Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (26 page)

Just as he promised, Francis returned from Ireland at the end of July in time for the annual summer progress. We left Greenwich in early August and set out to visit the Grey Friary in Stamford. Cecil was eager for us to visit his home, but understood Elizabeth’s avoidance due to his daughter’s illness with smallpox. She had never fully recovered from the fear she felt during her own bout with the disease and looked upon re-infection with dread. From the friary we moved on to the palace at Woodstock, the home that served as her prison during her sister’s reign.

While in Oxford we were treated to tours of both Oxford University and St John’s College and entertained with public debates, sermons, lectures and plays. During an afternoon performance of a play by Richard Edwards, we looked on in horror as the stage collapsed during the production. Three bloodied bodies were dragged from the rubble. Elizabeth’s merry mood was undeterred. She sent for her surgeons and ordered an encore performance for the next day. During the festivities Francis, along with several other courtiers, was once again honoured as Masters of the Arts.

Initially Elizabeth had demurred on her intention to visit Robert Dudley’s newly renovated home at Kenilworth when gossip ran rampant that the court anticipated an engagement announcement. But, as I expected he would, Dudley convinced her to come anyway.

We found Kenilworth to be far grander than our last visit. Dudley had even begun to make improvements on the vast garden that dominated the property. I thoroughly enjoyed evening walks with Elizabeth among the last roses of the season. I breathed in their heady scent and marked the memory for the wintry days ahead.

We returned to London in September and lodged at Westminster so Elizabeth could call her Parliament.

Elizabeth’s efforts to drum up much-needed funds backfired on her. Francis informed me that the Commons refused to approve the award of any funds until she settled the question of her succession. Parliament’s patience with her refusal to either marry or name a successor had run out.

In October, the Lords joined the Commons in their ultimatum. Elizabeth was furious. In a fit of anger, she banned Dudley from the presence chamber, fed up with the pressure he put on her to give in.

The Spanish ambassador, de Silva, was a constant fixture in Elizabeth’s rooms during Dudley’s exile while she railed against Parliament. Whenever she wavered in her obstinacy, he was there to bolster her resolve and encouraged her to avoid compromise.

“With the birth of the Scots queen’s son, it is more important than ever that the Queen name her successor. De Silva knows that and is using her pride to lead her around to his master’s benefit.” Francis snarled as he threw a muddy boot across the floor. He sat at the edge of our bed and dragged his hands through his wind-tangled hair.

I climbed up behind him on my knees and wrapped my arms around him. I embraced him tightly and then moved my hands up to his shoulders and kneaded the tension from them.

“Will you do as she asks? Will you address Parliament with her demands?” I asked quietly.

Francis leaned his head back and nuzzled my cheek.

“Of course I will. I would serve the queen in any way she demanded of me and I am honoured that she would deem me worthy of addressing her Parliament. That being said, I think she is making a grave miscalculation.”

I moved off the bed and wandered over to the cupboard to retrieve my night cap. “You have to understand Elizabeth’s point of view,” I called over my shoulder. “When her sister was on the throne, she was the heir apparent and rumoured to be the instigator of every treasonous plot. When Mary was on her deathbed, her courtiers abandoned her and beat a path to Hatfield to ingratiate themselves with their new queen. Elizabeth will never let that happen.”

I glanced at Francis’s reflection in the mirror. He was nodding thoughtfully. I dabbed a bit of rosewater around my neck and made my way back to the bed. Francis pulled me down next to him and pressed his lips to the tip of my nose. “That is my wife, beautiful and intelligent,” he sighed contentedly as he lay back on the bed and drifted off to sleep.

Francis’s plea for Parliament to cease their demands and trust in the queen to name a successor in her own time fell upon deaf ears and, ultimately, Elizabeth was forced to capitulate. She finally compromised, telling the members that in exchange for one third of her demanded sums, they could hold an open discussion on the question of the succession. In their jubilance at Elizabeth’s assent, they granted her the funds without further discussion. For the time-being, her desire had won out.

Elizabeth stared longingly out the window of her bedchamber at Whitehall at the birds as they flew across the frozen Thames. The early morning sunlight glinted off the emerald brooch that she fingered absentmindedly at her neck.

“I envy them,” she murmured.

“The birds, Your Grace?” I asked as I smoothed out the heavy brocade skirt that we would dress her in for the day.

She turned from her perch before the window and pursed her lips in thought. Then she rose and strode purposefully towards me. She tweaked my nose and broke into a broad smile.

“Yes, my dear cousin, the birds,” she said throwing her arms in the air. “They are free to do as they please. They can mate when and with whom they choose. They have no need for trifles such as gold and silver. They need only to spread their wings and take to the skies when it suits their fancy, no need of a train of litters to follow them across the country. How is it that the lowly bird has more freedom than a king?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. I remembered wishing for the same thing long ago, but in exchange for giving up those things that I believed I wanted, I was blessed with a loving husband, beautiful children and a security I never realised I needed. Elizabeth had none of these things.

As if reading my mind, Elizabeth stopped my hands, knocking the skirt out of my grasp, and gripped them in her own. “At least I have you. Francis never agrees with my policies, but I know that neither of you will ever forsake me. Everyone else serves me out of some ambitious desire, but I have never believed it of you, Catherine. I can never thank you enough for your sincere kindness over the years.”

I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in my throat. “Your Grace, you are my – I mean – we are family. I could never have treated you any other way.” I blinked away the tears threatening to spill over my flushed cheeks.

I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. It had been years since the last time I dreamt of the orchards at Hever and never had the dream been so vivid. This time, I was no longer a child. I ran barefoot through the apple trees searching desperately for Francis. I still felt the stab of the sharp twigs on my tender feet and I still smelled the sweet, putrid stench of rotten apples. I saw my husband in the distance, but the closer I got to him, the further away he appeared to be. I called out to him, but he never turned around. He was always just out of reach.

A wave of relief washed over me as I rolled over to find his solid, comforting presence snoring softly beside me. I eased myself out of bed, careful to avoid waking him, and tiptoed to the wooden table that held my wash basin. Matilda had already filled it this morning while Francis and I slept. I glanced in the mirror and, horrified by my reflection, immediately regretted it. My braid had come undone in the night and my sweat soaked hair was plastered against my cheek. I quickly ran a comb through the tangles and re-plaited the braid. A cool splash of water wiped the traces of slumber from my eyes.

“Won’t you come back to bed my love? I am not yet ready to greet the day,” Francis called from his warm cocoon under the covers.

It would be one of the last leisurely mornings we spent in each other’s arms.

“Tell Moray that I would like to purchase the Queen of Scot’s pearls.” Elizabeth called out to Secretary Cecil as he shuffled out the door, anxious to complete his correspondence with the Earl of Moray, the newly appointed regent of Scotland for Mary’s son, King James.

Mary had abdicated her throne the previous July after a spring of utter turmoil. In February, the Earl of Bothwell had very conveniently rid Mary of her petulant husband, Lord Darnley. She had never fully reconciled with Darnley after his part in the cold-blooded murder of her secretary and it was whispered that she had instigated Bothwell, her new favourite, to the challenge. Darnley was dispatched in an explosion at his house at Kirk O’Field. In April, Mary was kidnapped by Bothwell and by May, after her pregnancy from his purported rape of her was confirmed, they were wed at Holyrood.

Infuriated, the lords confronted both Mary and the earl as it had begun to appear that the kidnapping and rape may not have been wholly unwilling on Mary’s part. After an unsuccessful skirmish at Carberry Hill, the earl fled to Denmark leaving Mary to be captured by her lords. Shortly after her incarceration at Lochleven, Mary miscarried twins. Weakened and exhausted, Mary finally relinquished her throne.

Elizabeth fumed over this turn of events. She railed about the audacity of the Scottish lords in deposing their anointed queen. I had sat by, many months previously, in a tense Presence Chamber while she berated Cecil for his support of the Earl of Moray. She screamed that she would go to war with the Scots to avenge her cousin’s treatment. But the dramatics were all for naught. Elizabeth soon realised that there was nothing she could do to improve Mary Stuart’s situation.

By autumn she had become more circumspect about the upheaval in Scotland and decided that action against Scotland would do more to harm Mary than help her, and she was not willing to risk her own throne in support of her Catholic cousin.

Since then, tensions had cooled between Elizabeth and Moray and she was turning Mary’s imprisonment to her own advantage. I felt certain that the Scots queen’s pearls would not be the last piece of jewellery that Elizabeth would purchase from her confiscated coffers.

I stared at Elizabeth in bewilderment at the detached way in which she instructed Cecil to purchase the pearls. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly she could change her allegiances.

Shortly after the arrival of the Scots queen’s pearls, we learned that the queen herself had daringly escaped from Lochleven and engaged the Scottish lords at Landside. After she was defeated, she fled Scotland only to be picked up by Elizabeth’s agents in Workington and hauled to Carlisle castle.

“Father, have you any news of the Baron De la Warre’s response to my proposed marriage?” Anne asked hopefully as we bid our goodbyes to Francis. Elizabeth had chosen him to welcome the Scots queen to Carlisle, but we all knew that there was much more to it than that. She wanted information on Mary. Francis and his companion, Lord Scrope, were to serve as her spies.

Francis bent down and touched his nose to hers. “You will be the first to know of it,” he replied lightly and kissed her cheek.

Anne flashed a brilliant smile and ran back towards the castle doors. My second youngest daughter had arrived at Court a few short months ago and found herself enamoured with life in London. The competition with her brother prepared her well for service among the queen’s maids.

I glanced towards the sky and noticed that it had darkened to a slate grey.

I frowned at Francis. “Do you think it will rain?”

Francis laughed. “If it does, I promise I shall ride in the carriage.”

He shook his head and sauntered over to me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held my gaze. “Would you cease your endless worrying? Everything will be fine.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Francis, you know that as long as I am breathing I am worrying. I have sixteen people to worry about. It takes up a lot of my time.”

“Sixteen!” Francis exclaimed in mock surprise.

“Yes,” I giggled. “I added in the queen. I worry about her the most.”

“As do I, my love … As do I.” Francis murmured into my ear.

We reluctantly pulled out of our embrace, each of us not ready to let the other one go. But the sky had darkened and it was time for Francis to get on the road.

“I will write soon,” he promised as he climbed upon his tawny horse and waved goodbye.

I watched Francis and Lord Scrope as they trotted away, their horses were followed by a carriage loaded with supplies for the Scottish queen.

“Are you all right, Lady Knollys?” The Queen called out of the window embrasure. She was deep in conversation with Cecil about the upcoming summer progress, but for some reason I seemed to have caught her attention.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace. I am fine,” I replied in a frail voice I barely recognised as my own.

My head was throbbing and I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the needlework in my hand, but Elizabeth was determined to leave in a week and I didn’t want to ruin her plans with an illness. She would not be pleased to leave me behind.

“You look very pale,” she noted, a tone of concern creeping into her voice. She looked around for my daughters. “Bess, Anne … Will you please help your mother to her room?”

The girls exchanged worried glances and hurried over to help me off of my cushion.

“Really - I am all right,” I stammered as I scrambled to my feet.

Bess put her arm around me just in time to catch me as the room went black.

The steady rocking of the chair beside my bed led me from the darkness of my slumber and into the soft candlelight of my bedchamber. The occupant of the chair, my dear Bess, sat quietly reading with a quilt draped across her lap.

“How long have I been asleep?” I croaked. My throat was dry and parched.

Bess jumped at the sound of my voice. She dropped the book to the floor and leapt out of the chair, calling for Matilda.

Matilda bustled in with a mug of foul-smelling liquid and promptly made me drink it. It burned as it slid down my throat and I fought back the tears at the pain. Bess took the mug from me and placed her small hand lightly on my forehead. Before I could enjoy the cool sensation of her touch, she recoiled in horror.

“Mother - you are burning up. We need to get the doctor.”

“No … No,” I whimpered. “Please just tell me how long I have been asleep.”

“You have been in this bed for three days. And now your skin is on fire. We must get the doctor in here,” Bess demanded with panic in her eyes.

“Three days ...” I groaned weakly. “The queen’s progress …”

Bess looked helplessly to Matilda for guidance.

“My lady, you will not be leaving in this condition. I will not call for the doctor, but you must let us treat you. We cannot allow the fever to take hold.”

Matilda’s face blurred and then faded from my sight.

I have only vague recollections of poultices and cool rags during my feverish haze, but whatever Matilda and Bess did in their desperation worked. I awoke to a letter from my beloved.

My Dearest Catherine,

I have just received a letter from Lord Robert Dudley informing me of your sudden and most unfortunate illness. I am very sorry to hear that you have fallen into a fever. I would to God that I was so dispatched hence that I might only attend and care for your good recovery. I write to the queen daily that there is little reason for me to wait upon this bereft lady, but she refuses to recall me home and, instead, sends me with my charge to Bolton Castle.

The Scottish queen was much aggrieved by the queen’s meagre offerings when I presented her with the gowns that the queen had sent for her use. In my embarrassment I pleaded the error of a servant, but I knew full well that the queen had chosen the garments specifically.

I spend much of my days trying to calm her in her tantrums and settle her distress. By the time I close my eyes at night all I can think of is your soothing nature. I hold you in my dreams and it prepares me for the exhausting duties that I must take up again in the morning.

Please take care. I pray for your speedy recovery.

Your loving husband,

Francis

Elizabeth and most of the court had already left on progress by the time I was recovered enough to leave my bedchamber. Against my better judgment, I joined her retinue at Grafton in mid-August.

“Lady Knollys, what possessed you to leave London?” Robert Dudley spit through his clenched jaw when he caught sight of me in the corridor upon my arrival covered in sweat with my skirts rumpled from my journey. He dragged me into an empty room and proceeded to lecture me on the dangers of travelling so soon after my illness.

I had no explanation to offer him for my recklessness other than my loyalty to Elizabeth. By the time we arrived back in London at the end of the month after stopping in Newbury and Reading, I had already received another letter from Francis expressing his frustration with me.