Cor Rotto: A novel of Catherine Carey

by Adrienne Dillard

  I shook my head and murmured, “That does not sound like Elizabeth. Are you certain?”

  Francis nodded and stared into the flames. “They say that the baron would sneak into her room before she had even dressed for the day and chase her around, tearing at her nightgown and spanking her bottom.”

  I gasped. “What about Queen Katheryn?”

  Francis snorted in derision, “Oh yes, she was in on it as well, until she caught them in an embrace in the gallery. I don’t know what she was thinking. She had Elizabeth sent from Sudeley and the dowager queen now rests in her confinement awaiting the birth of their child. God willing the birthing will go well or I am certain the baron will set his sights on Elizabeth and the throne.”

  I sat quietly thinking of the young princess I had left behind after Edward’s coronation. I could not imagine Elizabeth taking part in such misbehaviour, but I knew the baron and his reputation so was not surprised that he could act in such a way. It was a shame that for all the women King Henry had taken in marriage after Anne’s death, not a single one of them had taught Elizabeth to avoid the plots and intrigues at Court. I feared this was just the beginning. Edward was still young and he had no heirs to follow should something happen to him. As long as Elizabeth was in line for the throne, she would always be a magnet for men and their ambition.

  Shortly after Francis went back to Court, we received news that the dowager queen had died of childbed fever after giving birth to a sickly baby girl. As the familiar symptoms of my own pregnancy began to appear one after another, I reflected on the bittersweet nature of motherhood. We surrender our bodies and hearts to the children we bear, risking our very lives to birth them and yet we do it with gladness and little hesitation. Fear over the possibility of our death is insignificant compared to the joy that we feel at the moment of their birth.

  I was delivered of a healthy baby girl in the middle of June. When Francis came home to see us I told him that I named her for my grandmother, Elizabeth Boleyn, but truthfully I had named her Elizabeth for the princess. The moment I saw our baby’s coppery hair and raven eyes I knew that, like Lettice, she would be a mirror image of the young princess.

  Bess, as we came to call her, thrived. Her birth was a joyous celebration after a winter and spring of discord. In February, the baron, Thomas Seymour, was arrested for attempting to kidnap the king. The death of the dowager queen had given him an opportunity to pursue his dynastic ambitions for a new wife and Princess Elizabeth seemed to suit his plan. Fortunately, no evidence was ever found linking Elizabeth to this plot, but her lady of the bedchamber and closest confidante, Kat Ashley, was removed along with her treasurer. These events placed the baron at odds with his brother and the council. When bribing the young king to intercede on the baron’s behalf did not work, he attempted to take him by force out of the palace, but was foiled before he could complete his outrageous mission. That council could suffer Thomas Seymour’s dangerous behaviour no more. On the king’s orders, Somerset threw his brother into the Tower and on 19th March, he was executed.

  Summer fared no better as Francis was called back to Court in mid-July to deal with the rebellion at Norwich. Letters from Francis described the chaos:

  “After Wymondham’s celebration of St Thomas Becket, which had been outlawed by King Henry at the height of his dispute with the pope, a group of rebels set out to tear down the enclosures that were preventing their animals from grazing on public land. They attacked the enclosures on the property of a wealthy landowner named Kett and, instead of fighting back, he joined the rebels. Gathering recruits as they went, the rebels set up camp outside of Norwich and attacked. The king sent the Marquess of Northampton with an army to put them down, but after being tricked by reports that the rebels wanted to discuss surrender, Northampton was beaten back and the Earl of Warwick, John Dudley, was sent to restore law and punish the rebels. The rebellion eventually was put down, but at great cost to the lord protector. He had underestimated how powerful and determined the rebels truly were and, because of his woeful miscalculation, the council lost their faith in him.”

  In October, the lord protector was arrested by his own nephew and locked in the Tower.

  “Warwick saw his chance and set about convincing an already worried council that the rebellions would not stop until Somerset was removed. Sadly, the king took little convincing as he was already upset that Somerset did not punish his sister, the Princess Mary, for saying Mass in her household and had been, in his opinion, far too lenient on the Catholics.” Francis told me sadly when he returned at Christmas.

  Somerset had been one of his closest friends and I could see the worry and sorrow etched across his face.

  “Wriothesley has taken Somerset’s rooms next to the king and at every chance he gets he is whispering in the king’s ear, trying to return him to the Catholic church. If he is successful, all of our hard work is undone.”

  I chided Francis. “Do not even consider for one moment Wriothesley’s success. Edward would never return England to the pope. The very suggestion of it is preposterous. Have you ever seen a young man with such disdain for the pope? He cannot even stomach the idea of his own sister holding Mass, which she has done since well before he was born, and must plague her with reprimands though it does not affect him in the least. Wriothesley better take care that he does not find himself in the Tower instead of Somerset.”

  I saw a smile creep its way onto Francis’s face. “You speak wise words, my lady. It is true that our young king could never relinquish his power over the church back to the pope. Warwick and Somerset fighting over it is bad enough. Princess Mary is lucky he is still in his minority or she would rue the day she ever thought to hold Mass in her home.”

  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 m
y 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.

  PART IV - A Season of Fear

  Oxfordshire, Rotherfield Greys:

  July – September 1553

  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 22nd 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 Du
ke 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.”