Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey

by Adrienne Dillard

  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.”

  Oxfordshire, Rotherfield Greys:

  February 1542 - March 1544

  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. C
oncentrate 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 19th 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.

  London, Westminster and Hampton Court:

  March to August 1544

  In March, I went back to Court. The new queen, Katheryn Parr, was everything Katherine Howard was not. Gracious and humble, she welcomed me into her household. While Katherine Howard would pay no great attention to religious matters, this new queen was well-versed. Her ladies were expected to read the Bible along with their sewing and cards. The king’s daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, had been restored to the succession earlier in the year and were now often at Court.

  My main duty was to serve the Lady Elizabeth while she was at Court. It was during this time that I got to know the young lady who was called my cousin. Elizabeth enjoyed all the celebrations, music and dancing her father had to offer, but she was a studious young lady in the queen’s rooms. She spent much of her time buried in her Bible and translating pieces written by the queen and others into several different languages. Her Latin was impeccable.

  One afternoon, with the sun streaming in through the windows, Elizabeth sat hunched over her desk writing furiously on a piece of parchment. Her face was flushed red with exertion, tendrils of fire-red hair slipped out from under her hood.

  “My lady, may I ask at what you are labouring so?” I asked as I set a silver platter of sweet comfits down on her desk.

  Elizabeth looked up at me, her dark eyes flashing, and for a moment I was reminded of her mother, my Aunt Anne. She sat back and said excitedly, “It is Calvin! His book Institutes of the Christian Religion. He has only just written it three years ago and I am translating it into English for my father. Do you think he shall be pleased?”

  I looked at her thoughtfully. She was considered a bastard, but she was still a royal, so it would not be in good prudence to disagree with the child of the king. Alternatively, she was a novice at court intrigues and the fact that she was so taken with Calvin was not likely to be something that the king would be pleased with. He detested Lutherans and anyone associated with them. He would not consider John Calvin suitable reading for his daughter.

  Looking at Elizabeth’s face was like looking beyond the grave. She had her father’s nose and red hair, but her eyes and lips were all Anne. Elizabeth and I shared blood and I could not let her suffer for her innocence. Finally, I replied cautiously. “My lady, I think Calvin may be a bit radical for your father’s tastes. Is there nothing else you can translate for him?”

  Her pink tongue worked at the corner of her mouth while she contemplated this. Eventually, she set down her quill. “I suppose you are right. I had not thought of that in my excitement. Perhaps I should translate my lady the queen’s Prayers and Meditations. Do you think he would find that better suited?”

  I had not read the queen’s work, but I knew her religious persuasion. It was likely that her work showed her Protestant tendencies, but I was certain that the king would have read it already and no harm had come to her, so I supposed that a much better alternative.

  I gave Elizabeth a calming smile, “I think that would be perfect, my lady. Not only an excellent gift for your father, but I am certain the queen will be touched by your gesture.”

  Elizabeth grinned, “I do hope you are right.”

  She picked up the parchment and started to crumple it, but then she thought better of it. She laid it back down on the table and smoothed it with her hand, taking care not to smear the ink. She stared at it thoughtfully, then folded it and tucked it into one
of her books.

  I was stepping far beyond my place, but I took it upon myself after that day to watch out for Elizabeth. I advised her when it was prudent and listened closely for any words that were spoken against her. She was a very intelligent young lady and learned the ways of Court very quickly, but she had spent most of her life under the care of Lady Bryan far from the court at Hatfield. Being amongst her father’s councillors would be a lesson in discretion and I would do all that I could to protect her. She may not know it, but she was my sister and it was my duty.

  The king had set up the court at Westminster to plot against the Scots. King James had been killed at Solway Moss in 1542 and his baby girl, Mary Stuart, was on the throne. My father, the king, ever keen to take advantage, tried and failed to convince the Scots to join Mary in marriage to little Prince Edward. In May, after being rebuffed, he sent the Earl of Hertford and Nan Basset’s brother, now Viscount Lisle, to Edinburgh to attack. “Mark my words,” said Francis, “this is just the beginning.”

  Almost as soon as Hertford and Lisle were back from Scotland, the king was already itching to bring France to heel for their aid to his enemies. He spent the next month fortifying and preparing an army to set siege to Boulogne. In an act that had not been seen since his first wife Catherine of Aragon’s time, he made the queen regent in his absence. It seemed he had finally found a trustworthy queen.

  The men departed on 11th July, taking my stepfather and husband with them. I tried in vain to withhold my sobbing the night before Francis left, but I was terrified. Not only could I lose the man I loved so wholeheartedly, but I would be at the mercy of the king if my husband was killed in battle. He comforted me and we spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms, holding on for dear life.

  In the morning I knelt on the bed behind Francis and embraced him from behind. I could feel the heat from his naked back through my shift. I trailed light kisses along his freshly shaved jaw line. “I will be waiting for your swift return, my love,” I whispered in his ear.