Chapter 18
Elizabeth greeted her ecstatically. She was nearly ten now, tall for her age and slender, her features sharper, her red hair very long. But her demeanor changed when Kate told her about Mother’s death.
“That’s awful,” she said, twisting her hands nervously. “I’m very sorry for you.”
Kate knew that she was thinking of her own mother. “It is a terrible loss to bear,” she said.
“I know,” said Elizabeth. Her voice shook. Kate’s heart went out to her. This was her sister, bound to her by a close tie of blood. And her own mother had died a peaceful death, not bloodily on a scaffold.
They embraced each other, both of them emotional, and then Kat and Lady Troy came in, fresh from a walk in the park.
Both gave Kate their kindest condolences and called for refreshments for her.
She spent the afternoon looking at Elizabeth’s schoolwork, which the child was proud to show her, and marveling at how erudite she was.
“I was never as clever as you,” Kate told her. “I found it easy to master foreign tongues, but the classic works of antiquity bored me, although I loved the myths and legends.”
“Oh, but they’re not boring!” Elizabeth cried. “You should read Cicero. He is a master of eloquence, an advocate for liberty.”
“That’s as may be,” Kate retorted, “but give me a good romance any day!” They were back to their old easy friendship.
Kate now felt less awareness that Elizabeth was a king’s daughter, for she was reluctantly coming to accept that she herself was one, too—and she longed to tell her the truth.
Indeed, she ventured perilously close to it.
“Do you miss your sister Mary?” she asked one day, a week into her visit.
“Yes. I don’t see her very often, but she is nice to me.”
“That’s what sisters are for.”
“I know, but you’re nicer.”
Kate bit her tongue. Dare she say more? But Elizabeth said it for her.
“I wish that you were my sister,” she said wistfully.
Kate nearly blurted the truth out then, but restrained herself just in time. “I wish I were, too,” she said.
“You look like me,” Elizabeth told her.
This was getting uncomfortably close to the truth. “That’s because we are cousins.”
“Do I look like my mother?”
“Yes, although you have your father’s coloring and his nose. But otherwise, you are very like her.”
Elizabeth was regarding Kate intently. “Our mothers had dark hair, so how come you have red hair like me?”
“My father had red hair, like yours,” Kate said, thinking rapidly. It was a lie. In a portrait that hung at Henden Manor, William Carey had dark hair. She prayed that Elizabeth would never see it.
She changed the subject, feeling that she had trespassed too far into dangerous territory.
“Shall we walk in the gardens after supper?” she asked.
“I would like that,” Elizabeth replied. “And then we could make music together.” She had seemingly forgotten that Kate was in mourning.
—
By the time Greys Court came into view, Kate had been away for two months and was longing to get home.
She had sent ahead to notify Bilkins of her arrival, but was delighted to see Francis come running out of the house to welcome her as her little cavalcade came to rest in the Base Court.
Behind him scampered Hal, who seemed to have grown taller, and then came Mistress Wellgood, baby Mary in her arms, and the rest of the household.
It was good to feel Francis’s strong arms around her again as he embraced and kissed her, then led her into the house. “You look blooming,” he told her. “I have been so concerned about you, and I was deeply sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. She was a kind lady, and I shall miss her.”
“Yes, it has been a difficult time, more difficult than you can imagine,” Kate said, bending down to hug an excited Hal, then taking the babe from the nurse and showering kisses on her. “How I have missed you all! Have you children been well behaved for Mistress Wellgood?”
“They have, Madam,” the nurse said. “Well, Hal has been passably good and this one’s been a little angel. How are you keeping?”
“I am well, in the circumstances,” Kate said. “But now I need to rest. It has been a long journey.”
Francis followed her up to the solar.
“What did you mean about having more of a difficult time than I could imagine?” he asked gently, taking her in his arms and kissing her as soon as they were alone.
“I will tell you, but first, I must lie down, for I feel weary after the long ride. You can be my tirewoman.” They smiled at each other. He had been her tirewoman on many intimate occasions.
He untied her sleeves, then bent and unlaced her bodice. She stepped out of her gown, laid it over a bench, then went through to the bedchamber and lay down on the bed in her white lawn smock. “The babe has quickened,” she said, laying her hand on her belly. “There! Touch and you will feel it.”
Francis placed his hand where she indicated. He broke into a smile. “Yes, I feel it, darling. He’s a lusty one!”
“It may be a she…”
“I don’t mind. Sometimes I think that one lusty son is more than enough!” He grinned.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Bilkins sent to advise me of your coming. I was due some leave and raced home like the wind.”
“That’s as well,” she said, remembering what she had to say to him and feeling her mood darken. “Lie beside me. Hold me.”
“Hey, what’s wrong, sweetheart? This isn’t like you,” Francis murmured, lying down on the bed and taking her in his arms.
She began to weep. “It’s all been too much.
Losing Mother, after supporting her through her last weeks.
It was harrowing at times and desperately sad.
I hated to see her so ill, and I felt very deeply for Will.
He has borne his grief bravely and is dealing with it by returning to France to go soldiering.
But I was disturbed when he told me that he and Mother had embraced the Protestant faith—and that he knew you had, too.
I am amazed that you would all run that risk. ”
“Is that why you’re upset? Well, my darling, sometimes principles are more important than anything else.”
“Even risking my happiness and the children’s?”
Francis gazed into her eyes. “Kate, you are my wife, closer to me than anyone. Have I ever betrayed my love for you? Have I given you cause to think me a heretic?”
“Once. That was enough. And it would be enough for the King to proceed against you.”
“I remember what I said then, but it could be explained in other ways. I could have defended myself. And for your sake, I would have denied my faith had I been examined. No, Kate, I will not abandon my beliefs. They are too much a part of me. But for as long as it remains dangerous to hold them, I will hide them behind a cloak of conformity. Does that put your mind at rest?”
“Somewhat.” She kissed him, forcibly aware of how much he meant to her.
“Actually, that was not what was upsetting me most.” She took a deep breath, remembering that she had longed to unburden herself to Francis, although now that the moment had come, she was balking at doing so.
“Before she died, my mother told me something so horrible and shocking that it made me question everything I am.”
“By God, what was it?” Francis’s eyes had widened in alarm.
“She told me that I am the King’s daughter.”
He drew in his breath and was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, “To be honest, I have wondered. When we became betrothed, one of the Gentlemen Pensioners jested that I had landed a royal bride. I thought he meant your being Queen Anne’s niece, but when I said that we weren’t going to make anything of that connection, for obvious reasons, he said he hadn’t meant that, but that there had been talk about your mother.
I looked at you and thought I could see a resemblance to his Grace, but I couldn’t be certain.
I thought it remarkable that you had been selected for such high offices in the royal households.
But Kate, you have to believe that I did not choose you because I thought you were his daughter.
I chose you because I fell for you and thought you would be the perfect wife for me. ”
“I know that,” she assured him, becoming distressed. “But what I am is no cause for rejoicing. I hate and detest the idea of being his child. I loathe him! I cannot bear to think that he is my father.”
“Hush!” he soothed, holding her tighter. “You must not always think the worst of him.”
“No?” She was vehement. “You were not there when they cut my aunt’s head off, by his order, or when he sent a silly young girl to a bloody death. You have no idea of the horror of it. Think of all those he has sent the same way, the hundreds he has killed. Think of his cruelty—”
“Kate, enough! I am his servant. I have told you I must not hear such things. What you are speaking is treason. It is treason to question his justice.”
“Justice? It was butchery!”
She sat up, marched into the solar, and pulled on her night-robe, seething. Francis followed her.
“Sweetheart, I know why you are upset, but—hard as it sounds—they were all punished according to law.”
“Katheryn Howard had no trial! She was condemned unheard by Parliament. And my aunt’s trial was a travesty. I was there. Don’t give me the law!”
“Kate, calm down.” He grasped her shoulders. “Think of the child.”
“You don’t think of it when you vex me so! The next thing you will be telling me is that Anne was guilty as charged.”
There was an awful pause. Francis let her go and sat down by the empty hearth. “I did not say that.”
“But you believe it.” She sank down opposite him.
“The evidence against her was strong.”
“Evidence? Half of it was lies! They used lies as a pretext to get rid of her.”
“Kate, darling, are you sure? You were very young when you attended her in the Tower, and clearly very distressed. Is it possible that you misunderstood?”