Chapter 34
Kate picked her moment carefully. She waited until Elizabeth was relaxing after supper, a wine cup in her hand, listening to Lady Carew playing the virginals.
“Bess, may I speak with you?” Kate asked, kneeling down beside the Queen’s chair.
“That sounds ominous.” Elizabeth grinned.
“Not ominous—in fact, happy news.” Kate suspected it would be anything but happy to her mistress. “I am with child, and it has quickened. It will be born in October, by my reckoning.”
The music stopped abruptly and the room fell silent. Elizabeth exhaled loudly, testily.
“I trust you are not thinking of leaving my service and abandoning me?” she snapped. No word of congratulation, no expression of joy. But Kate had not expected any.
“Not at all, Madam, although I will need to crave leave of absence to go home for the birth.”
Elizabeth’s lower lip quivered petulantly. “I suppose you will have to,” she said ungraciously. “But there’s no need for you to leave court yet, not until the end of the summer. Then you can put the child to nurse and come back as soon as you are churched.”
Kate wanted to scream at her that it couldn’t be like that, that she could not bear to be parted from her newborn so soon, but what was the point? Elizabeth would never understand. She hadn’t a maternal bone in her body.
Her heart plummeting, she bent her head to her embroidery so that no one could see the tears in her eyes. She longed to be at home, to gather her children in her arms, and be away from the wearisome intrigues of the court and the Queen’s constant demands for her company.
—
“I have turned down the Archduke,” Elizabeth announced at the beginning of June, as her ladies were dressing her for the evening.
“Was that wise?” Kat asked.
“I believe so. Admittedly, marriage to him would have enhanced my standing in the eyes of Christendom, but when I looked in my heart, I found that I had no wish to give up my single life. I prefer, with God’s help, to abide in it.”
Kat pursed her lips. Blanche was shaking her head behind Elizabeth’s back, but she was less outspoken than Kat and rarely ventured to criticize her former charge. Kate wished that Elizabeth would set her course and stick to it, and stop playing games. Tomorrow, she would be saying something else.
Shortly afterward, the court moved to Greenwich, to be diverted with entertainments.
Kate was glad of the opportunity to spend time with Lettice and Beth, sitting with them at archery contests or gliding along the Thames in the evenings in the Queen’s barge, serenaded by minstrels.
In July, Lord Robert organized a tournament for the Queen’s pleasure, and sat beside her in the royal stand, like a consort.
It was followed by a lavish picnic in the park, served in pavilions decked with flowers.
He commissioned masques, and he and the Queen went out riding together nearly every day.
Francis grumbled that she was neglecting her state duties to be with Dudley.
The pleasant idyll was interrupted by news from France of the death of King Henri, who had been mortally wounded in a joust. Elizabeth looked worried, as did many courtiers, for Henri had supported the claim of his daughter-in-law, the Queen of Scots, to the English throne, and had even added the royal arms of England to her escutcheon.
The peace treaty had preempted him from taking things further, but now he was dead, and a new king reigned, who might try to enforce Mary’s claim with more vigor.
“Francois II is but fifteen,” Elizabeth related over dinner with her ladies in her privy chamber.
“He’s a weakling, but very much under the dominance of his mother, Queen Catherine, and his wife’s powerful uncles, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, who are all staunch Catholics and virtually rule France.
What concerns me is that they are hostile toward me. ”
“Do you think the French will attempt to seize your throne for the Queen of Scots?” Kate asked.
“It might be worse than that,” Elizabeth explained, taking a second custard tart.
“Queen Mary’s Catholic mother is regent in Scotland, although she is not popular there now and the Calvinists are trying to take over.
They are insisting on more radical reforms than we have ever seen in England, or anywhere else, for that matter.
But while the Queen Dowager is in power, there is always the risk that Scotland and France will join forces to put the Queen of Scots on my throne. ”
Kate shivered. If there was a war, her beloved Francis would be called upon to fight, and eighteen-year-old Hal, and possibly even William, who was fourteen now. God, she prayed inwardly, let it not come to that…
“The French troops in Scotland,” Elizabeth was saying, “are helping to ward off the Calvinist lords, but if the French gain the upper hand there, they might decide to invade England from the north. We can only pray that the reformers prevail. A Protestant Scotland would suit me very well.” She dabbed her napkin to her mouth.
“For the present, I might reconsider my position on the matter of my marriage. If I could make mischief for the French, and so keep them occupied, I could take a husband who would give the King of France much trouble and do him more harm than he could ever anticipate.”
“Does your Majesty have anyone in mind?” Lady Carew asked.
Elizabeth smiled wickedly. “Indeed, I do. The Earl of Arran is a thorn in the side of the French. Until Queen Mary bears a child, he is heir to the Scottish throne, and the Protestant lords in Scotland are in favor of a match between him and myself, since we are both the chief upholders of God’s religion in our kingdoms—and our marriage would unite England and Scotland. ”
It made perfect political sense, but seeing Elizabeth flirting with Lord Robert later that afternoon, Kate doubted she would ever go through with it.
Did she intend to make a political marriage and keep a lover on the side?
Surely she had more sense than that, with her throne so vulnerable to her enemies.
Arran was eager to wed the Queen. An announcement of the betrothal was expected daily.
Was Lord Robert looking as if his nose was about to be put out of joint?
Not in the least. He seemed as confident as ever, flashing that devastating smile at Elizabeth at every opportunity.
You could almost see her going weak at the knees.
But all her talk was of Arran coming to London in August.
To complicate matters, Erik of Sweden was still pressing his suit, and had sent to say that he was coming to England to do his wooing himself.
Kate stood with Elizabeth gazing at his portrait.
“He is very personable—and Protestant,” Elizabeth observed thoughtfully.
“I might make a show of considering him—just to make the Scots more eager to conclude a treaty.” As if they needed encouraging.
“What I really want,” she went on, “is the protection of the Emperor and King Philip against French aggression. Cecil wants me to revive negotiations with the Archduke, and I believe I will do that—and then drag them out for as long as it pleases me.”
She was in a high good humor that summer. In July, following the custom of her father, she declared that she would go on a progress; it would be in Kent and Surrey.
“We shall leave on the seventeenth of July,” she told her ladies. “We have a week to make ready.”
Kate’s heart sank. She was six months gone with child, and the last thing she wanted to do was go on a long journey in the heat of summer; she could not ride because of her condition, but litters were uncomfortable, jolting along rutted, dusty roads.
“Bess,” she said, knowing that she was venturing into dangerous territory.
Elizabeth turned around. She did not look in a receptive mood.
Kate took a breath. “Begging your pardon, but I fear that, in my condition, I will not be up to going on progress.”
The Queen looked her up and down. “You’re not ill, are you? You’ve whelped thirteen, have you not? You must have the strength of an ox. Of course you must come on progress. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“Madam, with respect, you have never been pregnant,” Kate cried, goaded into rashness by such unkindness.
Elizabeth rounded on her. “But if I were, I would not let it stop me from doing anything. Now buck up and start packing.”
How Kate hated her in that moment. As soon as she could get away, which was hours later, she fled to Francis’s lodging and, grateful to find him there, wept on his shoulder.
“This is monstrous!” he growled. “I’ll speak to the Queen.” Almost breathing fire, he left her there, trembling. But he was back within a quarter-hour, seething.
“She will not listen,” he raged. “She has a heart of ice. I marvel, Kate, that you can ever love her.”
Kate had had a chance to calm down. Her anger had dissipated.
“She is damaged,” she said. “How can she not be when you consider what happened to her mother? And with a father so distant and terrifying? She has a compelling need to be loved—and I am her blood kin. I cannot stay—I must return to her. Thank you, my heart, for speaking up for me.”
“I feel emasculated,” Francis growled. “It is a husband’s duty to protect his wife and cherish her, but that woman is making it impossible.”
Kate wound her arms around him. “I know, I know. And you do that so well, when you are let. Neither of us can help it if the Queen prevents you. Now I really must go. I will return later if I can.”
Elizabeth was cool to her for the rest of the day. That night, and the next, she kept her with her. It was, Kate thought, a kind of revenge.
—