of Anne for so many years, I was now abandoning Jane. I was just as guilty as they were.

Katherine was finally moved to the Tower after the expected pronunciation of guilt. In December, Dereham and Culpeper were taken to Tyburn to die. At the last moment, Culpeper’s sentence was commuted to beheading while Dereham suffered the most, being hanged, drawn and quartered. Their heads rotted on pikes on top of London Bridge.

Christmas at Greenwich Palace was muted. There were no masques or banquets. No festivities of any kind. In February a bill of attainder was passed, Katherine and Jane were to be beheaded. I fought an internal war with myself in the days leading up to their death. The mere thought of watching their execution made me physically ill. Though I hated their actions, I loved them both. My love won out and on the day of their executions I awoke early and dressed in a wool gown of the darkest blue I owned for mourning. I wrapped myself in sables against the chill and followed the throng of people onto Tower Green.

Katherine was first to emerge from the Tower. She was dressed in a simple black gown, her hair tied back under a white coif. I had never seen her so sombre. When she reached the block, she stopped for a moment before kneeling. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she gave a small, brave smile. She thanked the king for raising her to high estate and begged forgiveness for her transgressions. The wild, impetuous girl had been tamed.

She knelt and placed her head on the block as if she had practised the motions a dozen times. The crowd was silent. In the past, no queens had ever been executed and now the people of London had seen two go to their deaths in just six years. They did not know how to react and jeering seemed far too cruel. In one move, the executioner raised his axe and sliced her head clean off her slender, alabaster shoulders. The blood spurted out in rivers just as in my dream of Anne. The wounds on my heart from her death ripped open again and I had to turn away. Nan and Ursula ran to the scaffold and shuffled her lifeless body out of the way. I was close enough to see the tears trailing down their sombre faces.

Jane was led out of the Tower next. Her hair was unkempt. She was desperately thin and appeared frail. Her gown was dirty and she gripped handfuls of its fabric in her hands. Head down, she shuffled towards the block. The king had had her declared sane so he could execute her, but anyone would know that the woman standing on the scaffold was not in her right mind.

She looked around wildly, searching for what I do not know. When her eyes landed on me, I gave her a smile and mouthed the words “I love you.” She heaved a great sigh of relief as if those words were the only ones she had waited for. The thing Jane longed for the most was love and approval, and that was why she did everything in her power to make people happy. She craved Katherine’s affection and for that she was willing to risk her life. Jane knelt and laid her head in the pool of royal blood left by her mistress, then she was gone. Go to your husband, Jane, I thought to myself. Tell him how much I love him. I was deeply saddened by her end, but I felt a ray of hope that she, George and their baby would be reunited.

That night I tossed and turned unable to get the gruesome tableau of death out of my head. Katherine and Jane had committed treasonable acts, but was the king any better? He had caused their misery in one way or another. Once Katherine caught the king’s eye, she became the focus of his attention. Katherine had never been in that position before. She had been forgotten for most of her life and was naïve to the expectations required of her. The greatest tragedy was that not one of the great ladies of our house stepped in to teach her. Jane lost everything after Anne’s downfall. She was willing to do anything to keep her position and, in the end, it cost her her life.

I woke up nauseated after my fitful sleep. After a few minutes of listening to my heaving, Francis rolled over with a sleepy smile on his face. “Per chance this time, it will be a girl.”

With no queen to serve I begged Francis to let me return to my son at Rotherfield Greys. He did not want me to leave, but agreed that with our second child on the way he wanted me away from the tension at Court. The roads were dry so the journey was not long, but it seemed like an eternity to me knowing my son was waiting at the end.

Francis’s brother met me at the gate, a grin on his face. When we reached the manor I leapt from the carriage.

“Harry!” I called out. “Where is my boy?”

“Taking his supper, I suppose. He is a strapping young man now,” he replied with a laugh.

Wasting no time I ran straight to the nursery. I did not want to frighten him, so I contained my excitement at the door and made a quiet entrance. He was at his nurse’s breast. She was gently rocking him, humming a lullaby. The nurse made a motion to stop, but I waved her off. “Let him finish”, I mouthed.

I sat in the doorway and lovingly watched them until he was satisfied. The nurse wiped his mouth and stood him up, kneeling over him. Holding his hands with her fingers she helped him toddle over to me. I knelt down to pick him up and was overcome with happiness. I held him close, taking in the scent of milk and skin. He put his pudgy hand to my lips and I kissed his palm. He giggled in response. I brushed my lips against his silky hair. It had darkened to the dark brown of his father’s. I breathed in the smell of home. I hoped that the king would refrain from another marriage so I would not have to leave this beautiful baby boy again.

Spring and summer flew by though I tried to relish every moment. I finally got to reap the benefits of the glorious garden I had planned during my last visit. We had sweet grapes, juicy peaches and ripe red berries. The bellflower was in bloom and the roses were beginning to open. Little Harry and I spent the afternoons outside when the weather was fair. He loved to go to the wheelhouse to feed the donkey. My evenings were lonely. Henry tried his best to be good company, but he could never be a substitute for his brother. I missed Francis.

In the middle of August, my mother came to assist me in my confinement. This time, it was more miserable than before. The heat was suffocating. I begged her to put out the fire, but she insisted. Without Matilda, who was ill back at Rochford Hall, Mother was more stubborn than usual and insisted on taking every precaution. My pains were right on time and, blessedly, the labour was much shorter. Francis was right in his prediction. We had a sweet baby girl. Once she had been washed and fed and I was up, my mother brought her in. She was graced with fair skin and almond-shaped eyes. A thick down of dark hair on her perfect head. She favoured the Boleyn side.

“She looks just as George did when he was born,” cooed my mother as she held out her finger and the baby instinctively grasped it in her tiny hands.

I laughed. “Well, we cannot name such a beautiful girl George!”

“No, I don’t suppose we can now, can we?”

I reached for my mother’s hand. “We shall call her Mary for her grandmother.”

Mother leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Francis had entered the House of Commons for Horsham that year and was unable to come home for Mary’s birth. Once the roads had cleared from the January storms, he made haste to see his family. When he arrived I did not wait for him to settle in. Instead we spent the afternoon making love before the fire. That night a storm kicked up and while the rain pounded against the windows and the wind howled outside, I was wrapped in the safety of Francis’s arms.

The king had not yet remarried so Francis reassured me that I could stay at home with the children. I knew it was a difficult decision for him.

“As much as I miss you being at Court with me, I can see your happiness. You have grown lovelier since I saw you last and while I would love our time together, it is much safer for you to be in the country. The nobles are warring and no one knows the king’s mind from one day to the next. Today he is burning Catholics, but tomorrow he will be burning reformers.” He sighed.

I gazed into his rich hazel eyes. “Which side are you?”

He caressed my face, “I do not know, Catherine. I have grown up in the Catholic church, but their abuses are many and they cannot continue. Every man should have access to the Bible and the king should lead his people in religious matters. Why should he be controlled by a pope who knows nothing of our people? I have not declared myself but, in most matters, I have aligned myself with the Earl of Hertford. But I don’t want you to think of this now, Catherine. Concentrate on running our household with Henry and spend your days with our little Harry and Mary. The king has already set his eyes on Lady Latimer and it will not be long before I call you back to Court.”

I let his words wash over me. My husband was becoming a Protestant whether he was ready to admit it or not. My Boleyn family was full of reformers so the idea was not entirely foreign to me, but we were still Catholics. We believed in the Holy Sacraments, but we wanted our priests and abbeys to be free of tarnish. I did not know how I felt about reading the Bible and the king being head of the church, but those ideas were not for me to decide. I would follow Francis on whatever path he chose.

When the king finally married Lady Latimer, I was not at Court because after Francis’s visit, I was yet again with child. In April, Francis sent word that my stepfather, Stafford, had been sent to Fleet Prison with John and Thomas Clere for eating meat on Good Friday. They were released in May, but I knew it was a sign that Stafford was making his allegiances known. I wanted desperately to ask my mother about it, but she took ill and on 19
th
July, my mother’s soul left this world. I spent the next days in despair. I had no desire but to sleep, so I took to my bed. On the fourth day I opened my eyes to see Francis sitting quietly beside me.

His face was etched with concern. “Catherine, you need to rejoin us. Our children need you and the one in your belly needs you to eat. You have grieved long enough.”

He was right and though I was not ready, I forced myself out of bed. I had my mourning gown taken out by our tailor and I wore it for the rest of my pregnancy. My brother inherited Rochford Hall and could not stand to turn out Matilda after all she had done to serve our family, so she came to Greys Court. I was relieved to have her with me for my third confinement. While she could never replace my mother, she was a welcome reminder of her.

My pains came during a November snow-storm and for the first time in three confinements I was grateful for the fire dancing in the hearth. This labour was difficult and not even the midwife’s spoon could help ease the pain. I spent hours kneeling on the birthing mattress grunting in pain, willing my baby to come out. When, after a day of labouring, the baby was failing to make its entrance, the midwife decided to check to see if it was breech. As expected, “I feel the feet and no head,” was the reply from under my shift.

The midwife reached her arm in as far as she could to turn the baby. It felt as though my insides were being ripped apart. I screamed in pain, but it was only another hour or two once the baby was righted.

“It is a bonny girl!” cried the midwife as she caught my baby in her arms.

I fell back on to the mattress and the world went black.

“Catherine! Catherine!”

I was being shaken awake. I opened my eyes and Matilda came into focus.

“Catherine, Francis is here. We sent for him as soon as the baby came.”

I tried to scramble into a sitting position, but my body would not co-operate. Defeated, I stayed on my back.

Matilda smoothed back my hair. “You have lost a lot of blood, so I need you to lie still and be calm. I will bring your husband in.”

I watched her backside bustle out of the room. A few minutes later she reappeared with Francis at her heels.

He sat next to the bed and gripped my hand. “How do you fare, my love?”

“Exhausted,” I exhaled.

He smiled. “Our daughter is quite the tyrant, screaming her head off, red-faced with wild ginger hair. She is a Tudor if ever I’ve seen one.”

I squeezed his arm. “Shush now! Do not let anyone hear that!”

He laughed, “I named her for my mother. We shall call her Lettice and hope it influences her disposition. Maybe she will inherit her sweet countenance.”

“I pray she does, dearest Francis, I pray she does,” I murmured, falling back to sleep in my depleted state.

Winter passed and snow melted away, taking with it all my excuses for remaining at Greys Court. I had healed well and all my functions had returned. Lettice was healthy and thriving. Like her grandfather, the king, she was very demanding, but her smile could brighten the room. She was certainly keeping her nurses busy. Harry was full of new words and learning every day. His tutor spoke highly of his precociousness. Mary was my quiet girl. Not yet two, she spent much of her day watching me sew or read. She liked to be near me at all times and as often as she could, would climb into my lap and rest her little head at my breast. I hated to leave them, but I was being summoned back to Court to serve my new queen and it was time I returned to my wifely duties.