Chapter 18 #3
“I myself am no mean musician, and a composer as well,” the King told her.
He had been drinking heavily. She wondered if he had been nervous about visiting her.
It was not such a ridiculous notion, surely?
In his position, most men would have felt embarrassed or guilty.
But he was the King, so maybe he considered himself above all that, as he plainly considered himself above most human sensibilities.
In his cups, he grew garrulous, rambling on about how he had purged the Church of England of all Popery and how he was rooting out heretics. Kate tensed, never daring to look at Francis. Not by the slightest glance must they betray that the subject held any special significance for them.
The King smiled greedily when a huge apple tart was placed on the table before him, with a great jug of creamy custard.
“I do love my puddings!” he declared. “Do you know, Mistress Knollys, there is a goodwife who comes to my court and makes me the most superb puddings. I gave her a house in Aldgate as a mark of my appreciation. But this looks set to rival any of hers.”
He accepted an enormous slice of tart and tucked in greedily. Then he leaned across to Kate. “It’s delicious, my dear.”
She tried not to recoil or show that she detested him coming so close to her. But he waxed confidential.
“I am sorry to hear of the death of your mother,” he said, through a mouthful of apple mush. “I heard from Master Stafford that she was ill.”
“It was a terrible time,” Kate said, “and I miss her dreadfully.”
“I understand,” he said, showing an unexpected tenderness. “I lost my mother when I was eleven. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped mourning her.”
“I am sorry for your Grace.” She had no wish to engage in a heart-to-heart conversation with him.
He hesitated, then took another sip of wine. “You were with your mother when she died?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did she talk about the past? I mean, about her sister…or anything else?”
Kate froze. She could not believe he had referred to Anne, and she suspected he was fishing to find out if Mother had told her that she was his daughter. She was suddenly seized with a sense of devilment.
“We spoke of many things, Sir,” she said. “Mostly about my father.” It was no less than the truth!
“Hmm,” he grunted, the blue eyes narrowing. “And what did she say about him?”
“She said that he would probably have risen at court had he not died of the sweating sickness. She asked me what I remembered of him.” She paused, then found that she could not resist baiting him a little. “She told me about her time at the French court and at your Grace’s court.”
She sensed him tensing beside her. Behind him, Francis was trying to catch her eye, frowning. She ignored him and smiled at the King. “She also told me about the scandal her marriage caused.”
He nodded. He was on safer ground here. “It was a bad business. Yet I came in the end to realize that she had chosen well. Stafford is a good fellow. We miss him at court.”
“He is in great grief,” Kate said. “He has gone to Calais to forget. But it will be hard for him. I know I can never forget her.”
The King said nothing.
Kate grew bold. He was not getting off that lightly. “My mother let me into many secrets, Sir. I now know much more about my family background.”
He threw her a sharp look, and she realized that it would be unwise to provoke him further.
“Sometimes, it is better not to know things, better to let the past stay buried,” he muttered.
He could not have been clearer. But he now knew she had learned who she was, even if he had no intention of acknowledging her.
He had merely been trying to find out if she did know.
Kate was barely holding herself together. She feared that, if she spoke, he would know how angry she was at his words. What kind of man could deny his own child? Her opinion of him had plummeted lower than ever.
She stood up. Excusing herself with a curtsey, she left the hall and hurried upstairs to her bedchamber, closing the door behind her.
Then she leaned against it, breathing heavily, and sank down to the floor, unable to control the flood of hot, bitter tears.
And there she sat, trying to make sense of her thoughts.
What had she expected? That he would acknowledge her as his daughter?
And if she had tried to wring that from him only to make him feel guilt, why was she disappointed that he had not admitted it, especially since she did not want to be his child!
No, she was not really disappointed. She was relieved.
Getting to her feet, she smoothed her skirts, straightened her hood, and went back downstairs.
—
The King spent most of the afternoon resting in his room.
Suppressing her inner turmoil, for she now feared that her boldness might have consequences for Francis, Kate supervised the clearing away of the feast and the preparation of supper, which was not—fortunately—as elaborate, just a simple repast of cold meats, cheeses, and salad, with pears stewed in red wine to follow.
Then she spent some time playing with her children.
Francis found her kneeling on the nursery floor with them, building a tower with toy bricks.
“They’re all in the hall, playing cards; those who aren’t in attendance on his Grace, that is,” he told her, sitting down and ruffling Hal’s hair. “Kate, what were you thinking of, discussing your mother with the King?”
“He brought up the subject.” She put a brick in Mary’s hand and showed her where to stack it.
“But you were baiting him. I heard you.”
“No,” she lied. “I but told him the truth. It was he who was baiting me, trying to find out if I knew he was my father. So I gave him every opportunity to admit it.”
Francis was shaking his head.
“He wouldn’t!” she spat. “God, how I hate him!”
“Keep your voice down!” Francis hissed. “Let’s just get through tonight and the morning, and then he’ll be gone.”
“Forever, I hope,” Kate muttered.
—
Supper passed without incident. The King expressed himself delighted with the plentiful choice fare on offer, and the conversation turned to deteriorating relations with France.
Kate tried to look interested, but talk of foreign politics bored her, and she was finding it almost impossible to join in because she felt so tense.
She was glad when the meal was over and the men fell to dicing and shovelboard.
She sat by the fire, utterly exhausted. She was in her seventh month and entertaining the King had proved a strenuous effort, while she was weary of having to keep up the pretense that she was dazzled by the privilege of having him as her guest. Watching the flames dancing on the hearth, she felt strongly that he owed her something in return for all the suffering he had caused her and her family.
The next thing she knew, Francis was shaking her awake. “His Grace is about to retire to bed.”
She struggled to her senses and stood up. “Tell Bilkins to have an ewer of water placed in the solar.” She turned to the King, who had just risen from the table. “I bid your Grace good night. If there is anything you need, we will be pleased to supply it.”
“We thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Knollys,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. The touch of his lips made her skin crawl. “Good night.”
At last, she and Francis were alone. She was swaying on her feet, and he had to assist her to their temporary bedchamber, where he helped her to undress and tucked her up in bed. She was asleep before he joined her.
—
In the morning, the King was in a buoyant mood, anticipating a good day’s hunting ahead.
He complimented Kate on the roast beef and manchet loaves he was served for breakfast, washing them down with good ale.
And then—the moment she had longed for—he was on his way.
She stood with Francis in the Base Court as he mounted his horse.
He looked down upon them. “I thank you both for your warm welcome. Knollys, I will see you back at court next week. And Mistress Knollys, I thank you for your hospitality. I wish you a good hour when the time comes.”
They thanked him, made their reverences, and watched until he and his companions had disappeared from their sight. Francis squeezed Kate’s hand. “You did well,” he murmured, leading her back into the house. “He was pleased.”
“I hope I never have to see him again,” she muttered under her breath.
—
Autumn drew in with golden days and cold nights, and in November, the child came.
She was a pretty little thing with downy red hair, like her siblings—Tudor red hair, Kate kept reminding herself—and a strong will.
They called her Laetitia, after Francis’s delighted mother, who had attended her once again, but very soon she too became known as Lettice.
Kate had greatly missed having her own mother at the birth.
She was sad that she would never meet this grandchild, never see her or her siblings grow up.
But her mother-in-law was as loving and stalwart as ever, and comforted Kate whenever grief overwhelmed her, as it did when she was suffering the emotional aftermath of delivering a child.
The birth, like the last one, had been easy, yet this time it took a little longer to recuperate.
Lettice took over the ordering of the household and saw to the engaging of a wet nurse.
She was very ably assisted by Thomasina, whose devotion to Kate had been immeasurably strengthened in recent months.
Francis had leased some land to Thomasina’s father at a peppercorn rent, a gesture that had lifted a great burden from her family.
When she was able to sit up, Kate wrote to Elizabeth.
She told her about her new little cousin and said that she missed her very much and longed to see her.
She was up and about again when the reply came.
Elizabeth was well and engrossed in her studies.
She had spent time at court with the new Queen, whom she praised highly.
She wished that Kate could visit her at Hatfield, or that she herself could come to Greys Court.
They must arrange something in the New Year.
In the meantime, she wished Kate a very merry Christmas and promised to remember the children in her prayers.
Kate smiled wistfully when she read the letter.
She would have loved to go to Hatfield and feel like a young girl again, but she was needed at home.
She promised herself that she would go next summer, when she was confident that little Lettice was thriving and that she herself could be spared for a week or so.