Chapter 22
Kate watched from the solar window as the horseman rode into the Base Court.
It was Francis’s messenger, come no doubt with the latest news from court.
It was a warm March day, but she shivered uneasily, for the young King’s health seemed to be in decline, and both she and Francis were worried about what would happen if he died.
For his next heir was the Lady Mary, a fanatical Catholic who had spent the past six years fighting for the right to have Mass celebrated in her house.
Again and again, she had defied the law that banned it; she had even told her brother, who saw himself as a second Solomon where religion was concerned, that he was too young at fifteen to have an opinion.
That, Francis said, had not gone down well.
Kate dreaded to think what would happen if Mary came to the throne.
She herself had embraced the Protestant faith with a fervor she would never have thought possible, while Francis was more zealous for the Gospel than ever.
Their household was run on strict Protestant lines, their children well educated in the faith.
Kate could not bear the idea of Mary upsetting the new order and turning the clock back to an age of idolatry and superstition.
Surely the people would never stand for it?
The babe in her belly stirred, like a butterfly.
It had quickened only this past week. She wondered what the future would hold for it.
Patting her stomach, she went downstairs to the great hall to receive the messenger.
Her eight surviving children were all seated at one of the trestle tables with their tutor, the sun shining upon them through the tall windows.
Rising twelve, Hal was by far the liveliest of the brood, but protective toward his younger siblings.
A year younger, Mary was quite the little lady, demurely bent to her scribing.
Kate and Francis had agreed that their daughters should have a similar education to their sons, although Francis was concerned that the girls especially should be brought up to godliness.
“Experience has shown me that, for lack of an orderly moral upbringing,” he had said, “young women fall into all kinds of foul crimes. I have seen the daughters of eminent courtiers who are no better than they should be, and I am not having my little maids losing their reputations.”
Yet he was not strict with them; he doted on them too much.
Kate was the one who did the disciplining, and it was the spirited, headstrong nine-year-old Lettice who needed it most. With her beauty, her red curls, and her mischievous nature, she was a little temptress and knew just how to get what she wanted.
That, of course, led to squabbles among the children, for the younger ones didn’t stand a chance.
William, Edward, and Robert usually banded together against their overbearing sister, while three-year-old Elizabeth—to whom the Lady Elizabeth was godmother—was no match for her at all.
Only the baby, Richard, remained oblivious to the power struggles.
Yet the children loved each other, that much was obvious.
When they got into trouble, they pulled together.
Having received the messenger, taken the letter he brought, and sent him to the kitchens for some food, Kate sat in one of the window embrasures and read it.
Francis sent his dear love, as ever. The King was no worse.
She sighed with relief to hear that. There was the usual court gossip—Francis knew she liked to be kept abreast of it—and news of Will, who had remarried some years ago and found true happiness, and William Cecil, the clever statesman whom Francis had befriended.
The noise from the children’s table distracted Kate.
She looked across at them; they were laughing at one of Hal’s jokes.
As so often, she thought of the child who would never laugh again, little Maud, who had been born the year after Pinkie Cleugh, lived for only two months, and been buried in the parish church.
Part of Kate’s heart was buried with her.
She knew she would never be whole again.
The laughter grew uproarious. Kate frowned at the young tutor, Dr. Palmer, who had come to them from Magdalen College, Oxford, where he had been a fellow and reader in logic—until the college authorities had got wind of his uncompromising Catholic views, of which he had made no secret; indeed, he had spoken so harshly against Protestant scholars that his name had been struck off the list of fellows.
He had then met Francis in Oxford and, against all the odds, Francis had taken to him.
“I like his courtesy,” he had told Kate.
“He’s cheerful, pleasantly spoken without affectation, affable, even childlike, yet quick-witted and reasoned in argument.
I do not think he has a deceitful bone in his body.
I told him that we needed a tutor for the children, since the last one had proved so ineffectual, but that I would not offer him the post unless he embraced the true faith, for I would not have a Catholic in my household.
He said he would think it over and meet with me again. ”
Dr. Palmer had converted. Like Kate, he quickly became an ardent Protestant.
There was no need to worry about his sincerity.
The children had taken to him happily and were making good progress under his tuition.
Kate liked him, although she wondered occasionally about his unconventional approach.
Sometimes—like today—he was a little lax on discipline; he wasn’t one of those tutors who whipped out the rod or the birch at the slightest transgression.
The children’s grandmother, who had visited Greys Court recently, made it clear that she would have expected a firmer hand.
But Kate was generally content with Dr. Palmer’s methods; she preferred the carrot approach to learning, rather than the stick.
She got up and walked over to her children. There was a sudden hush.
“Settle down,” she said firmly. “Don’t give Dr. Palmer any trouble.
” She smiled at him and walked through to the kitchen, where the cook was planning a feast in honor of Will and his wife, Dorothy, who were arriving with Francis in two days’ time for a short stay.
Kate was looking forward to seeing her guests; she was delighted that Will had found someone to love after being a widower for two long years, and she had grown to like Dorothy immensely.
She was happy in her life, glad that the King was still unmarried and that there was no place for women in his court.
Thankfully, he did not go in for feasting ladies, unlike his father.
She still hated the court, even as she understood that, for Francis, it was the way to advancement.
He had survived the momentous changes that had occurred when the Duke of Northumberland ousted Protector Somerset from power and seized the reins of government in the young King’s name, then had Somerset beheaded.
Francis had advanced considerably in the last six years.
His strong Protestant convictions had continued to impress King Edward and Northumberland, and he was constantly required at court, which Kate hated, yet had come to terms with.
He served not only as a Gentleman Pensioner, but also as the King’s standard bearer—and he still sat in Parliament.
He seemed to spend much of his time conferring with William Cecil and others on religious policy—he loved nothing more than a good debate—or, being still fit and active at nearly forty, playing a prominent part in the many tournaments held for Edward’s pleasure.
Both, it seemed, were a sure route to preferment.
When Francis was at home, he was active throughout the shire, and very popular. He was Justice of the Peace for Oxfordshire, constable of Wallingford Castle, and steward of Ewelme, a palace that King Edward had given to his sister Elizabeth.
It was a busy life he led, but Kate was content to stay at home and devote her time to raising her family and running her household.
They had two residences now: Greys Court and Caversham Manor, a lovely, moated house near Reading with nearly three thousand acres of land, which Francis had leased from the Crown.
They now divided their time between both houses, which was easy, as they were only six miles apart.
Kate was constantly giving thanks to God for bestowing such manifold blessings on her.