Chapter 20
It was now March, and Kate had not seen Francis since the end of January, when they had spent an idyllic few days together with the children, and she had pretended that he didn’t have to return to court. Those days had born fruit. When April came in, she knew she was with child again.
This time, she was not so well, and both Mistress Wellgood and Lettice, who came hurrying to Greys Court to help her, urged her to rest, shooing the children away and admonishing them not to play so noisily.
Kate took advantage of their kindness and spent hours each day lying on her bed, giving in to fatigue and fighting off nausea.
Francis wrote often, as did Will, and there was even the occasional letter from Harry. In the summer, she learned that Harry had pulled strings and got himself elected Member of Parliament for Buckingham. He, Francis, and Will would sit in Parliament together. It was better than fighting wars.
As autumn drew in, Francis wrote more frequently of the King’s ill health.
Reading between the lines, Kate wondered if the old horror would live much longer.
Heaven grant that his son was of a different character entirely.
But he was only nine, so others would rule for him until he came of age.
She hoped that the Queen would be given the regency.
Francis, Will, and Harry were all full of praise for her, especially since she shared their religious convictions. But the King was not dead yet.
In the middle of October, after a difficult pregnancy that had set her to worrying that she might not survive the birth, she brought into the world, with the minimum of pain and fuss, another son.
Francis was ecstatic, and commanded that the boy be named Edward after the Prince.
Lying back on the pillows, the infant in her arms and her four other children snuggled around her, Kate felt truly blessed.
The court, and indeed the world itself, seemed very far away.
—
The court was closed that Christmas. The King was secluded at Whitehall with his doctors and senior councillors, and the Queen and everyone else had been sent to Greenwich Palace. With time on his hands, Francis came home, to Kate’s great joy, and they were able to have a family celebration.
After the New Year of 1547 had been rung in, he began fretting about whether he should return to court.
Will, who had stayed there, sent a letter telling him that the King was still shut away at Whitehall and no one knew what was happening.
Even the Queen had been refused admission to see him. There was no need for Francis to go.
He went anyway. Two weeks later, a letter bearing his seal arrived at Greys Court. Suspecting that it might contain news of some moment, Kate took it to her closet to read.
The King was dead.
She felt nothing. She reminded herself that he had been her father and that convention demanded that she ought to feel some grief.
But she had loathed him, and she could only think that the world would now be a better place without him.
Nevertheless, she sent to the priest at the parish church to have the bells toll, one chime for each of the fifty-five years of the King’s life, and instructed the household chaplain to say a Mass for the soul of the departed.
She put on a black gown and wore it for a week.
She wrote to Francis, asking after the new King, who had lost a doting father and was very young to be burdened by the cares of state.
Francis, who was busy preparing for his ceremonial role at the coming coronation, snatched time to reply that he thought the boy was more than equal to it.
“Already, they are calling him the English Josiah. He is said to be zealous for the reformed faith. Although we had hoped it would be the Queen, Hertford is now Lord Protector, and he and others are coming out as Protestants. My darling wife, I do believe that the day of our delivery is at hand.”
Kate’s heart leaped, if not for herself, then for her husband.
She rejoiced that he could now worship God according to his conscience—he, Will, Harry, and others of like opinions.
When next he came home, full of the coronation, the celebratory jousts in which he had acquitted himself well, and Hertford advancing himself to the dukedom of Somerset, he told her in confidence that Parliament was going to turn England into a Protestant realm.
“You must take instruction, my darling,” he told her over dinner in the solar that evening. “I hope you will feel able to come with me on this journey.”
“I would like that,” she said. “Will you teach me?”
They retired to the fireside and Francis fetched his English Bible.
“This, Kate, is all that a devout Christian needs to inspire his faith. It is the Word of God, enshrined in Scripture. The Gospel must be your guide. This is what true evangelism means. Take some time each day to read it.” He placed it in her hands.
“There will be no need to lock it away now.”
“But what of our chaplain? What if he sees me reading it?”
“I will speak to Father Paul. He, like all other priests, must obey the new laws. Now we come to what is called the Sacrament of the Mass. What do you believe about it?”
“That when consecrated by the priest, the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. I know that is what Protestants deny.”
Francis nodded approvingly. “Yes, we see it as symbolic. We do not believe in the miracle of transubstantiation. And this has been the great controversy. Many Protestants have died in the flames for denying that so-called miracle. It is an essential tenet of our faith. The Eucharist and baptism are the only sacraments we acknowledge.”
“But there are seven sacraments,” Kate protested.
“And the rest are superstition,” Francis said gently. “Like the worship of the Virgin Mary and the saints. There is no command in Scripture to worship them—for Protestants, it is idolatry.”
“But the Virgin understands the needs and concerns of women…and the saints are like my family.”
Francis sighed, then leaned forward and took her hand.
“God Himself understands all of us, both men and women. We do not need the Virgin and the saints to intercede with Him for us. Protestants pray directly to God, who knows our needs and our frailties. We have no truck with relics or shrines or pilgrimages. Our faith is rooted in Scripture.”
Kate let go of his hand and sat back, thinking.
She was not sure she liked this new religion.
It seemed to deny much that she believed in or found comforting.
She could barely imagine a world without the Virgin Mary; her own name saint, St. Katherine; or the many holy saints whose shrines seemed to be everywhere.
Was all that to be swept away, with so much else that she held dear?
“You do not look convinced,” Francis said with a wry smile.
“I fear I am not. I thought myself well educated, but I have never heard such radical ideas.”
“They are not so radical when you think about them. And maybe you should not think upon them too much, but just accept them as truth. St. Paul wrote that women should keep silent in church, and if they wish to learn anything, they should ask their husbands at home. You have asked, and I have told you what I believe to be right. But I do not expect you to follow my beliefs unthinkingly, darling. I hope that you will come to them yourself. But ultimately, it is you who have to make up your mind which path you want to follow.”
Kate heard him out in silence. This would take a lot of thinking about, and there was no one else with whom she could discuss it, no one who would give her an objective view.
She wondered if anyone was ever objective about religion.
Under one king, you had to worship as you were told, and now, under another, you had to do it a different way.
Even if she clung to the old faith, would it be safe to do so?
“I will give it much thought,” she promised. “If I can come with you, I will.”
Francis smiled at her. “Read the Scriptures while I am away. You will find the answers you seek there, I am sure of it. Then we will talk when I am next home. Now, my sweet wife, let us to bed, for I have a mind to kiss you!”
She took his outstretched hand and followed him into the bedchamber.
—
She kept her promise. The long afternoons after he left found her sitting by the fire, the Bible on her lap, avidly devouring it.
It was wonderful to be able to read the Scriptures for herself and not have to rely on a priest to read them aloud in Latin and interpret them for her.
Slowly, she began to appreciate that the Word of God was the most precious gift to mankind and that the Protestants were right in believing that it was through faith alone that souls were saved.
Once you accepted this, it was possible to see the trappings of the Catholic faith as mere superstition.
In reaching this conclusion, she surprised herself.
Once, she tried to discuss the matter with Father Paul, the chaplain, but he shied away, looking deeply troubled.
“It is what your master believes,” she said, “and what I believe, too.” It was true, she realized. “A new world is coming, and it behooves us all to embrace the true faith.”
“Alas, I must not gainsay what your husband has taught you,” he said, “but I urge you to question the reasons for your conversion. Are you sure you are not just moving with the times?”
“Please allow me more intelligence,” she reproved him. “I have made up my own mind, as my lord bade me do.”
And, she reflected, it was a blessing to have the freedom to do that, without fear of bloody or fiery reprisals. She did not write to tell Francis of her decision. She wanted to see his reaction when next he came home. How pleased he would be!
He did not come home for some weeks. By then, from his letters, it was clear that his presence at court was going to be required more often than before.
Already, his zeal for the Protestant religion had impressed the young King, who had said that he was glad to have men like him sitting in Parliament.
Kate was pleased that Francis was high in favor but depressed at the prospect of extended separations.
She longed to have a husband living at home.
But she had been born of noble stock; this was the life for which she had been raised.
And at court, Francis could do much to promote true religion.
His was the hour. The conservatives of the late reign had been consigned to yesterday. A new order was unfolding.