“Catherine, I need Francis at Bolton. He is the only man I trust to serve me in regards to that woman,” Elizabeth insisted.
She had her hands raised in the air waiting for me to drop her linen night shirt over her head. I tugged gently on the fabric, trying hard to avoid catching her hair. She still retained her slim youthful figure and I eyed with envy the way that the fabric laid across her narrow hips.
I stayed behind her and spoke as I plaited her hair. I knew better than to make eye contact when challenging Elizabeth. I would inevitably lose my nerve.
“Surely Lord Scrope is capable enough,” I replied lightly. I did not want Elizabeth to think I was directly questioning her authority. “It would be wonderful to have Francis home for Christmas.”
Elizabeth turned around. Her face was calm and her voice was steady. “Catherine, I cannot risk it. Mary is known for her abilities to charm men to doing their bidding. I cannot depend on Lord Scrope to avoid her seductions. Your husband is incorruptible. He has the most integrity of any courtier that has ever served me and, most importantly, he loves you. He would never allow Mary to compromise his faithfulness.”
I understood her position and I realised then that convincing her to change her mind would be fruitless. I nodded that I understood and reached out to pull the curtains open on her tester bed. As she crawled under the covers she muttered, “You really should take it as a compliment.”
I participated as little as possible in the festivities leading up to Christmas. I felt melancholy at Francis’s absence and I missed my children. Lettice had still not forgiven me and Elizabeth was not ready to allow her back to court. Harry was spending Christmas at Bolton with his father. Bess and Anne would be here, but the rest of my children were to stay home at Greys.
On Christmas Eve, I invited my maid to take dinner with me in my bedchamber.
“My lady, this is far too much for me to eat. You will have to roll me out of your room on a cart!” Matilda exclaimed. Her eyes shone with excitement in the candlelight at the bounty on the table before her. Tiny silver plates of fig custard and marchpane garnished the savoury meat pie in the centre.
“Please, Matilda,” I laughed. “Eat as much as you like. Thank you for spending your Christmas with me.”
Matilda smiled at me and then she furrowed her brow. “Where are your beautiful daughters? I am certain I saw Lady Anne leaving your room earlier today.”
I leaned across the table for the wine and poured Matilda a generous cup.
“Matilda, you know very well that this is the most important time for the beautiful young girls of the court to be out in their finest gowns, making merry and dancing with every handsome young man that asks. I could not deny them that.” I gave her a sly wink. “They did offer, but I insisted that they partake in the banquet and masque.”
We ate until our bellies were full and then slipped leftover scraps to my little spaniel, Ginger. Afterwards, we relaxed in my cushioned chairs before the fire and lost ourselves in the stories of our youth. We roared with delight at silly escapades from our childhood and cried tenderly over the people who were no longer with us.
After Matilda told a particularly moving story about my mother’s generosity and compassion, I was moved to demonstrate my own.
“Matilda?” I asked after a quiet moment. “Are you still in love with Henry Knollys?”
The firelight danced across her wine-coloured cheeks and a look of longing came over her face.
“I never told you this, but when he returned from his mission in Germany a few years ago he proposed marriage. I denied him of course. Who was I to marry him? His sister-in-law is the daughter of a king and one of the queen’s closest companions. I was nothing but a maid. Besides, I could not leave you, especially after Dudley’s death. And I was afraid. I was afraid that you and Francis would be angry with me for my presumption.”
“Matilda, I could never be angry with you!” I cried. Inspired to action by her honesty, I leapt from my chair and ran to my dress cupboard. I threw open the doors and rummaged around for the pale blue brocade gown that I wore to Edward’s coronation. When I felt the familiar fabric brush my fingers, I giggled with glee.
I thrust the gown at Matilda. She stared at me, mouth agape.
“Matilda, I release you from my service.”
Her eyes widened. “I spoke out of turn – please don’t be angry with ...”
I stopped her. “Take this dress and go back to Greys. Henry will not be able to resist you. You go with my blessing.”
Matilda’s eyes shimmered with tears as she threw her arms around me.
“Go,” I whispered.
I felt my spirits rise at the sight of her scampering out the door.
The next morning I awoke to the same throbbing pain in my head that had plagued me in the summer. I blamed the wine from the evening before, but in the back of my mind a cold fear came creeping in. The bright winter sun streaming in through the windows intensified the pain and try as I might to urge myself out of bed I had no desire to emerge from the covers.
Bess and Anne came to visit. They regaled me with every detail of their wonderful evening. Anne tittered excitedly about Thomas West asking her to dance. She could hardly contain her glee when Bess reminded her that if the marriage negotiations were successful, one day she would be his baroness.
Though they worried about me, I pleaded my overconsumption of wine and shooed them off to enjoy the celebrations. I spent the rest of the evening in bed dozing off to the sounds of a crackling fire in the heart and to the comfort of my spaniel curled against back.
When I did not emerge from my chamber by 1st January, the queen paid me a visit. She fretted over my condition and sent her doctor to care for me. He prescribed bleeding and an awful concoction of herbs. The fever did not burn nearly as hot as before and abated after a few days under his care.
Elizabeth refused to leave me alone while I recovered and spent many evenings by my bed reading from the Gospels or reminiscing about her days at Hatfield. My guilt over Lettice’s betrayal with Robert Dudley was worsened when she told me how much she had enjoyed having my daughter with her while we hid away in the Low Countries and how she had hoped that one day Lettice would be her closest companion.
I wanted to rail against Dudley for causing such a breach between cousins, but I didn’t have the heart. He would be as miserable as they were, for neither was at liberty to freely give their love to him.
I received a moving letter from my own love just as I had begun to feel well enough to get out of bed.
My Dearest Catherine,
I have received word from Secretary Cecil that you are again ill with fever. I wrote back to him expressing my desire to return home, but once again I was refused. I shudder in anger at this mistreatment. I have performed every task that the queen has given me and yet she adamantly refuses to grant my small request.
I have decided that when I am finally allowed to return, I shall resign my post and return with you to our home at Greys where we can live a quiet life in the country. We may fall to poverty, but I do not care. I only want to be by your side.
I pray daily for your recovery and beg the Lord to spare you from your pain. I will think of you until you are in my arms again.
All of my love,
Francis
I fell asleep with Francis’s words clutched tightly to my breast. As I dreamt of my quiet life in the country with Francis, the fever returned to ravage my body. Elizabeth’s doctor ordered another bleeding, but the fever would not abate this time.
Elizabeth’s face was bathed in the pale moonlight. Her eyes were sunken in and hollow. She brightened at my stirring and immediately reached for my hand.
“Elizabeth,” I whispered.
“Yes, Catherine?”
The effort it took to speak pained me, but I swallowed hard and continued. “Please take care of my family. When Lettice does something that angers you, remember the love that I have for you and forgive her. Find
places in your court for my sons, as they will have families to feed. Help Francis to find good men for our daughters.”
Elizabeth’s hand trembled in mine, but she put on a brave smile. “Don’t say such things, Catherine. You will recover from this fever just as you did before. I will always care for your family, but you will be here to make sure of it.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to remember the scents of life. The juniper in the rushes, the linen on my bed, the rosewater in Elizabeth’s hair. I took it all in one last time.
“Tell Francis that I will always love him and that I will be waiting for him,” I murmured faintly.
I felt Elizabeth’s lips on my cheek and heard her voice. “Yes, Catherine. You must wait for him.”
The orchards of Hever were in full bloom and the faces of the two little girls from my dream were finally clear to me. It was my mother and Anne, and they were calling my name.
THE END
Catherine Knollys’ Memorial
Catherine Carey Knollys died on 15 January 1569 (new style dating) in her rooms at Hampton Court, where the court had retired to celebrate the holiday season. Elizabeth was inconsolable upon her death and, for a time, she worried her councillors with her refusal to even stomach food in her grief. The queen graciously funded a lavish funeral for her departed chief lady of the bedchamber and had her laid to rest in St. Edmund’s Chapel at Westminster Abbey.
There is a commemorative plaque in the Abbey that reads:
“The Right Honourable Lady Catherine Knollys, chief Lady of the Queen’s Majesty’s Bedchamber, and Wife to Sir Francis Knollys, Knight, Treasurer of Her Highnesses Household, departed this Life the Fifteenth of January, 1568, at Hampton-Court, and was honourably buried in the Floor of this Chapel.
This Lady Knollys, and the Lord Hunsdon her Brother, were the Children of William Caree, Esq; and of the Lady Mary his Wife, one of the Daughters and Heirs to Thomas Bulleyne, Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde; which Lady Mary was Sister to Anne Queen of England, Wife to K. Henry the Eighth, Father and Mother to Elizabeth Queen of England.”
Underneath is a Latin inscription which, when translated, reads:
“O, Francis, she who was thy wife, behold, Catherine Knolle lies dead under the chilly marble. I know well that she will never depart from thy soul, though dead. Whilst alive she was always loved by thee: living, she bore thee, her husband, sixteen children and was equally female and male (that is, both gentle and valiant). Would that she had lived many years with thee and thy wife was now an old lady. But God desired it not. But he willed that thou, O Catherine, should await thy husband in Heaven.”*
Catherine’s husband Francis never remarried after her death. Though he would have been a very eligible bachelor in the Elizabethan court, he preferred to live out his final twenty-seven years as a widower.
An elaborate monument was erected at Rotherfield Greys by their son, William Knollys, with the effigies of seven sons, six daughters, and William’s wife. It still stands in the church today.
*Taken from the website of Westminster Abbey
http://www.westminster-abbey.org
The Family of Catherine Carey
I used Sally Varlow’s work “Sir Francis Knollys’ Latin Dictionary: New Evidence for Katherine Carey” to determine when Catherine and Francis’s children were born. It was a list found in Sir Francis’s personal dictionary and is held by a descendant of the family in a private collection.
The Parents
Catherine Knollys: April 1524
Francis Knollys: 1511
The Children
Henry “Harry” Knollys: April 6, 1541
Mary Knollys: October 28, 1542
Lettice Knollys: November 8, 1543
William Knollys: March 23, 1545
Edward Knollys: October 12, 1546
Maude Knollys: March 19, 1548
Elizabeth Knollys: June 15, 1549
Robert Knollys: November 5, 1550
Richard Knollys: May 15, 1552
Francis Knollys: August 14, 1553
Anne Knollys: July 19, 1555
Thomas Knollys: January 28, 1558
Katheryn Knollys: October 21, 155
Dudley Knollys: May 9, 1562
Author’s Note
I have always felt that it is the duty of a historical author to finish with a word to his/her readers regarding the authenticity of the history he/she portrays. While artistic license can make for very vivid imagery and often assist the reader in connecting with the protagonist, we must always remember that the people in our stories were real historical figures and deserve an honest assessment. Too often historical fiction writers have slandered the reputations of these long deceased people, no longer around to defend themselves. While I have taken license with certain events in my story, I have made every effort to keep the characterisations of these amazing people intact, and every change I have made has been in the realm of possibility, meaning that while there is no record of the event ever happening, it is not impossible for it to have occurred.
First and foremost, I would like to state that very little record of conversations between the people of the times exists, therefore most of the dialogue has come from my imagination. The same can be said for the letters from Elizabeth, Mary and Francis. I have referenced some of the wording in the Cor Rotto letter from Elizabeth, but it is not entirely incorporated. We do know that Francis almost always ended his letters with “Yours Assured”, but those have been almost exclusively dispatches to the queen’s council members and I have taken a far more personal tone in his letters to Catherine. The only pieces of dialogue that are purely authentic are the words spoken by Ridley and Latimer as they suffered at the stake.
The characters of Richard, Susannah and Matilda are creations of my imagination. I have found no record naming Catherine’s maids and it is possible that more than one served her at various points in her life, but, for simplicity’s sake, I have only included Matilda. Since Susannah is a fictional character, her ties to Kat Ashley are also fictional.
Throughout the story, Catherine attempts to come to terms with her parentage. I have chosen to portray her as the illegitimate daughter of Henry VIII, however not every historian would agree with that assessment. Whether or not Henry VIII fathered Catherine is still a contentious debate. While we have an exact birth date for her brother, Henry, we don’t actually have a birth date for Catherine. The best estimates put her date of birth in the spring of 1524. It has been estimated that Mary Boleyn’s affair with the king commenced in 1522 and continued, based on land grants made to William Carey, through to 1525. However, we must remember that Carey was a trusted courtier and it is possible that the land grants were given after the cessation of the affair. Catherine’s birth definitely falls within the timeline needed for the king to father her. However, Mary was, indeed, married during the time of this affair so Catherine’s lineage is not quite so cut and dry. We also do not know exactly how the affair started and the king only formally acknowledged the relationship with Mary once. Anything I have described regarding Mary’s relationship with him is pure conjecture.
Unless DNA testing is done, we will probably never know the truth, but in my own personal opinion, I have always believed that Henry VIII fathered Catherine. When Catherine’s portrait is compared to Elizabeth I’s, the similarities are striking and, when accompanied by the circumstantial evidence, I think a strong case can be made. However, it is not unknown for cousins to appear more alike than siblings and, certainly, Catherine and her family would have been heavily promoted by Elizabeth whether they were sisters or not. For further reading regarding Catherine’s parentage, I highly recommend any work by Anne Boleyn’s esteemed biographer Eric Ives.
In 1534, Mary was banished from the court for her marriage to William Stafford and resulting pregnancy. Anne was, by that time, queen and it was felt that Mary had brought dishonour to the Boleyn name by marrying a man of such low standing without royal permission. There is very little
in the historical record regarding Mary and William Stafford until the death of Thomas Boleyn in 1539, when Mary came into her inheritance of Rochford Hall. There is absolutely no record of the child she was carrying in 1534. I have assumed that Mary returned to Calais with Stafford after her banishment, as it seems unlikely that she would be welcomed back to the family’s home at Hever. We know that Stafford was in Calais in 1539 because he is listed as someone who accompanied Anne of Cleves on her departure from Calais to England. It is possible that Catherine stayed at Hever until she was called to Court to wait on the new queen, but I have placed her with her mother and Stafford in Calais. Since there is no record of Mary and Stafford’s child, I have assumed that he or she was either miscarried or died at a very early age. For further reading on Mary Boleyn, I suggest Alison Weir’s biography.
I have tried to portray Lady Rochford in a far more sympathetic light than she is usually treated by historical fiction writers. Though she has been slandered for centuries for testifying against her brother and sister-in-law, we really don’t have any evidence of what she said in her testimony and anything that that has reported otherwise has come from very unreliable secondary sources. Her reasons for any testimony at all could be for a number of reasons, but it is unlikely that she would seek the destruction of the man who supported her. It is very likely, however, that she was under extreme psychological distress when interrogated by Thomas Cromwell. Her miscarriage is a complete work of fiction, serving only to make her more sympathetic. While regarded as fiction in this novel, it is safe to say that a pregnancy would certainly be possible. George and Jane Rochford were a co-habitating couple and there is absolutely no evidence of any distress or scandal in the marriage and while George was certainly a court flirt, there is no evidence that he was homosexual or that he engaged in extra-marital affairs. For more information on George and Jane Rochford, I suggest Clare Cherry and Claire Ridgway’s excellent biography George Boleyn: Tudor Poet, Courtier & Diplomat.
Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey Page 27
