Francis strode over to the bed and sat down beside me.
“Catherine, I understand your desire to go home. I want to go home too. I miss my land, I miss being a trusted advisor to our monarch. I miss everything about England. But God has led us to this place for our safety, and I promise you that once our Elizabeth takes the throne, we shall return in all our glory.”
The thought of my beautiful niece taking her rightful place on the throne brought tears to my eyes. Having lost children myself, I did feel for Queen Mary’s pain, but I would be lying if I did not admit that it brought a certain relief when her pregnancy turned out to be a phantom. I could not stand the idea of Mary’s child ascending the throne over Elizabeth.
I brushed my tears aside and took Francis’s hand.
“Our child shall be born in exile, but raised to be a proud Englishman.”
Francis smiled and added, “Our first child born without the taint of Catholic popery.”
I wanted to laugh out loud at the serious look on his face. Catholicism did not seem like such a terrible thing to me when it was not used as a weapon to burn people alive, but to Francis it was a plague. I let him have his moment of righteousness, but stopped short of encouraging him. As long as my child was born healthy I did not care if it was in a Catholic or Protestant country.
Francis brought my hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.
“Would you still like to see what I was working on?”
I nodded.
He got up and walked over to the desk, coming back with a book in his hand, the pages open to reveal his delicate handiwork. He sat down next to me and placed it in my hand. The leather cover was soft and supple in my hands. I closed the book for a moment to see what was written on the cover. It was a Latin dictionary and thesaurus for the letters A to E.
“I bought this when I was a student at Basel,” Francis murmured.
I opened the book back to where my finger had stayed marking the page.
At the top of the page it said:
Here follows in order the names, with the times of the birth of the children of Francis Knollys & Catherine his wife that were married the 26th day of April anno. 1540. The year of Our Lord is counted to begin at Christmas.
Below that, he had listed the names and birth dates of all of our children, numbered one to eleven. He ended with the number twelve empty, waiting for the name of this child that was growing in my belly.
“Francis, it is beautiful.” I said in awe.
“I never had a chance to start this when I was back in England. It finally occurred to me that I had better write it before we have so many children we cannot remember their birth dates,” he said with a chuckle.
I leaned over and kissed his cheek, the hair from his beard tickling my lips.
“Thank you for this.”
“You are welcome, my darling. Now, I am going to put it in our trunk to keep it safe until the child is born.”
I went to bed feeling relieved that Francis had forgiven me. Once again, I realised just how blessed I had been in this marriage. Francis was a good man and I knew he would always do what was right for our family. I fell into an easy sleep wrapped in the comfort of his care.
Living in exile had fundamentally changed the way we lived our lives and that included my time in pregnancy. At home in Rotherfield Greys, we had servants and tutors to help me with the children. In Frankfurt I had only Matilda. Matilda was amazing and I would have been lost without her, but she was ill-equipped to take on the children by herself for three months, so going into confinement was out of the question. Even if she had been able to do so, there was no other place for Francis to sleep besides in our bed. It would be far too inconvenient to move him out for the duration of my final months of pregnancy.
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.
PART V Triumphant Return
London, Whitehall:
January - April 1559
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.
Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey Page 17
