Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (24 page)

During the most oppressive heat of the summer, Elizabeth’s retinue set out on the annual progress. We would be spending time in Cambridge at the university during our journey. On 5
th
August, we meandered through Haslingfield and Grantchester. At Newham, the Lord Mayor of Cambridge met our enormous party and waited patiently while the queen conferred with Robert Dudley over which horse she preferred. We rode into the town, met with trumpet blasts and jubilant calls of “Long live the queen!”

The entertainment was never ending with a grand assortment of banquets and masques, dances and plays. Elizabeth enjoyed the attention and extravagance so immensely, it was decided that we would stay for a day longer than planned. We followed Elizabeth on horseback as she toured the colleges. I sat in boredom through the Greek oration at Christ’s College. The highlight for me came at the end of the visit when both Francis and my brother, Henry, were created honorary Masters of Arts.

After Cambridge, we moved on to Hinchingbrooke. In the morning, a performance by the youngest students ridiculing the Catholic Mass so angered Elizabeth that she left in the middle of the masque and took the torchbearers with her. She left the astonished students behind to stare after her swishing skirts in the dark. The students were not the only ones puzzled by her hasty departure.

“Why does the queen insist on playing us for fools?” Francis raged as he paced the small cottage we were lodged in. “She refuses to participate in the Mass, yet she chastises anyone who dare question it. Are we to return to Rome now? What madness is this?”

I sat on the corner of the bed, amused by his indignation. On more than one occasion, Elizabeth had made it quite plain that England would not be returning to the Catholic fold, but for the staunchest reformers in her council that was not enough. They wanted her to decry their foul ways and condemn the pope and all he stood for. They wanted proof that she aligned herself with their cause.

The councillors would never be satisfied. Elizabeth was a pragmatist and she would never allow one side to trump the other. She had not survived the faction wars of her father’s and sister’s reigns without learning a few things about the hearts of men and how they were corrupted with power. With every changing decision and every ambiguous directive, Elizabeth reminded her council that the power lay solely with her. In regards to religion, in regards to her marriage, in regards to foreign relations, she would change her mind at a moment’s notice the instant her council felt secure. It was the only way she knew to guarantee her security. Allow no man to directly influence her decisions.

When we arrived at St James’s Palace near the end of September, Elizabeth had tired of irritating her councils in regard to her preference on religion. Instead she would remind her favourite that he too was never secure in her affections.

While Robert Dudley had been brought low by the scandal of his wife’s death, his status at Court had never been higher. It was evident to me that Elizabeth would never take him as her consort, but it appeared that neither her council nor Dudley, himself were convinced that marriage to him was officially out of the question. I could hardly blame them for their assumptions. Elizabeth continued to lead them on a merry dance, never confirming nor denying her true intentions, and the moment that Dudley sensed her within his reach, she laid waste to his ego with the suggestion that he marry her cousin, the Queen of Scots.

Dudley worked hard to keep his composure as he stood before Elizabeth in the Privy Chamber, but his eyes gave him away.

“Are you certain, Your Grace, that you wish me to move to Scotland to marry your cousin?” he asked in an incredulous voice. “How can you even propose such a thing?”

“My lord, you would be king. And if it would be easier, I could invite you both to reside with at my court. This is an excellent match. I shall send Ambassador Randolph to inform Mary that should she agree to marry an Englishman of my choosing, I shall make her my heir,” Elizabeth explained, a smirk dancing across her lips. Dudley had taken far too much license with the power she bestowed upon him. It was time that, like one of the horses he was master of, she reined him in. She knew he would never agree to the arrangement and Mary would never accept it so what did she have to lose? It would certainly quiet the rumours that were going around that she intended to take Dudley as her consort and, perhaps, she could thwart Mary’s plans for a strong match with a Spanish or French suitor.

A crimson flush crept up behind Dudley’s ears. “But, but I had hoped ...” He stuttered, nervously adjusting the elaborate white ruff at his neck. He cleared his throat.

“You hoped for what, Lord Robert? You hoped to be my consort? I have told you and my councillors already that I am not of a mind to take a consort at this time, but I assure you that I will apprise you all of my intention when I am ready.” She swatted the air as if the very idea of her marriage was an annoying bug.

Dudley’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched when he realised the futility of his argument.

“I am yours to command as you wish, Your Majesty.”

He dipped a very low bow as he retreated towards the door. At the last second he turned and marched out in a huff, his black cape swishing behind him. Elizabeth’s pink lips curled into a satisfied smile. For a fleeting moment, I was certain she winked in my direction. I shook my head, certain I imagined it. I thought back to that wretched night in her chambers after the death of Amy Dudley and the advice I gave her. Perhaps she had been taking it to heart all this time. Why she would ever listen to mere knight’s wife when she was God’s anointed was beyond my comprehension, but I must admit I felt flattered that she deemed my thoughts worthy.

In a great show of generosity, Elizabeth elevated Robert Dudley to the Earldom of Leicester and Barony of Denbigh. Officially it was done to raise him high enough that the Scottish queen would not be wholly offended that such a lowly bridegroom was offered. Dudley was still Elizabeth’s Master of the Horse after all. Mary Stuart would believe some outrageous joke had been played on her. Unofficially, Elizabeth was placating Dudley’s damaged ego. If, in fact, Mary Stuart called her bluff and married him, Dudley would still be at Court and it would not serve Elizabeth well to have him sulking around.

Ever the tease, while Dudley was on his knees before Elizabeth during his investiture, she tickled the back of his neck as she fastened his mantle right in front of the French and Scottish ambassadors. I bit my lip to keep from exploding into peals of laughter. It was no wonder the council was in an uproar. As soon as they were certain that Elizabeth had made up her mind, she destroyed their security with one subtle gesture. A twitch of the finger and her intentions were exposed. The Scottish ambassador scurried off the instant the ceremony was over, a sneer of disgust on his face.

Ultimately, the elevation of Dudley did nothing to endear him to Elizabeth’s royal cousin and marriage negotiations ground to a halt. If Elizabeth hoped Dudley’s new title would increase her council’s respect for him, she was sorely mistaken. It only served to inflame their animosity. Dudley’s inclusion in the nobility particularly enraged my brother.

The title of Earl of Wiltshire had reverted back to the crown upon the death of my grandfather. After the execution of Anne Boleyn and the exile of my mother to Calais, Thomas Boleyn had lived out the rest of his life as a disgraced man. The reversion of his title upon death was expected, but since Uncle George was dead and our mother was the first born, Henry felt the title should be his by right since we had been restored to favour. Instead, King Edward had bestowed the title upon William Paulet, and he had held the title for the last fifteen years.

Henry seemed to accept the slight, but I knew that he felt that he deserved promotion, not only as a cousin to the queen, but for his loyal service. Even when Mary was on the throne, Henry had never abandoned Elizabeth. Now that she saw fit to bequeath an earldom on the son of a convicted traitor, the old wound was once again inflamed.

“Lettice! Look at that gorgeous pregnant belly! Why did you not write of your condition?”

I stood clear amazed to see my eldest daughter full with child striding confidently into our rooms at Durham House.

“Mother, did you announce every one of our conceptions with such fanfare? I would think that would get ever so tiring after a while. Particularly since you and Father certainly did not know when to stop,” she said, brushing my hand away from her protruding womb.

Hurt by her callous remark, I gazed at this cold woman my daughter had become. She had always been high-spirited and quick with a cutting remark, but her utter condescension was foreign to me.

“Such disdain you have for your parents, Lettice. Whatever could we have done to deserve such treatment?”

After brushing me aside, Lettice went to the window to stare out at the sunlit Thames and the spires of Westminster in the distance beyond. At my prodding, she whirled around and glared at me.

“What have you done?” she scoffed. “You allowed me to be banished to that horrid manor at Chartley. I was abandoned in the country with nothing to do but lie on my back while that bore of a man turned me into a brood mare. How could you let her send me away? And all because she knows the truth, the truth that when her crown and her power are stripped away, her precious Robin prefers me.”

I stared at Lettice in horror. Her lip was curled in a sneer, her fists clenched at her side. She may as well have hit me with them for all the pain that her words wrought.

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and willed my voice to be level, “Lettice Devereux, you brought your exile upon yourself. I warned you that Robert Dudley would bring you trouble. You are a married woman and it is your duty to bear your husband’s children. You should consider yourself lucky that your father took such great care to match you to a man who loves you as much as Hereford does. Though to be honest, I am beginning to wonder why when you subject him to such horrible treatment.”

Her eyes widened, enraged at my rebuke.

“You will never again call me Lettice Devereux,” she spat. “I am Lady Hereford.”

She took a moment to allow her to words sink in and then ran from the room without a second look back. I collapsed on my bed in tears. I had woken up that morning thrilled to have my family reunited for Harry’s wedding celebrations and had never anticipated Lettice’s outburst. She ran out of the room before I had the chance to tell her that Elizabeth had invited her back to Court.

My maid, Matilda, wandered in a few seconds later with my gown for the festivities and found me in a sorry state “My lady, what is wrong? Are you ill?” She threw my dress on a chair and ran over to the bed.

I sat up quickly. “I am fine Matilda, truly. Only a bit overwhelmed.” I rubbed my eyes and dragged my fingers through my hair, trying desperately to straighten myself. “Can you please bring me a washcloth and a basin so I may wash my face?”

Matilda nodded and scurried off to her task.

I gazed at my red-rimmed puffy eyes and swollen lips in the mirror.

“You will not ruin your son’s wedding.” I told the tired and drawn-looking woman staring back at me. “Lettice does not dictate your happiness.”

Harry looked upon the young and elegant Margaret Cave with much the same admiration his father had looked upon me on the day of our own wedding. The pale blush hue of her wedding gown enhanced the golden cascade of her hair. With her pale skin and almond eyes that matched the deep blue of the sea, it was little wonder that Harry, despite his severe nature, had fallen for her charms.

I had had my reservations when Sir Ambrose had approached Francis regarding marriage negotiations, but Margaret had shown herself to be as sweet-natured as she was described and I was pleased to welcome her into our family. I hoped that her bonny disposition would bolster Harry’s humour.

While I watched my son and his new wife glide effortlessly across the dance-floor, I longed for the days of my own youth. Francis sensed my melancholy. I felt his arm snake around my waist and his warm breath tickled my ear.

“There’s my lovely wife. Can I tempt you with a dance?” he whispered and tenderly nuzzled my neck.

I turned around and felt so overcome by my love for him that my knees quaked. “Of course, Sir Francis, I would never deny you.”

Elizabeth and her court returned to Whitehall after the happy celebration of Harry’s nuptials in time to find a very ill Kat Ashley. Two days later, she was dead.

Elizabeth was inconsolable. She had been virtually raised by Kat and her death threw Elizabeth into a spiral of despair. I was immediately promoted to her place as chief lady of the bedchamber and spent the next weeks comforting her in her grief.

My new position required constant companionship to Elizabeth and seeing her distress over Kat’s death ignited my maternal instincts. I was starting to see her as one of my own children. She was the ruler of England and head of the church, but she still had a heart that felt love and pain. It broke just as easily as mine. Just as I still loved Lettice when she hurled such hurtful words, I would still love Elizabeth when showed me the same.

Despite her mourning, Elizabeth determined that her annual progress go on as planned. Robert Dudley, eager to show off his newly acquired castle at Kenilworth, invited the court for a grand party. Our arrival at Coventry in mid-August was greeted by the mayor, Humphrey Brownell, and the recorder, John Throgmorton. Under the shelter of a thicket of trees shading us from the scorching summer sun, the mayor knelt before Elizabeth’s palfrey with the great mace of the city in his raised hand. As he did, a great plume of dust was raised by his voluminous crimson gown and Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to stifle a cough. Mr Throgmorton humbly offered the mace to the queen in ‘her most regal power and merciful authority.’ The mayor touched his pale chapped lips to the mace and then placed it in her hands with a purse containing twenty marks.

Elizabeth turned to those of us behind her on horseback and benevolently smiled. “It is a good gift. I have but few such gifts.”

“If it pleases Your Grace, there is a great deal more in it,” piped up the mayor, the lower portion of his gown now covered in a fine dust.

Elizabeth turned back to the city leaders and pulled on the reins to steady her high-spirited horse.

“And what is that?” she queried.

The mayor again bowed low in reverence. I noticed the sheen of sweat across the back of his neck. “It is the hearts of all your loving subjects.”

A wide grin broke out across Elizabeth’s face. “We thank you, Mr. Mayor. That is a great deal more indeed.”

After Elizabeth bestowed upon the mayor a humble nod of appreciation, Mr Throgmorton launched into an extensive speech welcoming Her Majesty to Coventry, flattering her vanity with a list of all her virtues. “She has no comparison,” he praised. We all shifted uncomfortably upon our horses in the thinning shade until his long-winded oration came to an end. Elizabeth, delighted by his remarks, praised him highly and returned the mace to the mayor, who once again knelt beside the recorder.

From my perch on the tawny mare I rode, I saw a wave of relief flood across the mayor’s face as Elizabeth gestured to him to rise and mount his horse. He led us first to Bishop’s Gate where Elizabeth bequeathed a gift of money to the library, then on to White Friars where we lodged for the next two days.

The Monday following, we arrived at Kenilworth. Dudley appeared at the gates in a resplendent costume. A black leather doublet covered a silky satin shirt, white as snow. His lawn ruff was embroidered with silver trim. He wore a bright jewel on each finger and his perfectly white hose emphasised the fine cut of his legs. He topped off each shoe with a brilliant ruby, red as blood.

“Good morrow, my queen!” He exclaimed with an elegant bow. “Welcome to Kenilworth.”

Dudley made certain that Elizabeth’s first visit to Kenilworth, now it was in his keeping, was a memorable one. The night of our arrival she surveyed her small retinue from a dais in the great hall with her favourite seated on her right-hand side as his servants brought in one silver dish after another piled high with the best cuts of meat, a whole pig and a roasted swan redressed with its feathers. An enormous stag, killed in one of the many hunting parks that surrounded the castle, served as a centrepiece to the elaborate feast.

Among all this luxury I found myself relieved that it was necessary for Lettice to stay behind at Whitehall due to her advanced pregnancy. Her home at Chartley could never compare to Dudley’s glorious castle. Such opulence would serve only to inflame her lust for him even more.

After several days of entertaining masques and hunting parties, we began the slow return to Whitehall.