Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey

by Adrienne Dillard

  The house had been in a bustle for weeks, planning for the journey. I was to go over early and meet Lord Lisle’s step-daughter, Anne Bassett, in London to help prepare the household for its new queen. The ladies of the garrison had been helping each other prepare for the arrival of Anne of Cleves and for the departure of the families that would be returning to England. We had Lady Honor Lisle over to assist my mother in choosing my wardrobe.

  Passing through the hallway, I overheard her bitterly complaining to my mother about the king’s refusal to let her daughter, Katherine, attend upon the queen. “You would think that being married to the king’s cousin would assure all of my daughters a place at Court! Why only one? I am going to wear him down, even if I have to bribe him,” she laughed ruefully.

  “Oh Honor,” my mother replied gently. “Be thankful Anne is serving. There are always pretty young ladies being sent the king’s way. Each nobleman hoping that his girl will be the next mistress or wife, getting him ever closer to the king’s ear. It is the way it has always been and it is the way it will always be. I am sure you remember your time at Court.”

  Lady Lisle sniggered. “Spoken from the lips of one of those same ladies.” Then she added quietly, “You did well though, Mary. Stafford is a wonderful man and your son and daughter have been well-provided for. Things could have turned out far worse.”

  I could not see my mother’s face, but I could feel her pain. I only knew my little sister Anne for a short time before God called her back again and my heart was broken. I could not begin to fathom the hurt I would feel if we had been allowed to build a relationship before she was taken away. To share hurts and dreams, whispered in the dark while the rest of the house was asleep. To share dolls and clothes and compete for a young man’s affections. To feel the wonder that Aunt Anne must have felt when she rested her hand on Mother’s belly and I kicked her from inside. To share the parts of life that only sisters can, and then have it violently torn from my grasp. I turned on my heel, and ran to my room before the tears began to fall. I could not risk adding to my mother’s pain.

  Later that afternoon I was lying on my bed, limbs spread out, soaking up the warm sunlight coming through the open window. Just as I began to sink into a peaceful slumber, my door banged open.

  “Mistress Catherine,” Matilda sang through the doorway. “Your mother would like to see you.”

  I sat up and breathed in the salt air, shaking the cobwebs out of my brain. I jumped out of bed wondering what new task lay ahead of me and headed to my mother’s room.

  Mother was sitting on her bed, a trunk at the foot open wide. Lady Lisle was gone and the room was quiet. I looked at Mother and raised an eyebrow. She had a beatific look in her eyes and, for the first time in years, a truly vibrant smile. I had no hint what was coming, but I could feel a tingle run down my spine to see her in such utter happiness. She leapt from the bed and very excitedly said, “Look!” I turned my eyes to the direction her hands were pointing and finally saw what was in the trunk. It was a riot of colour and texture. Crimson velvet, emerald satin and cloth of silver all vied for my attention. As I knelt down to get a closer look, arm stretched into the pile of fabric, I stopped.

  “What is all this?” I asked her, reproachfully.

  Mother knelt down next to me, taking my hands in hers, and answered, “These are my Court dresses. They are now yours.”

  “But -” I started. “I thought you left those...” Suddenly, it dawned on me that the whole time we were destitute for money she had been hiding our most valuable assets. I laughed at the irony of it.

  “You mean you had these all along?” I asked her incredulously.

  “Catherine, I knew you were the king’s daughter from the moment of your birth. I knew eventually you would be called to Court. I could never send you in rags and I did not know if that was what we would be wearing when the time came. So I did what I had to do to keep these with me. Stafford knew all along and he agreed with me, so we made do without selling them. And quite a fine life we made, didn’t we?” she said a little smugly, colour creeping into her cheeks.

  I was amazed at this new giddiness. She seemed almost excited. I gave her a wide grin then whispered, “Let’s try them.”

  Mother had been much older than I when she was at Court, but I was built like my father, tall and sturdy, so they fit me like a glove. I tried them all and relished the feel of the fine fabrics on my skin. Each dress was a new experience for me. It was as though all that my mother had seen and felt when she wore them was soaking though my skin and into my heart. It was when I peered into the mirror and saw my mother staring back at me that I suddenly realised my body was becoming more like a woman and less like a girl. The gowns were all cut low and I flushed at the thought of showing so much skin. I just hoped they were not too far out of style, but even if they were, I realised that I did not care.

  Mother stood behind me and nodded her approval. “Perfect,” she whispered.

  By the time we reached the last gown, Stafford was home and it was time for supper. I heard his footsteps and knew he was coming our way. We looked up in time to see him stop in the doorway. He beamed us a smile and said, “Lovely.”

  My heart sang with joy.

  A month later it was time to board the ship. The frigid salt air burned my eyes, pricking tears that ran down my cheeks. At least that was my excuse when my mother looked at me sternly, warning me not to lose myself in emotion. It was hard enough on her to send off her child, she did not need me causing a commotion, she had confessed to me the night before as she was combing my hair. I rubbed my eyes fiercely and then smoothed my hair back under my hood. When I turned back to the quayside, I was composed and ready to board.

  “Hello Catherine!” called an enthusiastic voice.

  I turned and saw Eleanor Wells walking towards me. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes bright from the biting cold, but she was smiling and waving madly in my direction. She was the daughter of a man in Lisle’s retinue. He was not of the peerage, but a member of the gentry. In the past we had little interaction, but I had seen her often at social gatherings and she was always friendly and outgoing. She had an easy charm that appealed to the young men in the garrison and they were often following her around, hanging on her every word. I wondered for a moment why she was at the dock and then I realised she must be sailing back to England as well.

  “Eleanor,” I said. “Good to see you again. Are you going to be boarding with me?”

  She smiled brightly. “I am! My father is sending me to family in London. He hopes that once the queen arrives I will be taken into service. Not as a maid-of-honour of course, those are full,” she said rather wistfully. “But I am sure one of the great ladies of the court will be happy to have my assistance.”

  I removed my hand from my muff and squeezed her icy fingers, giving her a smile. “They would be ever so lucky to have you in their service,” I reassured her. Deep down I felt it should be Eleanor in my place. She was everything a maid-of-honour was supposed to be: bonny and charming, flaxen hair, delicate as a rose. I was none of those things. I preferred embroidery and reading to dancing and no one would ever describe me as delicate.

  “Ladies, it is time for us to bid you farewell,” came my mother’s voice, startling me out of my thoughts.

  She gave me a hug, holding me for a while in her embrace. I concentrated on her scent, hoping to lodge it in my mind for later recollection when I was feeling lonely or insecure, but all too soon she was sending us on our way. We crossed the rickety gangplank and made our way across the deck of the ship. A young man was waiting to take us down into the hold. His dark hair was matted from the wind and rain, half his face hidden under a beard, but his green eyes sparkled and caught my attention.

  “Down here please, ladies,” he directed us to our room and took his leave.

  I awoke in the darkness, my belly boiling. I did not know if it was morning or night, but I knew I was about to be sick. I crawled out of my bunk and made
my way to the deck, gripping my stomach and desperately trying to keep my balance. The ship was pitching in the wind and rain making it impossible for me to walk. The rain soaked my dress and I tripped over my hem, slipping on the deck. I reached the railing in time to vomit my supper into the dark abyss. Just as I straightened, the ship rolled, knocking me to the floor. The last thing I felt before the darkness came was a searing pain in my forehead and my hood being ripped out of my hair.

  Someone was calling my name, but I could not make out the voice. My first thought was that I had fallen into the sea, so I kicked for the surface. But instead of the bitter cold water, I kicked hard wood. Startled, I opened my eyes and found myself looking into a pair of green ones that I almost recognised. Then I saw the wind-tangled beard and realised that my rescuer was the young man who had directed us to our cabin.

  “My lady, are you all right?” he asked, concerned. He brushed the hair from my face with one hand and cradled my back in the other to keep me off the wet deck. “I saw you come out of your cabin, but I was unsure of what you were doing, so I kept close in case you were in trouble.” Then he grinned. “I am glad you leaned over the railing, I would not want to have to clean that mess up.”

  I groaned. My head was pounding and my throat burned with thirst. I drew my hand across my mouth, wiping away the vomit. “Do you have anything to drink?” I asked him, forgetting my manners.

  He broke into a laugh, “Aye my lady, I’m sure I can find you some.”

  In one swift move he got me to my feet and seated me on a bench. He paused to stare at me for a moment, no doubt taking in my rain-soaked dress and stringy hair, and shook his head. “I shall return,” he said with a chuckle.

  He came back with a pewter tankard of ale and handed it to me, patiently waiting while I drained it. I wiped my lips again with the back of my hand and a hiccup escaped from my mouth. Both hands flew to my face, mortified. After a moment, I composed myself. “Thank you very much, sir. I think you probably saved my life. Can I ask your name?”

  “Richard,” was his response.

  “Well, Master Richard,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance and your courtesy. Please excuse my unbecoming behaviour this evening.”

  With a broad grin he replied, “It was my pleasure Mistress Carey. We shall be at Dover in just a few hours, so we can only hope they will be uneventful from now on.”

  My face reddened, but I allowed a small giggle to escape. “I hope so as well.”

  The skies cleared and the sun began its ascent. Richard wrapped me in a blanket and we rode out the rest of the journey on the bench. He told me of his childhood in York and his love of horses. He hoped to find a place in the king’s stables when we arrived in London. I told him of my place in the queen’s rooms and of the anxiety I was feeling, but I left out my relationship to the king. As far as Richard knew, I was only the step-daughter of Master Stafford. Soon I began to feel a warmth in my heart that I could not place. I did not know this man before tonight, but I was beginning to feel a connection with him. I knew that I would pray for his success. I truly hoped he would make it to the king’s stables. I knew I wanted to see him again.

  London, Whitehall:

  November – December 1539

  We arrived at Whitehall to a raucous celebration. Lively music spilled out of the great hall and most of the windows in the palace were ablaze in torch-light. I eased my way out of the carriage, stiff from the biting cold, and found my footing. A group of pages rushed over to haul the baggage and trunks out of the cart. Carefully, I picked my way through the mud and headed for the warmth of the palace. I had never been to Whitehall so was unsure of my surroundings, but I hoped there would be someone there to guide me to the maids’ dormitory. The hall was busy enough, servants hurried by with their arms full, but no one was there to greet me. I stopped for a moment amid the bustle and listened to the music. If I could follow it to the great hall, surely someone could tell me where to go.

  I walked down the winding corridors, listening intently. As the music got louder, I knew I was closer to the celebration. I turned the corner and saw an enormous set of doors. They were slightly ajar, so I inched closer to get a peek. The hall was packed, but a space had been cleared to allow for dancing. I had heard that the king loved to watch his courtiers dance. His dancing days were coming to an end, but it did not stop him from vicariously living through the young men and women who graced his Court.

  At the centre of attention was a couple dancing the volte. The man was lean and muscular, lifting his lithe companion with ease. Vivacious and lively, she threw her head back in excitement, her golden hair cascading down her back. From a distance it was difficult to tell their age, but the young lady appeared to be near my own. I assumed that she too was to be a maid to the queen. I mentally reminded myself to investigate further.

  I took in the rest of the scene. The king was sitting under a cloth of estate in all his finery. A purple velvet doublet trimmed in ermine graced his hefty body. The brilliant jewels on each finger caught the candlelight and glittered. He wore a full beard, still gloriously red. He had aged since I last saw him, but I witnessed not a trace of grey hair. He topped off his look with a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with a jaunty white feather. Unseen, I could take him all in and I stared unabashedly. If only I could read his mind. I watched his eyes follow the young lady in the dance, he smiled at her each time she turned his way. He may have a bride on the way, but he was a lusty king after all, and it would not be long before she was a favourite, if she was not already.

  A hand on my shoulder caused me to jump, my heart thudding against my chest. I spun around to see a face I knew well and was very displeased. My late uncle’s wife, Jane Rochford, was staring back at me. I expected her to sneer at me, but I received rosy cheeks and the curve of her upturned lips instead.

  “Mistress Catherine! I am so happy to have found you. My deepest apologies, I was to meet you at the door but was detained by a chamber-maid. I am relieved that you arrived safely,” she said breathlessly.

  She appeared genuinely thrilled to see me. My feelings for her were of another sort. I had actually dreaded seeing her. During George and Anne’s trials, it was rumoured that Jane had given evidence against them. At least that was what was whispered in the hushed halls at Hever. I overheard two of our servants talking about the shame she had brought on our family. My heart sank when I realised she was to be a guide for me. How would I ever contain my disgust?

  Jane left me little time to react. Immediately she was leading me to the maid’s dormitory to see that I was settled in and out of my rain-soaked garments. She waited patiently on my bed while the chamber-maid helped me into a dry muslin shift and prepared me for bed. After my long journey I was exhausted, and while it was exciting to see the party in the hall, I was in no condition to join it. The chamber maid scurried off, my wet clothes in hand, leaving Jane and I to stare awkwardly at each other. I waited patiently for her to break the silence.

  Jane stood. Clearing her throat she said, “I know what you must think of me and I cannot say that I blame you. Since I found out that you would be coming to Court, I have been going over round and round in my head what I would say to you. It seems only fair that I tell you the truth. We will be together much of our time now and I want you to know what is real and what is false and why I did what I did. Please say that you will give me that chance.”

  She looked at me with such hopeful eyes that though my stomach was pitching inside, I knew that the only response was my assent, so I nodded.

  She began to pace the room, her footsteps kicking up the scent of sage in the newly laid rushes. “It is true that I gave evidence against George and Anne, but it is not what it appears to be.” She came to a stop and turned to look me in the eye.

  “Cromwell had me in a corner and I was terrified of what he might do. I had to ensure my survival. But I never said that Anne and George had a carnal relationship. I never even alluded to the idea, I swear this to you. I
could never come up with that abominable scene, that was all Cromwell and the king’s doing. I only repeated that Anne said that the king had not the ability at all times to bed her as his wife and nothing more.” She said earnestly. Her face was flushed and her eyes shone with unshed tears.

  I was not swayed by her pleading. “You were concerned with your own survival, but not your husband’s? Did you not realise that his survival was linked to your own?” I said evenly.

  “Please forgive me Catherine, I was afraid,” she pleaded.

  “We were all afraid,” I spat out, slamming my hand down on the bed. I felt anger rising in my throat. “What makes your fear more important than ours?”

  She quieted and looked to the floor. After a moment she looked up at me, a tear coursing down her cheek. “A week before I was questioned, I realised that I had missed my courses. I knew then that I was with child, Catherine.”

  I gasped. I knew they had been waiting for that moment. George had often been found in front of the hearth at Hever gazing at the Ormonde ancestral horn. He had turned it over and over in his hands, rubbing his fingers over the smooth ivory, wrapping the silk ribbon between his fingers. He had longed for a son to pass it on to. It had seemed, though, as if it would never happen.

  My breath caught in my throat, “Did George know?”

  She gave me a sad smile, “Yes, my dear niece, he did know. He also knew that Cromwell was determined to take his family down no matter who gave evidence of what, and if I did not give him the responses he craved, I would go down with them. He instructed me what to tell Cromwell when my interrogation came. It broke my heart, but I had to do what my husband bade me. I loved George. I would never do anything to hurt him in any way.”

  I was filled with love for my uncle. He had been fighting to give his child a chance. I pictured his bright smile, the devilish twinkle in his brown eyes as if he were about to tell some marvellous joke. Suddenly, it occurred to me that a small piece of him could exist.