Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (23 page)

On Saturday afternoon, 9
th
May, I was delivered of a healthy baby boy. Francis was beside himself with excitement and, much to my dismay, determined that the naming of our son would be the perfect opportunity to pay tribute to Elizabeth’s perpetual favourite.

“I refuse to name our son Dudley!” I cried as I flailed my arms, desperately attempting to right myself against the headboard.

“Catherine,” he started calmly. “Robert Dudley is my close friend and confidante. I know he would be immensely pleased and it would erase any ill feelings that may linger from ...”

“You will never let me forget that will you?” I interrupted him.

I was annoyed, but I had to appreciate his logic. I had a healthy baby boy with strong lungs, bright eyes and a perfect, upturned nose. Though I feigned irritation, I was so thrilled with the warm bundle of blankets in my arms that I couldn’t have cared less what name my husband chose.

Dudley grew and flourished in those first few weeks. He ate hungrily at his nurse’s breast and reminded us constantly of his existence with his lusty screams of indignation when his needs were not immediately met.

But one chilly June morning, his cries were absent. I woke up early, eagerly anticipating his arrival in my bedchamber, as I was still abed recovering. The absence of his cries was not the only thing that worried me. A deadly silence permeated our home. All the hustle of daily activity in our home had ground to a halt. My anxiety increased every hour that passed with no appearance from the nurse.

When Dudley’s nurse finally entered my room with tears streaked across her face, I lost my sense of sanity. I leapt out of my bed and grabbed the first thing within my reach. She ran out of the room slamming the door as the vase shattered against it, sparkles of glass raining onto the floor.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry out, I wanted to do anything to release the pain, but nothing would relieve me. I allowed the feeling of numbness to overtake my mind. Dudley’s death had no explanation. The nurse went in to see to his morning feed and found him cold and still. The light of his spirit had gone out like a whisper in the night. I searched desperately for someone to blame, but there was no one, save God, and how can you blame God for carrying out His plan? I had already railed at God enough to no avail.

Francis went back to Court a few days after Dudley’s birth. When he left me, I had no inkling that the next time I would see him would be to bury our son. He tried his best to comfort me, but I could not give in to his care and I was terrified to share any intimacies. I could not risk pregnancy again. The pain was too raw.

Elizabeth allowed us to mourn in peace for a month’s time, but as the civil war in France came to a head and negotiations to meet with Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, broke down, our presence was commanded. In the damp stifling heat of August, we began the journey back to London and the opulent Hampton Court Palace.

Elizabeth’s face looked pale and drawn. She complained of a headache one night, but in the morning she seemed to have recovered, merely pleading that she was quite exhausted. I spent the night on the pallet next to her bed and could attest to the tossing and turning plaguing her rest. It was quite unusual for Elizabeth to be so quiet and docile so only Lady Mary Sidney, and I attended on her, dispatching the unnecessary maids and only allowing in those councillors deemed important enough to disturb her rest.

She sat before the blazing fire wrapped head to toe in a woollen quilt, dozing off now and again, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Mary Sidney and I entertained ourselves with our embroidery. Lettice had written that she was with child and I was determined to complete the buttery yellow silk blanket I was working on before the baby came. As the outside light faded into night, the tiny rabbit I was working to create out of needle and thread was turning into an unrecognisable blob so I gave up for the night. I set my work aside and rose to check on Elizabeth.

Her face was aflame and her skin burned to the touch. I called Mary to help me remove the quilt. As we yanked it off her, she sat up and made an unusual request.

“I think to have a bath. Please call the maid.”

Mary and I exchanged a fearful glance. A bath was the last thing she needed. Being submerged in the water could worsen her symptoms.

Mary bravely countered, “Are you certain Your Grace? A bath may not be such a good idea right now.”

Elizabeth’s glassy eyes flashed. “Are you questioning me, Lady Sidney? I may feel unwell, but I have not lost all my faculties.”

“Not at all, Your Grace, I will call on Nan to draw you a bath.”

Against our better judgment, Mary and I eased Elizabeth into the scalding water. I pinned her hair up carefully and prayed that it did not come loose and get wet and then set to work pouring the water over her shoulders and back, trying to keep them warm as she soaked in the basin.

We dried her as thoroughly as possible and guided her into her warmest woollen night shift. After organising the bath, we had directed the maid, Nan, to warm bricks in the fire to put at the bottom of Elizabeth’s great tester bed to ward off any chill she might take from the bath.

That night, we both slept on the pallet next to Elizabeth’s bed.

She was worse in the morning. Her guttural moans were enough to send a chill down my spine. We sent for her physician, but we found no remedy even after the application of all the poultices and leeches he prescribed. Smallpox was the dreaded diagnosis, but it seemed that nothing could be done until the angry red spots erupted on her body. Within days, Elizabeth lost the power of speech and we feared that all hope had been lost.

The councillors panicked. Francis described the chaos, “This councillor emphasises the right of Lady Katherine Grey to succeed, while that councillor argues that it is the Earl of Huntingdon’s crown to take. Some of us want to refer it to the judiciary, while others argue that the question is the council’s to decide. Each man believes his opinion to be the correct one and the only thing that many can agree on is that they do not want Mary Stuart taking power. Her claim is by far the greatest.”

My brother Henry was the only councillor who dared come to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He paced nervously outside the Privy Chamber, demanding updates on her health. Unsatisfied with the court physician’s diagnosis of impending death, he went in search of any other doctor who would take a look.

Henry Carey was not a man prone to violence so it deeply unsettled me to see him drag in the German doctor by knife-point, but he gave us the results we were looking for. Mister Burcot carefully wrapped Elizabeth in a flannel quilt and the four of us carefully lifted her out of bed and placed her on the pallet bed that had been moved over to the fireplace. After nearly two hours in blazing heat, Elizabeth finally found her voice. Henry called in the council to hear her directive. None of them was pleased with her request.

In her delirium, Elizabeth breathlessly addressed the rumours that had run rampant about her intimate relations with Robert Dudley, decrying any notion that they had ever acted inappropriately or that anything but words had passed between them. She requested that for her love of him, should she succumb to death, he was to be appointed Protector of the Realm and she dictated his pension for such a position.

The council stood dumbfounded before her. They had been expecting such a command, but what could they do? Their sovereign had spoken. They plied her with empty promises and filed out of the room in great distress.

A crimson rash finally broke out on Elizabeth’s skin. Francis demanded my dismissal until she had fully recovered. Smallpox was highly contagious and I was still healing from my pregnancy and birth. Mary refused to leave Elizabeth and she stayed on, never leaving her bedside.

Fortunately Elizabeth recovered fairly quickly and the council never had to make the distasteful decision to promote Robert Dudley to Protector. Unfortunately for Lady Sidney, her devotion to Elizabeth was rewarded with her own contraction of the dreaded pox, which had sped its way through London and laid waste to the rich and poor alike. Elizabeth emerged from her sickbed almost completely unscathed. Poor Mary, on the other hand, was horribly disfigured with scars and begged permission to return home. I lamented her absence from the bedchamber.

Now that Lady Sidney was gone, Elizabeth demanded my presence more than ever. I begged leave to attend Lettice’s childbirth at Chartley in December, but I was rebuffed at the mere suggestion of my departure. I attempted to enjoy the holiday festivities at Whitehall, but my mind was on my daughter. I was thrilled when a letter arrived at the end of January describing an easy birth that culminated in the arrival of my first grandchild, Penelope Devereux.

I ducked just in time to avoid being hit by the flying dish. It bounced off a unicorn tapestry that hung on the wall and landed on the polished floor, shattering to pieces.

“How
dare
that little harlot have another bastard? And right under my nose! Why is no one on guard outside their cells? Answer me!”

Elizabeth sat red-faced and rigid with rage. A messenger from the Tower had come to tell her that Lady Katherine Grey had given birth to yet another son. It was impossible that such a thing had happened. Katherine and Edward Seymour had been imprisoned since the truth of their marriage came to light during Elizabeth’s first progress. They were in separate cells and not allowed visits since Elizabeth considered their marriage to be invalid. However, the Lieutenant of the Tower had taken great pity on them and arranged a secret rendezvous that resulted in Lady Katherine’s second pregnancy. To make things worse for himself, he had kept her pregnancy a secret until it could be hidden no longer.

“Get out!” Elizabeth spat at the messenger.

She burst into tears at the slamming of the heavy door. I rushed over with a silk handkerchief.

“Now I shall never hear the end of this marriage business. All I hear from my council is that I need to marry and have an heir, that my throne will never be safe until I do. And now my cousin, the whore, has had herself another son just waiting to take my place. I will not stand for this treason.”

“Your Grace,” I said carefully. “Katherine may have two sons, but with no witnesses to her marriage, they are illegitimate and no threat to you. She is just a young girl whose head was turned with pretty words. If she were plotting against you, her methods were weak and ill-thought out. Show the people you are not afraid of her. Be the gracious queen your mother was. To show fear only increases her perceived power. Let them see that she is beneath your worry.”

Elizabeth wiped her nose and then pulled off her glove. She chewed her fingernail thoughtfully, carefully considering my advice.

She pursed her lips. “I suppose your words have merit. She
is
beneath me, yet I am still concerned. However, I too was accused of many traitorous plots against my sister when I had nothing to do with them. I shall take your good counsel under advisement, Lady Knollys.”

I didn’t realise I had been holding my breath in anticipation of her response to my audacity in questioning her until I released it. I didn’t know if my words had made any difference, but for the moment she was calm.

Soon Secretary Cecil was knocking at the door and Elizabeth’s composure was restored as if nary a tear had been shed. Her emotions were wiped away and hardened determination came back into her face.

“Cecil, you will release the Lieutenant of the Tower from his duties today. Sir Edward Warner will serve us there no more.”

Cecil bowed low and began to retreat from the room.

“Wait …” she called out. “Lady Katherine is to be released into the care of her uncle, Sir John Grey at Havering. She will be separated from her children and for now their wardship will be in my care.”

I sympathised with Elizabeth’s rage. Those nine days when Katherine’s sister, Jane, reigned on the throne instead of Mary a mere decade ago made the Grey sisters a threat to Elizabeth. Did they have a better claim? Possibly. Their grandmother had been sister to King Henry VIII, but before he died the king laid out the stipulations for his succession, naming Elizabeth after Edward and Mary, and his word was law. However, Katherine was young and beautiful and, most importantly, fertile. She had already demonstrated that she could give birth to boys. To Katherine’s supporters, Elizabeth was a barren spinster. The more fear Elizabeth showed of the Grey sisters, the more power behind their cause. In any case, Sir John Grey was loyal to the crown and it would be far safer to have Katherine under his thumb.

“Harry, look at how you have grown!” I exclaimed wrapping my arms around my eldest son. I stepped back and admired the dashing figure he cut in his grey velvet doublet and cloth of silver trimmed ruff. He let his burnished brown hair grow longer and a fine beard graced his chin. His cheeks retained their boyish colour, but he looked every inch the courtier. I could not believe that the baby I had held in my arms was now in his twenty-second year. He was recently elected to Parliament and Elizabeth had invited him to Court to take part in the St George’s Day celebrations.

“I am pleased to see you as well, Mother.” He said, bending down to place a light kiss on my forehead. “The other children send their love. Bess can talk of nothing but debuting at Court next year, but I have reminded her that in addition to music and dancing, she needs to increase her lessons on the Scripture and learn to behave in a virtuous and Godly manner … Unlike our sister, Lettice.”

“Harry,” I said, placing my hand on his offered arm. “Lettice is virtuous and Godly. She is just easily distracted by worldly things. How kind of you to guide your younger siblings. However, it is also wise to remember that not everyone’s holy zeal can match yours.”

“Well, we would all be better for it if they did, but I will try to keep it in mind.”

I laughed at my son’s obstinacy as we strolled down the corridor.

“We must arrange your marriage, my dear boy. You need some children of your own to raise.”

On St George’s Day, the newest Knights of the Garter were elected during a ceremony at Windsor. That night they were feted with a lavish dinner in Elizabeth’s private quarters. It was a great honour not only to be elected to the Order of the Garter but also to be invited to take part in the ceremonies. A few short years ago, my brother was knighted during this very celebration and now my son would bear Elizabeth’s train during the march to the chapel. Elizabeth had done much to promote her Boleyn relatives. I wondered if my grandfather, Thomas, would have finally been proud of us.