Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (11 page)

I sighed. “Well, I know Mary and her conscience. She would never imperil her mortal soul. The king is deluded if he thinks she will ever turn from the old ways. As long as she can get away with it, she will hold Mass and she will encourage her supporters to do the same. And as long as she is next in line to the throne, it is a certainty. She will never lose hope that she can rectify the abandonment of her mother and the church that supported her.”

Francis was still for a moment. The intensity with which he chewed his lower lip told me he was deep in thought. Finally, turning to me, he said, “What shall we do if Mary does come to the throne?”

I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Catherine, I have spent the last decade working with the reformers at Court. It is no secret where my allegiances lie. When Mary comes to the throne, everything I have worked towards will be destroyed and our family could be in danger. We must plan for this outcome.”

The very idea that Mary could be a danger to our family stunned me. Mary was staunch in her Catholic beliefs, but I could not begin to imagine her hurting her people. She had always shown me the utmost kindness at Court and she had looked after Elizabeth and Edward as if she had been their mother. The mere thought that Mary could be dangerous seemed ridiculous.

“Francis,” I said. “Isn’t this a bit dramatic? Do you honestly believe that Mary would do anything to us? Do you believe that she is capable of that?”

For the first time in our marriage, Francis looked at me with a sternness that stopped the beating of my heart. I had never questioned him on any decision that he made. It was now painfully obvious to me this was not the decision to question.

Francis stood up and knelt before my chair. Resting his hands on my knees, his face softened and he said, “Catherine, you and our children mean the world to me. I would do anything to keep you out of harm’s way. I know that you and Mary share blood, and while she does not know that, you still believe she would never hurt us, but I am not willing to take that chance. It is my duty to protect our family and, should Mary come to the throne, it will be in jeopardy. We need to plan for that possibility.”

I ran my hand through his hair and caressed his cheek.

“I love you Francis and will do as you bid. I put my trust in you to keep us safe.”

Francis smiled and leaned forward, resting his head in my lap. I bent over and kissed the back of his head. After a few moments that way, he stood up, placing one arm behind my back and one below my knees, and carried me to the bed.

I had not realised how serious my husband was when he discussed the possibility of Mary coming to the throne. He had failed to mention one important detail - King Edward was on his deathbed. The first dispatch Francis sent after he arrived back at Court filled me with fear. As Edward coughed up bloody black bile at Greenwich, the Duke of Northumberland and the other councillors had put in motion plans to keep Princess Mary from the throne.

The past three years had been fraught with power struggles, illness and rebellion. Though the king had taken pity on his uncle Somerset and released him from the Tower, the council had refused to give him back his former control. In addition, Somerset had gained a new enemy, his old friend the Earl of Warwick. Warwick had been promoted to Duke of Northumberland and his new-found power created a great deal of enmity between the old friends. Northumberland had even gone so far as to deprive Somerset of his dining table, of all things. Before the first blusters of winter had returned, Somerset was back in the Tower. Linked to yet another uprising, he was found guilty of felony and sentenced to death. In the early morning hours of 22
nd
January, Somerset’s beheading stained the new fallen snow in crimson blood.

Francis deeply mourned the loss of his dear friend. He knew that Somerset had become power-hungry and arrogant in the new reign of the king, but the duke had been his companion since before our marriage. And he had not been the only one distressed by his death. The people of England were livid. Somerset had always been the “good duke” to them. He had sponsored reform to their benefit and spoken out against the wealthy landowners who had enclosed public lands for their use, bringing harm to the poor farmers. His death had been much grieved.

The king managed to live through a bout of smallpox and had headed out on his first progress, but by April he had been taken ill again and had languished at Greenwich ever since.

I felt helpless and trapped in my confinement. The baby would be here in less than a month and I would have to keep to my chamber until my churching. There was nothing I could do but wait for word from Francis.

I was on my third confinement in three years. Two easy labours had brought two thriving sons. Robert was born during an early winter squall in November of 1550 and Richard came on a breezy spring day in May of 1552. I prayed nightly that this labour would come and go as quickly and easily as the last two.

I threw off the counterpane and eased out of the bed. My legs had become stiff with inactivity and I was going mad with worry about Francis at Court. I stood and stretched as much as I could then waddled over to the great oriel window that overlooked the courtyard. I saw a plume of dust and knew that a rider had just been through. Before I could shift my hefty bulk from the window, the door flew open and my son, Harry, burst into the room. He had grown into a young man seemingly overnight. His childlike humour was slowly becoming more serious like his father’s. The look on his face as he entered my chamber was so reminiscent of Francis that I had to restrain my smile. The news must have been grave for him to risk entering my bedchamber during my confinement.

“Mother, news from Court,” he panted, breathless from barrelling up the staircase.

“What does it say?”

He swallowed hard and blinked his clear blue eyes. “The king is dead.”

I had been expecting this after Francis’s letters.

“Does it say anything about your father?”

He shook his head.

I bit the inside of my lip hard enough to taste blood, but I was determined not to panic in front of Harry.

“Go to your uncle and give him the note. There is nothing for us to do but wait for your father to return and pray for those at Court.”

Harry bowed his head and turned to walk out of the room.

“Wait!” I called out.

He turned back, waiting for my instruction.

“Go to chapel for me please and send prayers for King Edward.”

My boy nodded. “As you command, Mother.”

I watched the courtyard from the window every day waiting for the tell-tale cloud of dust that a horse had come down our lane, but none ever showed. I tossed and turned at night, never sleeping more than an hour or two at a time. My eyes were dry and gritty from lack of sleep. It was during one of these fitful rests that Francis finally arrived home. I awoke to find him sitting next to my bed anxiously tapping his thumb against his knee, worry etched across his face.

He smiled briefly at me, reaching out to brush a rogue hair from my face, and then the graveness returned.

“Francis?” I croaked. My throat was dry from the heat of the room. “Is it really you?”

“It is really me,” he affirmed, bringing my hand to his lips.

I pulled my hand back and struggled to sit up.

“Is the king truly dead? What has happened? Is Mary now the queen?”

Francis nodded soberly. “Yes, the king is now with the angels. I pray that he is resting with his mother and father, though we have failed him.”

“How could you have failed him?”

Francis stood up and began pacing in front of the fire.

He was silent for a few moments and then shouted, “His device!” And then repeated in a lower voice: “His great device.”

He stopped pacing and stared out the window.

After a heavy silence, he turned to look at me sadly. “And now, poor Jane will die through no fault of her own.”

I searched my memories for the Jane he could be referring to, but could only come up with one. Lady Jane Grey. She was the eldest daughter of Lady Frances Grey, whose mother had been Mary Tudor, sister to King Henry. Lady Frances was born of the marriage between Mary and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. I knew Jane had lived at Sudeley with Princess Elizabeth and the dowager queen for a few years. I had joined Francis at Court back in May when she was married to Guildford Dudley, the moody son of Northumberland. What could she have to die for?

“Tell me what happened,” I pleaded.

Francis strode towards me. He bent down and kissed me on the forehead. “Not now, my love. You need your rest. I will tell you more in the morning.”

A stabbing pain in my belly ripped me out of my dreams. I awoke soaking wet in sweat and my waters. Matilda leapt off her pallet at my scream and ran to get the midwife. I laboured through the day and as the moon rose to take its place in the sky, our newest child filled the air with his sharp cry.

“Yet another bonny son!” laughed the midwife, laying the babe on my chest.

I smiled sleepily and cradled my boy in my arms. Once the room had been cleaned, the baby nurse, Meg, came to retrieve the baby. As she hustled out of the room, I called out, “Francis! His name is Francis.”

I still had received no answers from my husband, but I was too exhausted to care any more. I curled up in my bed and slept soundly for the first time in months.

After a few days of rest, Francis came to see me. He looked haggard but managed a careworn smile as he settled into the chair next to me. He kissed my hand and said, “You have given me another fine son and even named him for me. I could not ask for more.”

I raised myself against the headboard. “If you are so content, Francis, why do you appear so wretched?” I asked worriedly.

He nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is time you know of the events at Court. Why I fear for our safety and the choices I will need to make.”

I waited for his words with baited breath.

“Do you remember when we went to Durham House for the marriage of Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley?”

How could I have forgotten it? In one elaborate ceremony, the Duke of Suffolk and the Duke of Northumberland linked their families to two of the most valuable heirs in the kingdom. In addition to Jane and Guildford’s nuptials, Jane’s sister was wed to the son of the Earl of Pembroke and Guildford’s sister to the son of the Earl of Huntingdon. It was a dynastic coup intended to consolidate and strengthen the power of Suffolk and Northumberland. And it had all been done with the king’s blessing.

He continued with a deep sigh. “That marriage was created to bolster Jane’s claim to the throne. The king and Northumberland intended for her to inherit the crown upon the king’s death.”

I didn’t understand his reasoning, Lady Jane was far down the line of succession. She may have been cousin to the king, but Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth would both have to die without heirs before she would inherit the crown.

Francis went on. “The device I spoke of? It was the king’s will. He called it his device for the succession. I still don’t know how much of it was his idea and how much of it was Northumberland’s, but in it he named Jane Grey his successor.”

I slammed my hand against the mattress in a rage. “He cannot do that!” I shouted.

Francis calmly laid his hand on my shoulder. “He believed he could. His act rendered Mary and Elizabeth bastards again. He hoped that Jane would have a son before he died to claim the throne, so he tried to name her male heirs as his successors, but as his illness grew he became more panicked about Mary destroying the legacy of his reign and returning to the pope. He amended the will to name Lady Jane...”

“And Northumberland seized the opportunity to make his son, Guildford, king.” I finished.

“The duke sent a letter to Hunsdon to trick Mary into coming to Court, telling her only that Edward was ill. Along the way, Mary received word that her brother was already dead. Her suspicions raised, she sent a letter to the council claiming her right to the throne and rode to East Anglia, raising an army as she went.”

“And Jane?”

“She had been taken from Chelsea to Syon House. She claimed illness, knowing what lay ahead, but the council would hear nothing of it. The council bowed to Northumberland’s will and, bound by the king’s device, proclaimed her queen. I was there and saw the whole sorry thing. Jane was a mess, trembling and sobbing, crying out that she was unworthy to wear the crown. The next morning she was dressed in Tudor green and white and taken by barge with Guildford to the Tower to await her coronation. Instead of the cheering and boisterous crowds that had greeted the procession of her predecessor, they were met with stony silence from the banks of the river. The people stared at her as if she were a foreigner.”

I gazed down at my hands. They were clasped tightly in my lap, my knuckles turning white.

“Poor Jane,” I murmured.

Francis continued. “The council attempted to crown her, but she rebuffed them. Eventually they tricked her by telling her it was only to try it on for size. Once she realised there was no going back, she called Arundel and Pembroke and told them that she refused to name Guildford as king.”

“I bet that caused a fine tantrum.”

Francis finally gave a small chuckle, “It was a sight to see the duke’s son crying at his mother’s knee. The next evening a messenger arrived with the letter from Mary. It was read out loud, punctuated by the sobbing of the Duchesses Northumberland and Suffolk. They decided that the other sons of the duke - the Earl of Warwick and Robert Dudley - would be sent to meet Mary, but they never made it. The people were against this coup. After that failure, Suffolk was asked to lead the troops, but Jane was so ill with fear she begged him to stay and Northumberland was sent in his stead. With Northumberland gone, the members of the council wavered and all fell in line behind Mary. She entered Cheapside on the ninth day of Jane’s reign and was proclaimed queen by the people.”

“And rightfully so,” I scoffed.

Francis nodded sadly. “Yes, she is the rightful queen, but shall she be a noble queen or shall we return to the yoke of the Catholic church? For now I have been exiled from Court.”

I grasped his arm. “Francis, surely you had no part in this treason?”

A hurt look crossed his face. “Of course not, Catherine. I would never endanger our family in such a way. But I did nothing to stop it and I stood by when the council changed their allegiance to Mary, and because I took no side I have been sent home. But I have been given a mission from Sir William Cecil and Thomas Cranmer.”

Sir William was a well-known reformer. Francis had attended a summit held at his home some time ago for the reformers and Catholics to discuss the treatment of the Sacrament.

Thomas Cranmer was King Edward’s Archbishop of Canterbury. He had given King Henry his first divorce and had helped instigate the break from the pope. What could they possibly ask my husband to do?

“Go on,” I prodded.

Francis hesitated, chewing his lip for a moment, considering his next words. Finally he said: “They have asked me to go to the Low Countries to scout out settlements.”

“And who do they suggest will live in these settlements?”

“English Protestants,” he said simply.

“Francis! I cannot leave my country, my home.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Catherine, you spent much of your childhood in France.”

“In English territory in France,” I emphasised. “We cannot just pick up and leave everything behind just because we do not agree with Queen Mary.”

Grimly, Francis responded, “We can if our life is in danger. The queen has vowed not to change the religion now, but she has not been shy about her disdain for the reformed ‘heretics’. It will not be long before we are burnt at Smithfield. I fear what the future may bring, Catherine. It may not even be necessary, but Cranmer and Cecil have requested this of me and I have agreed. I leave next month and I am taking our son Harry.”

His edict silenced me. I trusted that Francis would never put our son in harm’s way, but the thought of Harry going on this dangerous journey filled me with terror. My husband had made it clear that no matter how I felt about it, he would not tolerate any dissent from me.

Francis pulled the counterpane back over me, tucking it in tight. Once he was done, he took his leave without any kiss or sign of affection.

I watched Francis and Harry make their preparations for their journey from the oriel window in my bedchamber. I would not be churched for at least another month so, for now, I was still stuck indoors. I could not even sleep with my husband before he set out on his dangerous mission. We had not spoken much since he told me the news. It was not unusual for us to go months at a time without hearing one another’s voice, but this was different. Those months he was miles away at Court, not in a room down the hall.