Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey (16 page)

Mary the Queen”

Henry’s face burned in anger. Before he could shout, I placed my hand on his chest.

“Henry, we leave with the queen’s protection. It may not be her blessing and she can pray all she wants for our return to her church, but the important thing is that she will not pursue us. She has also assured us that your niece and nephews will be safe while we are gone. We must look upon this letter as a blessing.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again after a moment. He was still enraged at the queen’s remarks regarding his brother, but he I hoped he could see reason. He sighed and removed my hand from his chest.

“Fine, Catherine. Please go back down to your cabin with Matilda and the children. I need to calm down.”

I could not let his command pass without a sly remark, “Would you like me to send up Matilda?”

Henry gave me the startled look that confirmed his feelings towards my maid. I turned on my heel, skirts swishing behind me.

When we arrived at Calais, a small contingent of coaches and carts awaited. It appeared that those of us on the island were not the only ones escaping to more tolerant regions. The spring rains had arrived at last, softening the dirt roads, turning them into a bog of mire and muck. When the day was dry, the going was just as rough because the wheel ruts from the travellers before us were steep and hard on the horses. By the time we reached our resting place for the night, the children had spent most of the day bouncing around the coach and found standing on solid ground difficult.

We were on the road for almost four weeks before we reached Frankfurt, but along the way I saw the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. Our journey started out as a scene of rolling green hills as far as the eye could see. Past Tournai, the hills gave way to the forested mountains of the Ardennes. We travelled under a canopy of trees, lulled by the sounds of the rushing river. One clear afternoon we stopped beside the water to take our supper. The children crept towards the river’s edge while Matilda and I prepared a plate of bread and oranges for them. I kept looking over my shoulder, making sure they were not getting too close as the current was swift, and as I turned back to the plate I heard Matilda’s sharp intake of breath.

I dropped the plate and spun around, ready to run for the children. When I saw what Matilda was reacting to I stopped. A black bear was sniffing through the brush, her young cub trailing behind her. The children were busily toeing the rocks on the river bank, paying no attention to the danger lurking behind them. I crept slowly down to them, trying not to make a sound. Elizabeth caught my eye and parted her lips to say something, but I put my finger to my own to hush her. She gave me a quizzical look and gathered the younger children together, shushing them as I had done her. When I reached them, I turned them all to see the sight across the river. After that day, when the road was rough and I was exhausted, I tried to think of that mother bear leading her cubs to safety and reminded myself that though the journey was treacherous, soon we would be reunited with Francis.

When we reached Cologne we turned out of the forest and followed the Rhine valley most of the way to Frankfurt. As we got closer, my exhaustion was replaced by a strange mixture of giddy apprehensiveness. My stomach was in a perpetual knot and I found myself clenching my jaw in anxiety. I was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing my love again. My heart had ached at his absence. It is hard to imagine a feeling of loneliness when you are surrounded by a house full of children and servants, but it was always there. That deep ache I felt when I reached over in my sleep to the empty side of the bed. No warmth to comfort me. The knowledge that Francis would be waiting for me at the end of this journey was what kept me going.

Yet this excitement was tinged with the anxiety of what could be waiting for me in this foreign land. I thought of the Lady Anne of Cleves, her gruff accent and strange clothing. We all grew to love her, but it took some time to embrace her differences and many members of the court were still not all that accepting. Would I be accepted in this new land? Most importantly, would my children? Were we leaving behind one kind of danger to encounter another? I tried desperately to tamp down my emotions, but I knew they could only be assuaged after I saw Francis. I craved his assurance.

Just less than ten miles outside of Frankfurt the rain began to pour. Most of our train had split off throughout the journey to places like Strasbourg, Aarau and Zurich so our party had become small and, after so long on the road, we were eager to reach our destination. Henry conferred with the other riders and they all decided to carry on rather than wait out the storm. I insisted that Robert ride in the coach. It would do no good to have a sick child in this unfamiliar land. Robert looked disappointed to ride with the younger children, but he took it in his stride when I reminded him how proud his father would be that he had ridden so far.

The rain splashed on the timbered roof of the coach as it bounced through the mud, lulling me into a daze. I was so exhausted that I missed our entrance into the city. Before I realised it, the coach had stopped. A loud knock on the door startled me. I sat up and gestured to Matilda and the children to do the same. The door flew open and a familiar face came into view.

Francis’s hair was soaked and rain dripped from his nose, but his eyes were bright and his smile wide.

“Here is my family!” he exclaimed.

“And Matilda!” piped up little Francis from his perch on her lap.

Francis chuckled and gave little Francis a wink. “Well, my son, I have known Matilda for so long that I suppose she is my family, but thank you for the gentle reminder,” he teased.

I could not make out Matilda’s face clearly in the dimness of the coach, but I was certain she was blushing.

“Come now, children,” he said, gesturing through the doorway.

Richard and Robert were the first to jockey for the door, pushing and shoving to be the first out. Elizabeth slipped silently behind them, gripped their shoulders and guided them through the door. Matilda lifted little Francis from her lap. I grasped his sweaty hand and led him down the steps. Matilda followed behind with Anne on her hip.

The rain had finally died down, but the ground was wet and slippery. I used my free hand to lift my skirts out of the mud.

After all I had seen on our journey, I had expected a more pastoral scene, but we were in the middle of a crowded city and the house loomed above me the moment we stepped onto the street. Francis waited patiently with the children for me outside the great oak door to the house. The scent of roasting meat wafted out of the wide, opened doors. My mouth watered. Two young men strode out and headed for the carts, working quickly to unload our small cache of possessions. I met Francis at the door and he wrapped me in a tight embrace.

“I have missed you so, my love,” he whispered in my ear.

Before I could respond, he pulled away and led me into the house, Matilda and the children following behind.

The warmth of the fire immediately enveloped me. The fire crackled and popped in a room lit by soft candlelight. We made our way back to the dining room and were greeted by a chorus of voices.

A man - who looked to be about twenty or so years older than me - stood and gave me a small bow. “Welcome to my home, Lady Knollys. Please, please come sit,” he said, gesturing to the table. Six strapping young men of varying ages smiled back at me from around the table. A plump rosy-cheeked woman nodded in agreement.

Francis placed one arm around my lower back and gestured with the other to the family at the table. “Wife, I would like you to meet Master John Weller of London, his wife Isabell and sons, John, Jasper, Edmund, Geoffrey and Peter.”

They each smiled and gave a nod at the sound of their name.

I eagerly returned their grins. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Then Francis gestured toward the other end of the table. “This is Sir Thomas Knot. He was a student with me at Basel.”

The young man jumped out of his seat and bowed eagerly in my direction.

Flustered, I waved him off. “Oh, that was not necessary.”

“Pleasure to meet you, my lady,” he said, straightening up.

Francis nodded to him and he returned to his seat.

Matilda ushered the younger children to follow behind one of the maids and Francis, Elizabeth and I took three of the remaining chairs at the table, leaving one for Henry. He joined us a few moments later and the introductions commenced again.

The maid returned and, with the other maid, began to bring out the dishes for our dinner. Two roasted chickens, a lamb pie, some salted herring and a cheese tart sat steaming before us.

The boy called Edmund grinned at me, “I have been waiting for this pie for months!”

Indeed, the meagre days of Lent were over. It was time to feast.

Our new home was nothing like our manor back in Oxfordshire. Where Greys was airy and open, this place was crowded and cramped, overtaken by the smells and sounds of a house full of people. It was cosy though. Master Weller was a merchant back in England and had been made a burgher of the city so his lodgings were much more comfortable than most who shared our exile. Regardless of how well-appointed the house was, there were still twenty-one people living under one roof and such cramped quarters came with their own set of inconveniences.

The close stool was always in use, the smell of food constantly wafted out of the kitchen, and unruly shouting matches often erupted from the stress of living in such a tight space. Matilda and I quietly kept to ourselves, helping wherever we could. Elizabeth was old enough to pitch in as well and I rejoiced at her eagerness whenever she jumped at the chance to help out without being asked. Francis and I had raised our children well. They may be children of gentry, but they were the first to step in when a job needed doing and did not fear soiling their hands. My grandfather Boleyn would have been appalled, but I was pleased.

Francis spent his days at the small church our group had been granted by the city of Frankfurt, arguing with his fellow exiles over which prayer book to use and who would lead the sermons. No one could agree upon anything and with every social class living and worshipping together all the social rules had broken down. The artisan was equal to the knight, the servant’s vote counted as much as the squire’s. Birthright no longer guaranteed a higher status in this community. The puffed-up men of the gentry could barely tolerate this new order, but they had to in order to survive. Everyone was granted a voice.

My husband would come home weary from these battles, his head hanging low, bags beneath his eyes. I listened patiently as he recounted his day, my hand kneading the tense muscles in his shoulders, and soon he would relax enough for us to enjoy our time as husband and wife once again. Afterwards, my body curled up against his, he whispered, “Every night since I left you, I would lie awake and think of how I missed feeling you next to me. Your warm body curved into mine, the scent of rose water in your hair. And now you are here with me, half a world away from our home and I feel as though I am dreaming. That I will wake up in the morning and you will be gone. Promise you will stay with me.”

I kissed the palm of his hand and whispered back, “I promise.”

I should have known better than to promise such a thing, because a few short months after arriving in Frankfurt, I was with child again.

Isabell Weller and I sat in the solar sewing a pile of shirts. The boys were starting to outgrow their clothing and while we had the money to buy more, we had been discouraged from doing business with the local merchants. They were none too pleased by the influx of immigrants, many of them artisans, and were only too eager to take advantage of the English ladies who chose to remain ignorant of our host country’s culture and language.

The maids were in the kitchen preparing the afternoon meal and the scent of smoked fish escaped every time they opened the door into the dining hall. I had been more exhausted than usual that week, but Francis had been coming home later and later and I refused to fall asleep before he was in. I sat dozing in the early summer sunlight, my needle threatening to fall from my relaxed hand. The overwhelming scent of herring overtook me when one of Isabell’s maids propped open the door to let us know when supper would be ready. I turned my head just in time to vomit all over the newly scrubbed floor, trying frantically to remember when I had last had my courses.

Matilda jumped up from the corner where she had been playing with little Anne.

“My lady!”

I put one hand out and wiped my lips with the other.

“I am all right, I am all right. I think my lack of sleep has finally got to me. I am going to go lie down.”

Matilda and Isabell exchanged a knowing glance.

“Please get this cleaned up before the men are home,” Isabell gestured to her maid.

Matilda helped me out of the chair and up the stairs.

I gripped her arm. “Please do not mention any thing to Henry. Francis must be the first to know.”

Matilda frowned at me. “My lady, I would never share your happy news. Your secret is safe with me.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, tossing and turning, anxious about Francis’s reaction. My husband had always been flushed with pleasure at every pregnancy. He wanted a large family and took pride in his ever-growing brood of children. But something told me this time would be different.

While we’d been sewing, Isabell had described life in exile and from that conversation I knew that several children had been born in the English settlements. Life had carried on much the same here as it did back home, but I did not want my baby born in exile. The child I was carrying in my belly would be the grandchild of a king of England and a niece or nephew of the reigning queen. Recognised or not, a child of Tudor blood should be born in England. More than that, I wanted to be home in the comfort of my own rooms. I wanted the maids who had nursed my other babies. I could not bear the idea of giving birth in an unfamiliar land with a midwife I did not know.

Eventually I fell asleep waiting for Francis to return home for the evening. His deep voice and the soft touch of his hand on my forehead brought me out of my dreams.

He tenderly brushed my hair from my face. “Isabell said you were feeling ill?” he ventured, his eyes full of concern.

“Just a little,” I replied, scooting myself up against the headboard.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes Francis. I am fine,” I said taking his hand in mine. “I am with child.”

A smile broke out across his face. “An even dozen then?” he laughed.

I finally cracked a smile back. “Yes, husband, an even dozen.”

“Well this is wonderful news, Catherine. Why do you look so serious?”

My stomach started to churn. How could I tell him I wanted to leave and travel home to have this child? I knew he would never permit it. He must have read it on my face when I did not respond.

“You want to go home don’t you?” he asked.

“Well... Yes I do,” I muttered. “I want my own midwife and for our child to be born in our own home - your home - the home you inherited from your father.”

“I understand,” he whispered.

I wrapped my arms around him.

“Please don’t be upset with me. I could not bear it. I will do as you wish, Francis. If you wish our baby to be born here, then that is what will be.”

He lifted my hand to his lips and then turned to kiss mine.

“Let me think on this, Catherine. We do not have much time to consider the options, but I want to be sure that we choose the safest one. I do not like the idea of you going back to England while Mary is queen. She burned the Archbishop of Canterbury at the stake. Who is to say that she will not take out her anger at my flight on you?”

Quietly, I murmured, “She says.”

He turned abruptly to face me. “What do you mean ‘she says’?”

I rose from the bed and walked over to my trunk. Inside, still tucked into my Bible where I left it all that time ago, was my letter from the queen. I don’t know why I never showed it to Francis. I think it was because he had been so happy to see us and under so much pressure from everything else that I did not want to bring up the woman he despised so much. He would be angry at my deception, but I knew now was the time.

I walked back to the bed, holding the letter out to him.

“What is this?” he asked, taking it from me.

“It is from the queen.”

I watched his face carefully as he read the letter, cringing as I remembered the queen’s words of righteousness. He kept opening his mouth as if to say something, but the rebuke never came. He silently handed the parchment back to me.

“Put that back in your trunk. I never want to see it again.”

“Francis, I ...”

He put his hand up to stop me. “You have given me much to consider. Now please, lay back down and rest. I will have Matilda bring your supper in a little while.”

I nodded, blinking back the tears, and scrambled back under the covers. Francis kissed me on the forehead and quietly left the room.

The evening seemed to drag on forever. Matilda had come and gone with bread and ale and now I was all alone, listening to the incessant chatter going on below me. Dinner was a time of riotous conversation and it seemingly went on unabated without me. I stared out of the window until I heard the voices die down. When Francis still did not come back, I crept out and headed to the children’s room. Matilda had them all tucked in nicely, Elizabeth in the big bed with Richard and little Francis curled into her arms, Robert sprawled across the pallet on the other side of the room, and baby Anne wrapped tightly in the wooden cradle Francis had had made for us by a local woodworker before our arrival. I was struck by the irony of the intricate bears carved into the wood. Matilda’s trundle was pulled out but it was empty. I guessed she was still downstairs cleaning up from dinner.

I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my fingers through little Francis’s curls. They were so vulnerable in their sleep and the knowledge of that brought tears to my eyes. It had been a long and trying journey to get out here and we’d had Henry to guide us. There was no way I could subject them to a return trip so soon, and without a leader we trusted so much. This baby would be born in exile. It was the only option. My lips brushed against little Francis’s silken forehead, then I got up and tiptoed quietly back to my room.

When I returned, Francis was sitting at his desk, hunched over a book in which he was methodically writing. His hand moved slowly and with great flourishes. Whatever it was he was recording must have been important for him to write so carefully. I stood quietly in the doorway waiting for him to address me. When he did, he was concentrating so hard on what he was writing that he did not even look up at me.

“Are the children all right?”

“Oh yes, I just missed them so I wanted to say goodnight, but they were already asleep by the time I got in there.”

Francis returned the quill to its stand. He turned to me and silently nodded.

“Can I ask what you are working on?” I asked gesturing to his desk.

He smiled. “Of course. I keep no secrets from you.”

Those words hit me hard. Of course Francis did not keep secrets from me, nor did I normally keep them from him. I could not excuse my lack of honesty, but I hoped he would eventually forgive me for it.

I sat down on the bed, exhaling a tired sigh.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you of the letter from the queen. I did not want to upset you. I see now that it upset you even more that I deceived you.”

Francis strode over to the bed and sat down beside me.

“Catherine, I understand your desire to go home. I want to go home too. I miss my land, I miss being a trusted advisor to our monarch. I miss everything about England. But God has led us to this place for our safety, and I promise you that once our Elizabeth takes the throne, we shall return in all our glory.”

The thought of my beautiful niece taking her rightful place on the throne brought tears to my eyes. Having lost children myself, I did feel for Queen Mary’s pain, but I would be lying if I did not admit that it brought a certain relief when her pregnancy turned out to be a phantom. I could not stand the idea of Mary’s child ascending the throne over Elizabeth.

I brushed my tears aside and took Francis’s hand.

“Our child shall be born in exile, but raised to be a proud Englishman.”

Francis smiled and added, “Our first child born without the taint of Catholic popery.”

I wanted to laugh out loud at the serious look on his face. Catholicism did not seem like such a terrible thing to me when it was not used as a weapon to burn people alive, but to Francis it was a plague. I let him have his moment of righteousness, but stopped short of encouraging him. As long as my child was born healthy I did not care if it was in a Catholic or Protestant country.

Francis brought my hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

“Would you still like to see what I was working on?”

I nodded.

He got up and walked over to the desk, coming back with a book in his hand, the pages open to reveal his delicate handiwork. He sat down next to me and placed it in my hand. The leather cover was soft and supple in my hands. I closed the book for a moment to see what was written on the cover. It was a Latin dictionary and thesaurus for the letters A to E.

“I bought this when I was a student at Basel,” Francis murmured.

I opened the book back to where my finger had stayed marking the page.

At the top of the page it said:

Here follows in order the names, with the times of the birth of the children of Francis Knollys & Catherine his wife that were married the 26
th
day of April anno. 1540. The year of Our Lord is counted to begin at Christmas.

Below that, he had listed the names and birth dates of all of our children, numbered one to eleven. He ended with the number twelve empty, waiting for the name of this child that was growing in my belly.

“Francis, it is beautiful.” I said in awe.

“I never had a chance to start this when I was back in England. It finally occurred to me that I had better write it before we have so many children we cannot remember their birth dates,” he said with a chuckle.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek, the hair from his beard tickling my lips.

“Thank you for this.”

“You are welcome, my darling. Now, I am going to put it in our trunk to keep it safe until the child is born.”

I went to bed feeling relieved that Francis had forgiven me. Once again, I realised just how blessed I had been in this marriage. Francis was a good man and I knew he would always do what was right for our family. I fell into an easy sleep wrapped in the comfort of his care.

Living in exile had fundamentally changed the way we lived our lives and that included my time in pregnancy. At home in Rotherfield Greys, we had servants and tutors to help me with the children. In Frankfurt I had only Matilda. Matilda was amazing and I would have been lost without her, but she was ill-equipped to take on the children by herself for three months, so going into confinement was out of the question. Even if she had been able to do so, there was no other place for Francis to sleep besides in our bed. It would be far too inconvenient to move him out for the duration of my final months of pregnancy.