Chapter 44
By New Year, Kate was up and about, yet she could not face food and felt very weak.
Informed of her illness, Francis sent a frantic letter. “I have heard that you are gravely ill, my dearest. I have begged to be recalled, or at least to be allowed to visit you.”
His request was ignored. Kate could not believe Elizabeth capable of such cruelty.
Francis tried, again and again. “I have assured the Queen and Cecil that I can easily be replaced as Mary’s guardian. But all I am told is that her Majesty wants me to keep her in safe custody and prevent her escaping.”
Kate herself pleaded with Elizabeth for permission to go north to visit Francis.
“What are you thinking of?” Elizabeth cried. “Traveling in your state of health might prove exceedingly dangerous, and I could not bear to lose you. Staying at court is the wisest course, because you have access to my physicians.”
“But I yearn to see him, Bess! If I am not long for this world, it may be my last chance.” Kate raised her hands in supplication.
“Don’t say that!” Elizabeth snapped. “I will not have such talk. I will not listen to it.”
But Kate had looked in her mirror, had seen how she had aged, how ill she looked. She could feel it in her bones: her days were numbered. She must see Francis soon.
“I beg of you,” she pleaded, weeping. “Let me go to him.”
“There is no need for you to go all that way,” Elizabeth retorted. “You are making a fuss about nothing. At least wait until you are better.”
There was no reasoning with her. She could not face the truth.
—
Francis sounded as if he was at his wits’ end.
“I wrote to Cecil,” he informed Kate. “I told him that as her Majesty will not let me look after my wife, hopefully she will comfort her with clemency and courtesy. I rather regret being so outspoken, but Cecil has assured me that you are well amended and that he is doing his best for us.”
Well amended? Lying on her bed, the letter at her side, and lacking the strength to pick it up again, Kate wished fervently that she were. But she was better than she had been, so there was hope yet.
In his next letter, Francis expressed his joy that she was well again.
“I have been so anxious that I almost wrote somewhat plainly to her Majesty. I only held off when Cecil reported that you were much improved. But I am grieved and disappointed by the Queen’s continual denial of my coming to the court last Christmas, and I was on the verge of informing her that you are in a miserable state. ”
So Francis too, despite being all those miles away, had understood that Elizabeth had been making light of Kate’s illness.
Like Kate, he could not understand why she was denying her the comfort of her husband’s presence.
“She has never granted us what we wished for or rewarded us enough for our service,” he complained.
“For all the outward love she professes to bear you, she makes you often weep on account of her unkindness, and that could pose a great danger to your health. I think we would both be truly happy if we were in disgrace and I was released from my trust, and you from your love for her. Then we might retire to lead a poor life in the country and be done with the court. I am ready to prepare myself, if you like the idea.” Kate’s heart leaped.
He was leaving the decision to her, and she knew without a doubt what she would choose, for they could not go on like this.
She would ensure that they would be together again—and free of this burdensome existence.
“Arm yourself against illness by making God your refuge,” Francis urged her.
He sent his regards to Mildred Cecil and Dot Stafford, who had been keeping him informed of Kate’s progress.
He said he had sent their daughter Beth some gold for her store box.
“I look for the joy of exchanging New Year gifts with you soon. I hope for a favorable reply, my dearest wife. Your loving husband.”
Kate knew what he wanted to hear—and longed to say the word. But first, she must get stronger.
—
She tried to eat. She knew the flesh was falling from her. Her gowns hung loose and her cheekbones were gaunt.
“Alas, I fear I am not getting better,” she confided to Elizabeth.
“Nonsense! You just need to give yourself time.” But there was fear in the Queen’s eyes.
There came an evening when Kate was at dinner with the Cecils. She had forced herself to go, knowing that she could not face food. When steaming platters of meat were carried in, she swayed in her chair.
“What is it, Kate?” Cecil leaped up to support her.
“I feel so ill,” she muttered. “I must lie down.”
Mildred half carried her to her own bed and sat with her, mopping her brow.
“I cannot inconvenience you like this,” Kate murmured.
“It is nothing,” Mildred soothed, her horsey face creased in concern. “I will read to you, then maybe you will settle.”
Kate slept that night in the Cecils’ lodging, and in the morning she was carried to her own rooms.
“I am in a doleful state,” she told Beth, who was helping her into bed. She felt so ill that she doubted she would ever rise from it. Yet she must write to Francis. It might be her last chance. She asked for her writing desk but was asleep by the time Beth brought it.
Cecil came to see her. “My dear lady, it grieves me to see you so poorly,” he said, clearly taken aback at the sight of her looking so ill.
“I fear I am not long for this world,” she said, her voice cracked and faint.
“I came to tell you that your husband has written to the Queen, begging her to dismiss him, as he is in great grief at being apart from you. She has promised him that he will soon be rid of Queen Mary, and he has asked me to hasten that.”
Kate gripped his hand. “Pray help us, good Cecil. I long to see him. It will be the greatest comfort to me.”
But would Francis get here in time, even if the Queen granted his request? She was failing fast, she knew it, burning up with fever again. Even Elizabeth was looking worried. She had Kate moved to a bedchamber near to her own to be nursed, and summoned all her physicians.
“You will lack for nothing that men can devise for your recovery,” she told her. “I have asked them to give me news of you every hour. I will sit with you as often as I can.” Kate had rarely seen her look so upset.
She kept her word. Day and night she sat with Kate, diverting her with talk or reading to her.
She sent the nurse out and herself tended to her, washing her face and helping her to the close stool.
It was all very comforting, and it was lovely to have Beth there, too, and dear Mary, whom the Duchess of Suffolk had given leave to attend her—but the person Kate craved to see was her husband.
“You have told Francis how ill I am?” Kate asked, shivering uncontrollably.
“No, I have not,” Elizabeth replied. “I did not want to worry him.”
It was too much for Kate. She mustered her strength. “But he should know! You just want me all to yourself! How can I love you when you ignore my unhappiness and my earnest requests to be with Francis? For all we know, it may now be too late!”
She watched as Elizabth crumpled before her.
“But I love you, Kate—I love you more than anyone else. I know it is a selfish love, but there is no one else I can be close to. I am not to blame for your illness, yet I am aware that I am the cause of you and your husband being put asunder, for which I am truly sorry.” She wiped away a tear.
“I have good reason for favoring and loving you above all others.” Kate was astonished.
Did Elizabeth mean what she thought—and hoped—that she meant?
Were the words she had longed to hear about to be said?
Elizabeth took Kate’s hand. “I have tried to treat you as a sister. I have loved you as a sister. If I have ever been unkind, I pray you will forgive me.”
Kate looked into her eyes and saw more tears in them. It had not been what she wanted to hear, yet in that moment, all her pent-up resentment dissipated. She squeezed the Queen’s hand.
“I forgive you,” she said.
“You are a good woman, Kate,” Elizabeth said, wiping away the tears. “You have been a good servant, and you have lived a blameless life free from scandal, a life of sacrifice and steadfast devotion, of virtuous love and godliness. No reward could ever be sufficient.”
It was obvious that Elizabeth thought she would die soon, and evident that she was making her peace with her.
It did not frighten Kate, for she had made her peace likewise with God.
Death would release her from sickness, pain, and strife.
All she regretted now was that she would die before she could be reunited with Francis.
“I think I will sleep,” she whispered, wanting to be alone with her thoughts, to think of Francis.
It brought him nearer to her. She would have to await him in Heaven, but she knew she would never depart from his heart.
He would be distracted with sorrow, for they had enjoyed nearly thirty years as man and wife and were like twin souls.
The poor man would be bewildered as to how to care for his family and manage their large household.
His situation would be pitiful. And their children, her beloved children, would mourn their mother.
Would that she could have lived many more years with them and die an old lady.
But God evidently did not desire it. She would have to trust in Him to comfort those she left behind.
—
In her dream, she was with Francis at Greys Court, their children about them, and she was healthy and whole, and the world was glorious. It was cruel to awake to reality the next morning, for she was too weak to move or even speak. It was a wonder she had not died in her sleep.
Elizabeth came in, decked out in a gown encrusted with pearls and gems. “Good day, Kate. I trust you slept well. It is the fifteenth of January, the tenth anniversary of my coronation.” Kate was not fooled by the false gaiety in her voice.
The Queen looked distraught as she gazed down on her.
But she could not summon the strength to speak any words of comfort.
“Kate?” Elizabeth asked, catching her breath. “Kate, my dear sister…?”
It was the last thing Kate heard.