Chapter 28
In January, the house seemed very quiet, despite the presence of five young children. Yet they were subdued. They did not want to be parted from their older siblings, and were aware that a new life was ahead of them in a strange land, far from their beloved home. Kate could have wept for them.
Her daughter was born on a freezing winter morning, when icicles hung from the gable above her window.
She slipped into the world easily, a mewling little thing who hardly had the strength to take suck and died that night, unbaptized.
Nevertheless, Kate persuaded Father Michael to bury her in the churchyard.
She was not present, of course, for she was lying in, drained emotionally and physically, grieving for her lost infant and painfully aware that when she emerged from her confinement, she would probably have to leave England immediately.
But she could not go until she had heard from Francis. That had been the plan.
They brought her the letter on the day she got out of bed for the first time and sat, well wrapped, in her chair by the fireside. Her heart leaped when she saw that it was from her husband and she devoured his words avidly.
He had reached Basel in December and visited Dot, who was coping bravely with widowhood, much to his admiration.
Then he had gone on to Frankfurt and become a member of the Calvinist congregation there.
That had been just before Christmas. He had returned to Basel, liking it better, and he thought that Kate would like it, too.
“I have found us a good lodging,” he had written.
“Come now, if you are recovered from your confinement, and join me. I long to see you. I feel as if I have been banished for the truth of the Gospel.”
Her instinct was to run to him, but she could not leave until she had been churched and released back into society, and that was a week away. The days could not pass quickly enough.
She wished she could see Elizabeth, but Elizabeth was back at court—and hating it, according to her last letter.
Sitting up in bed, trying not to look at the space beside her where the empty cradle had stood, Kate wrote to her, using the private cipher they had agreed between them, and told her why she had to go away.
“I long to be with Francis,” she confided, then realized that such a declaration of devotion might make Elizabeth jealous.
But no, let it stand, she told herself. Her cousin must accept that she loved her husband.
He was not a subject to be skirted around.
To balance things, she told Elizabeth that she was very distressed at the prospect of being parted from her.
She had just been churched when a reply came, with a packet of money enclosed. Far from being jealous, Elizabeth clearly sought to comfort her.
“You should temper your sorrow for your long journey with joy in the knowledge that you will be returning shortly,” she had written. Kate stared at that. Did Elizabeth know something others didn’t? Was the Queen ill? Or was Mary having a change of heart about persecuting Protestants?
Think of this pilgrimage rather as proof of your friends’ love than the leaving of your country.
Length of time and distance of place cannot separate the love of friends nor deprive any of your goodwill.
There is an old saying, when bale is lowest, boot is nearest; thus, when your need is greatest, you shall find my friendship equal to it.
Others may make promises, but I will do as much in words and deeds.
My power is but small, yet my love is as great as those whose gifts tell their friendships’ tale.
Your messenger shall not return empty. Lethe’s flood has no course here, for I will keep you in good memory.
And to conclude there is a word I hardly can say, yet am driven by need to write—it is “farewell,” for which I grieve deeply.
Your loving cousin and friend, Cor Rotto.
—
Kate had to smile through her tears. It was typical of Elizabeth to insert classical allusions into a letter.
Yet her description, in Italian, of herself as “Broken Heart” betrayed her deep distress.
It was one of the most affectionate letters Elizabeth had ever written to her.
It attested to their enduring friendship, which had become closer thanks to the shared bond of religion that tied them in these dark days.
It was heartening to reread Elizabeth’s assurance that she would wait with joy for Kate’s speedy return, for it hinted at her hopes that her sister’s rule would not last for much longer.
She wrote back, expressing her thanks, and seized the opportunity to ask Elizabeth if she would take Mary and Lettice into her household, knowing that they would be able to continue their education under her auspices, since Elizabeth’s renowned tutor, Roger Ascham, had returned to her service.
Moreover, when Elizabeth became queen, as surely she would one day, she might well advance those who had served her well and help them to make good marriages.
Back came the response: the Lady Elizabeth would be delighted to receive Mary and Lettice. Enclosed was a note in cipher. “It is my hope that, by means of your daughters, we will be able to keep in touch.”
The two girls, Mary, fourteen, and Lettice, thirteen—and already a beauty with her flaming red hair and perfect features—had heard a lot over the years about their mother’s happy days with Elizabeth and were delighted by this new turn of events.
“It will be much better than going to Uncle Harry’s,” Lettice declared.
“It will,” Mary agreed. “He frightens me.”
Kate frowned. “Don’t speak of your uncle like that.
” Yet she had to admit that her brother was stern and irascible.
It was a mercy they did not meet, save for rare uncomfortable visits, for he had become puritanical as he grew older.
And yet, Kate reminded herself, he had agreed to take her children in, and for that she was deeply grateful.
“He doesn’t frighten me!” retorted Lettice, ever the spirited one. “But I am thrilled to be going to the Lady Elizabeth.”
Kate was glad for her, and for Mary. It would help to ease their parting. As for Will and Ned, she consoled herself with the knowledge that Harry was mostly at court, in the Queen’s service, and that they would be subject to the gentler rule of his wife, Anne.
—
Soon, everything she and her little ones would need had been packed and sent on to Maldon to await her coming.
Fighting back tears, Kate bade farewell to her older children and swallowed the lump in her throat as she watched them leave home.
Now all there was left to do was lock up the house and pay off Bilkins and the servants, who were all desperately sad at being laid off.
“But I hope to be back in England before too long, and then I will summon you all back, if you have not found places elsewhere,” she told them, noticing that Bilkins had tears in his eyes. “You have served me well and I cannot express my thanks sufficiently. May God go with you.”
They all knew why she was leaving and had been sworn to secrecy. She knew she could trust them; they had been with the family for a long time and if they were going to report her, they would have done so long ago.
Just as she was preparing to depart, and Thomasina and the two nursery maids she was taking with her were bundling the children into their cloaks and gloves, a carter turned up at the front door with wares to sell and a letter for her.
She looked over the tray of cheap toys on offer and impulsively bought some wooden animals and three rag books to keep the children amused on the journey, since most of their other playthings had been packed. Then she opened the letter.
It was an official notice from the Treasury, informing her that, since Sir Francis Knollys had gone into voluntary exile and was a notorious heretic, his manor of Caversham had been reassigned to the Countess of Warwick.
No. This could not be. Wildly, she looked around her at Greys Court, slumbering in the winter sunshine.
If Caversham had gone, it too would be taken away.
She might be looking at it for the last time.
This notice made it clear that she was leaving England not a moment too soon.
It was known that Francis was a Protestant, and suspicion might well fall on her if she tarried.
Swallowing her grief—for it felt like a bereavement—she turned her back on Greys Court and climbed into the waiting litter.
—
It took them ten days to reach Maldon. They covered only ten miles each day because Frank and Beth had to keep getting out to be sick, thanks to the rutted roads and the jerking motion of their carriage.
Kate dared not seek hospitality at the houses of people of their acquaintance lest they inform the authorities where she was, and the inns they stayed in were sometimes insalubrious, yet costly nonetheless.
Thanks to another bad harvest, the food served to them was sparse and unappetizing.
Yet at night, she slept like the dead, not caring that the lumpy bed she shared with her five children might be infested with bugs.
It was a relief to reach Maldon and find that Thomas, the burly groom she had sent ahead with their baggage, had found a ship and stowed everything on board for her. He had also paid for their passage and was ready to escort them on their long journey.
—
She had never felt so sick. The heaving of the boat was a living purgatory and at times she longed to die.
She spent all her time in their cabin, her head down on her forearm, unable to move.
She thanked God that Thomasina was a good sailor and could take care of the children, who were suffering, too.