Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (22 page)

“Good morrow, my ladies!” he called out. “How wonderful it is to see you out enjoying the sun and fresh air on this chilly day.”

Lady Berkeley dropped her bow to her side and ambled over to greet our visitor.

“Yes, we could not ask for better weather!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with the cold. “How are you shooting today? It looks as though you have some stiff competition.” She gestured towards the rainbow of doublets that had just now noticed Dudley’s departure and had turned in our direction with curiosity.

The two exchanged idle chitchat, but once Dudley realised that Lettice was Lady Berkeley’s shooting partner he could hardly keep eye contact with her and excused himself at his earliest chance and made a beeline for my daughter.

“Mistress Knollys! Your beauty is by far your much stronger suit than your archery skills. Please, dear girl, let me help you with your stance.”

I did not need to turn around to feel the heat from the look Elizabeth was giving the pair as she watched Dudley snake his arm around Lettice’s, pressing his body close into her backside.

I immediately marched over and quickly pulled the bow out of their hands.

“Actually, my lord, she is no longer Mistress Knollys. It would be far more appropriate for you to refer to her as Lady Hereford as she has been married to that lovely young viscount, Walter Devereux, for a year this Christmas. Of course, you are so busy in service to the queen that I cannot blame you for not being aware of every marriage that goes on in England, so I am certain you can be forgiven this once. But please do not forget, for Lettice now outranks even her mother and we do her much disrespect to forget her title.” I gave him a patronising smile. “Come along Lady Hereford, I am certain the queen has risen for the day and will be calling for us shortly.” Lettice shot me a horrified look, but I grabbed her wrist with my free hand and dragged her off, calling out over my shoulder, “Please enjoy the rest of your day Sir Robert. I will tell the queen that you send your regards!”

The tension in the air on the ride back to Whitehall was nearly unbearable. Even Lady Berkeley, who had chattered incessantly on the way to Windsor, sat in stony silence. My stomach lurched in disgust at the spectacle we had just subjected Lady Berkeley to. Unlike our similarly named cousin, this Katherine Howard did not thrive on drama, and it would not surprise me in the least if the experience caused her to stay away from Court even more frequently than she did now.

Lettice sat quietly, but with a thinly veiled sense of satisfaction that when the veneer of royalty had been removed from Elizabeth, it was she who Robert Dudley had chosen. I knew this would only encourage her pursuit of him even more.

I had little time to worry about Lettice’s future before it was decided for me. That afternoon in Elizabeth’s bedchamber, as she ripped the wig off of her head and threw it against the wall, she shouted, “She leaves tomorrow for Chartley!”

It was time for my daughter to make her home at her husband’s estates and start producing heirs. She could not be trusted around the queen’s horse master at Court. I hoped that she would someday make her way back into Elizabeth’s good graces.

Under the stress of my guilt and anxiety from the incident at Windsor, I finally succumbed to my dwindling spirits and took to my bed. Initially Elizabeth was livid. She thought I was withdrawing from her service to punish her for her exile of Lettice, but when she finally visited my rooms and saw my sorry state, she summoned her personal physician to care for me and remained by my bedside.

Mister Richard Master performed a perfunctory exam and confirmed Matilda’s suspicion. I was with child. How could I have not known? After thirteen pregnancies the signs should not have escaped me, but I had been oblivious. The fact that my courses had continued greatly concerned him and he immediately ordered the leeches for my bleeding.

Fear for my unborn child crept over me like a dark shadow. I prayed fervently for the child that grew in my womb and held on to the hope that he or she would be safely delivered. But my instincts prepared me for the worst.

The doctor kept me abed until we knew that the bleeding had been successful and when no courses came towards the end of December, I was released from my chamber in time for the Yule celebrations.

Though I was still feeling terribly exhausted and weary, seeing Francis for the first time in months set me ablaze. How I longed for his calming presence and his assurances that all would be all right. He had been travelling on the business of the queen and had taken a few weeks on his return journey to Court to rest at our home at Rotherfield Greys and prepare our estates for the coming months when his brother, Henry, would be leaving on a diplomatic mission to the Low Countries. I begged Elizabeth to allow me to meet him at home, but she demurred, insisting that she needed me at Court, and in any case, I was ill and certainly not disposed to be travelling. I was sorely disappointed, but there was little I could do.

Robert Dudley went to visit my husband immediately after the incident at Windsor to complain about my rude outburst, so a few days after his arrival at Court Francis gave me the required lecture. But I knew by his poorly suppressed grin that he was not angry with me. In fact, he thought it quite amusing that Dudley had behaved so terribly, completely unaware that Elizabeth was witnessing the whole interaction.

“If that did not put her off of him, nothing will,” he sighed. He still harboured concerns over her reluctance to declare her intentions for a consort.

However, the fact remained that I had offended a great favourite of the queen and we would have to make amends when an opportunity presented itself, he reminded me. I resolved to take no notice if I happened to see such an instance, but Francis could apologise all he liked.

My brother-in-law, Henry, bound for the continent, came to Court for the holidays and, as an apology for exiling my eldest daughter, Elizabeth invited the rest of my children to the palace to partake in the festivities.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw how much William and Edward had grown. Now, so close to adulthood, it wouldn’t be long before they were regulars at Court. It was likely that Francis had planned their future roles during his time back home. Bess was as lovely as ever. It dawned on me that she would be fourteen next year and would likely serve as one of Elizabeth’s maids-of-honour. She would most assuredly beckon the attentions of all the young men at Court. I hoped that she would be more circumspect in whom she paid her favours to than her elder sister had been.

Robert, Richard, little Francis and Anne visited as well, but Thomas and Katherine were deemed too young to journey in the weather. I missed seeing them so much, but I looked forward to my lying-in when I would be home and could hold them in my arms again.

Harry had just been recommended for provostship at Eton by Bishop Grindal and was unable to attend the celebrations. I was filled with admiration at the accomplishments of our children and took great pride in showing them off during their visit.

Elizabeth showered them with sticky sweets and they delighted in the miniature wooden toys she gave them. In return, Bess helped me finish the carpet I had embroidered for Elizabeth’s New Year present. It was made of a deep indigo silk and fringed in gold. We sewed a small purse with the leftover fabric and trimming and Francis filled it with gold sovereigns to use as his offering to Elizabeth.

My gift from the queen was a most unexpected gesture. In addition to the gold plate that was her customary New Year offering to her favourites, I was surprised with a small spaniel.

A knock at the door after our morning prayers led us to a hinged wooden box in the corridor outside of our rooms. The box trembled and then a high pitched whine came from a hole cut in the top.

Francis cautiously opened the lid and a golden ball of fur lunged into his arms. We agonised over a name for her, but decided upon Ginger when we caught her creeping behind Anne as she dropped crumbs from her chunk of gingerbread on the floor, gobbling them up as fast as she could.

After the holidays, the children went back to Greys and I resumed my duties, but this time I had a small companion who followed me everywhere I went.

The March torrents turned the knot garden where I liked to take my exercise into a muddy bog so I was spending the afternoon walking the long gallery at Windsor, as I tried desperately to dislodge the baby’s foot from under my rib. My brother’s wife, Anne, Lady Hunsdon, walked with me. She was normally very quiet, not prone to sharing confidences with the other women, but she opened up to me and we spoke of the children that had left us far too soon. She had lost three sons shortly after their birth and their deaths were still as raw as they had been on those sad days so many years past.

I enjoyed her company and it was healing to commiserate with someone who had suffered the same losses as I, so I was somewhat disappointed when my brother appeared to disturb our chat, grinning from ear to ear.

“Anne ... Catherine ... It is finished! Come, have a look!”

Anne and I exchanged a knowing glance as she hid her amusement behind her hand. Henry was having his portrait painted and he was so excited by it he would burden the ear of anyone who would listen. The work was being done by a Dutch artist who had arrived at Court with John Dymock bearing a portrait of King Erik of Sweden. King Erik was desperately wooing Elizabeth with very little success, but Painter Steffen, as he was called, had been fielding requests for portraits from the court elite for months. Little was known about this newcomer from the Low Countries, no one was even quite sure of his last name. Sometimes he went by Van der Meulen and sometimes Van Herwijck, depending upon who had commissioned him. But no one seemed to care for he had plenty of work to occupy him and even Francis was thinking of hiring him to commemorate his first years as the queen’s vice-chamberlain.

Henry strutted ahead of us as we made our way to their rooms. He led us to the sparse chamber that he had been painted in. Only a tall table that Henry leaned against as he posed and an easel displaying the work stood in the room.

It was a fine portrait and my brother looked every inch the serious courtier in it. I was reminded of our great-uncle, the third Duke of Norfolk. It seemed, however, a bit maudlin for my taste. It was almost monochromatic in its use of the colour black. The detail was impressive though, and I could tell by my brother’s beaming face that he was beside himself with pride.

“It is perfect, Henry. He captured your essence very well.”

“I’m glad you think so, sister,” he replied. “For Francis has commissioned a work from Painter Steffen as well.”

Francis had, in fact, commissioned a painting from Painter Steffen. Only it was not to be of him. It was to be of me.

“Catherine, I wanted to do something in commemoration of your birthday and to capture the sight of you in full bloom of child since this will most likely be our last. You have been so beautiful in your pregnancies and your fertility is the crown of your womanhood.”

I groaned in disgust. I certainly didn’t feel beautiful. I felt wretched and bloated. This pregnancy had been the hardest I had ever been through and, in a way, I was beginning to look forward to the end of my child-bearing days.

“That’s just it, Francis. I am in no condition to be standing for hours at a time while some stranger stares at me, capturing me in my bloated, sweaty monstrosity for all eternity.”

My face crumpled and the tears began to stream down my face. The idea of standing on my aching swollen feet for weeks on end in a stuffy room overwhelmed me. I sat on the edge of the bed and held my face in my hands.

Francis stood silently for a moment and then he sat down next to me and wrapped his arms around me. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the fresh citrusy scent of the marjoram I freshened our cupboards with. The scent and his musky warmth, mixed with my emotions, caused a stirring in my groin.

He tilted my face towards his and joined my lips to his own. My pulse quickened at the softness of his lips and the tenderness of his touch. I felt a rush of sweet agony when he pulled away. “I am so sorry,” he whispered breathlessly.

“No, I should be the one to apologise,” I argued earnestly. I tenderly rubbed my chin against the burn from his stubble. He saw and placed a gentle kiss on my tender skin.

“You were only trying to show your appreciation for me and I, very unappreciatively, got upset for no reason. This pregnancy seems to be wreaking such terrible havoc on my body. Now that we are in Elizabeth’s Court, you are so busy that I hardly ever see you. I long to be with you.”

The tears had returned in my revelation of emotion, leaving salty tracks on my hot cheeks.

Francis wrapped me tighter in his embrace and trailed soft kisses down the back on my neck.

I looked into his eyes. “I love the queen dearly. She is my sister and my sovereign, but she is so demanding and moody. She is at turns manic with joy, then worked into a rage over some slight that she thinks has been paid to her. Half of the time, the councillors have no sense of her desires so they seek us out for answers. Though we are with Elizabeth during her most intimate hours, we have no more knowledge of her than they do. It is exhausting to serve such a demanding mistress.”

Francis carefully removed the stiff lawn ruff from my collar, smoothed down my bodice and brushed away my tears.

“I didn’t realise you were so unhappy, Catherine. I too wish that we could return to our quiet life at Greys, but that is not yet to be. We’ve accepted security in the service of the crown. We have been able to live our comfortable life because of our loyalty. Our children will never face the uncertain future that you and your mother knew. Even if we could retire at this time, you know that the queen would never allow you too far out of her sight. You are of the blood royal and it is far safer to keep you near.”

“Francis, I would never ...”

“Catherine, any fool can see that you are the most devoted servant Elizabeth has. But, like you have said before, she was so often the focus for rebellion during Mary’s time. Her throne will not be safe until she marries and has an heir. Until that time, everyone is suspect.”

“She probably does not even know,” I started to argue.

Francis kissed my forehead and then held my gaze. “Wife, the mere colour of your hair is more than enough to cause suspicion. The fact that you look so much like the old king and almost nothing like your brother raises doubt. She may never know for certain, but I am certain that she, like everyone at Court, has suspected for some time. I sympathise with your unhappiness and I understand your pain, but our lives will never be easy. Many years will pass before we are allowed to retire to our estates. You must find some way to make peace with the queen and your life here at Court. Soon Bess will arrive to help occupy your time and it will not be long before Lettice gives us some grandchildren for you to chase about. Have faith, my love.”

The painting went ahead as planned and as miserable as I was, standing for hours with sweat pouring off of me from the interminable layers of clothing I had chosen, I was enamoured with the result.

Elizabeth’s court often seemed a dour place in perpetual mourning due to her preference that her ladies be attired in muted shades of black and grey. Elizabeth’s desire was to stand out like a brilliant flower among her people. If I was going to wear such dull shades memorialised on canvas for all of eternity, I refused to look as bland and colourless as my brother.

I selected my best brocade gown, crisp white and trimmed in the finest cloth of silver. Over it I wore a black cloak with close fitting sleeves slashed through to show the downy rabbit fur underneath. It had been a wedding gift from Francis, cut loose so that I could wear it through my expected pregnancies, but it had been so fine that I only brought it out on very special occasions. Golden rope worked into intricate leaves stood out brightly against the dark velvet. I chose my best girdle, a thick rope chain with an enormous medallion. I regretted my arrogance after the third day of struggling under its enormous weight.

As old as I felt, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I looked quite young and graceful in the finished piece. My stiff ruff hid the full chin that plagued me and while a bit of grey hair peeked out from under my coif, I had nary a wrinkle to be seen. My skin appeared supple and unlined, a small smile playing across my lips, so similar to the miniature of my mother that I gazed at so often.

I marvelled at Painter Steffen’s handiwork. He had been a pleasure to sit for and it was his idea to include my spaniel, Ginger. His humorous nature was an excellent distraction during those long, uncomfortable days. I was sad to see him go, but I was relieved that I would be returning to Greys to give birth.