A Dangerous Inheritance (47 page)

The question took Kate unawares, but Anne’s expression was sympathetic.

“I try,” she said. “I know it is my duty.”

“Give it time,” the countess said kindly. “I think you will do very well together.”

“I hope so,” Kate said, and half meant it. Her life here had not been as bad as she had anticipated. It had its good moments, especially in the company of the countess, Richard Herbert, and Mattie of course, and little Elizabeth was a delightful scamp. Even William had been unexpectedly kind after she lost the babe, ordering choice foods for her comfort and gruffly telling her not to worry, there would be another child soon. There were no horrible rumors about her father in Raglan, and she had almost lulled herself into accepting that there had never been any substance to them anyway; only a faint, nagging anxiety remained, and that she refused to dwell upon. Yes, life was tranquil, and even pleasant at times. Yet she spent her days feeling no more than half alive, an exile in a strange land—and knowing that the chief part of her heart lay somewhere in England, wherever John lived and breathed.

December 1560–March 1561. Whitehall Palace;

Greenwich Palace; Hertford House, Westminster

There follows a strange time, when I live outwardly as a maid and privately, when it can be managed, as a wife. If it were not for Jane, Ned and I could never be together, but she is indefatigable. When her brother visits her at Whitehall or Greenwich, no one remarks on it, of course; but they do not know of the stolen hours we regularly spend making frantic love in Jane’s little closet off the maidens’ dorter, with her on watch in case anyone should come. And it is nothing unusual for me to accompany Jane on her visits to Cannon Row, where Ned and I tumble into our naked bed while she waits downstairs and keeps the servants at bay.

And the Queen suspects nothing, I am sure. She is as sharp with me as ever—no mother-daughter affection to be seen!—and yet I am still
accorded the deference due to my royal status, and the court still buzzes with speculation that I might soon be elevated further, and the question of the succession thereby settled.

We have taken Mrs. Leigh into our confidence, Jane and I: she now knows the truth, and I am touched to find that she is glad for me, and never looked to see me so happily settled in wedlock. I am sure as can be that I can rely on her discretion, for she is a good woman who has given me faithful service.

Six days after our marriage, during one of our trysts at Whitehall, Ned gives me a hundred crowns for my keep, and a deed of land worth a thousand pounds, made over to his “dear and well-beloved wife.” How I rejoice to see myself described thus.

He also gives me something very precious to him: a tiny book bound in red velvet that was owned by his father, Protector Somerset. There is a lump in my throat when I open it and find a faded inscription addressed to Ned:
The day before my death, from the Tower
. Choked, I add my own name, and lay it in the little silver casket in which I keep my personal papers and jewels.

I fear the unthinkable has happened. I have had only a light show of blood for the second month now. At first, never having been very regular in my courses, I thought it but the result of all the anxieties and joys I have swung between lately; but now I find my breasts are slightly swollen, and I am uncommonly tired. God help me, I think I may be with child.

Some might regard me as exceptionally naïve, enjoying carnal copulation and not anticipating its natural consequences. But I had thought that all would be resolved with Her Majesty before long; that, in a short space, Ned would have found powerful patrons to support us, and the need for secrecy would be over. Now I am not so sure, for we are too mired in fear to confess what we have done, and Ned has to go very carefully in this matter. One false move and we may be lost. We certainly will be lost if what I fear comes to pass, and someone does not help us soon.

When we three—Ned, myself, and Jane—are next alone together,
in his bedchamber at Hertford House, Ned, who seems a little withdrawn tonight, asks if aught ails me.

“You look weary, sweetheart.”

“I am worse than that!” I burst out. “I fear I might be with child!”

If ever I saw a man blanch with fear it was then.

“Are you sure?” An inane question, but one which, I have heard, is often asked by gentlemen at such times.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “There are certain tokens, but I may be mistaken. I pray that I am.”

Jane is brisk. “If you are pregnant, there is no remedy but for us to make it known how the matter stands with you.”

“I agree,” Ned concurs. “We must trust to the Queen’s mercy. We will have no choice.”

We have to face it: Jane is fading away. The illness that has been consuming her for years has finally extinguished even her ebullient spirit, and she has grown weaker by the day. When she finally takes to her bed, I obtain leave from the Queen to go to Hertford House to nurse her. She is deteriorating fast, and it agonizes me to see it. Jane and I are kindred spirits in so many ways, united in our love for Ned, so I take up my sickroom duties willingly, tenderly caring for her in her tragic decline, sitting with her while she dozes in the afternoons, or talking away the night hours when sleep deserts her.

Ned is often with me during these vigils. We welcome the chance to be so constantly together, but we both wish it were in happier circumstances. Sometimes we seize the opportunity to bed together, but those stolen hours are short, because we are both aware that time is running out for Jane, and we want to be with her while we can.

I seem always to be fighting tears these days; and in my grief at the inevitable parting to come, I almost forget my fears about my condition. The prospect of motherhood, with all its terrible consequences, has become a remote one. And if Ned now seems preoccupied, and not quite so loving, I put it down to his concern for his sister. And then I find out that it is due to something else entirely.

——

Entering our bedchamber one morning, I happen to glance at the table and see a document lying there. It bears the Queen’s seal. Of course, I have to read further, and soon wish that I had not done so, for the paper is a safe conduct, signed by Elizabeth herself, requesting the King of France to let pass without hindrance her faithful servant, Edward Seymour, to Paris and other parts of the kingdom of France, as he goes about his lawful business in her service.

Paris? France? Lawful business? What is this about? In a fury of agitation, I race around the house looking for Ned, and find him in the courtyard, inspecting a new mare. He looks up startled as I dismiss the grooms, then his face falls as I thrust the safe conduct at him.

“What is this?” I cry, like a wounded animal.

“I had to apply for it. I had no choice. I was going to tell you, Katherine, but I could not face it, what with Jane being so ill and you being so worried about, well, you know …” He makes to embrace me, but I fend him off. “I did not wish to add to your burdens,” he says desperately. “This mission has been thrust upon me. I did not seek it!”

“What mission?” My blood is up. I have no cause to be reasonable.

“I am to go to France on diplomatic business, which is a great honor and a sign of the Queen’s favor, and may lead to further advancement, which can only benefit us, sweetheart. And I am also commanded to go to Paris as companion to Mr. Secretary’s son, Thomas Cecil, while he completes his education. In truth, Katherine, I am as dismayed as you at the prospect of our being parted so soon, but I know—”

“While he completes his education? And how long will that be?” I rage, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Hush, my love, do not weep so. I cannot bear it!” Ned blusters. “Listen, please: the date of my departure is not yet fixed; there are arrangements to be made. For all we know, Her Majesty may change her mind and I will not go at all. You know how changeable she is. So please, I beg of you, dry your tears. I would not leave you for the world, of my own choice. But if the Queen commands it, I
have
no choice. You
must
understand that.”

I subside into his arms, unable to bear any bad feeling against him for long. I am weeping uncontrollably, desperate at the prospect of his
being gone from me overseas for an indefinite time, for even the short days and weeks between our meetings are misery to me; and because it has occurred to me that he may secretly wish to be gone, away from the tangled mess that our lives have become. Then I regain control and administer a silent reprimand to myself for having such uncharitable thoughts about the man who is holding me tightly and murmuring his love into my ear. This is his career, and it is important. How could I be so unfair to him?

Jane is dying: we all know it. I watch helplessly as she slips from us, meekly and patiently, too weak even to mouth a farewell. I see Ned sobbing openly as he kisses her dead hand, holding it as if he can never let it go.

The Queen orders a magnificent funeral, and commands her ladies and chief household officers to attend. Clad in heavy black once again, and weeping in the privacy of my hood, I walk behind the stately bier with two hundred other mourners, up the long nave of Westminster Abbey, retracing the path I trod only fifteen months ago when my lady mother was buried here. And it is beside the tomb Stokes commissioned, with its serene sculpted image of her in her coronet and robes of estate, that Jane Seymour is laid to rest. My eye alights on the Latin inscription on my mother’s monument, and soon I cannot see for tears, for it moves me immeasurably:

And I think of these two, my mother and my friend, and those others I have loved and lost, now dust in lonely graves.

Without Jane to look out for us, Ned and I have small hope of seeing each other. The interval allowed for mourning over, I am commanded back to the privy chamber, where my black gown draws little comment,
as the Queen always insists her ladies wear black or white so as to appear insipid next to her own peacock finery. Meanwhile Ned tidies up Jane’s small affairs and undertakes his duties elsewhere in the court.

Our need for each other is such that we cannot long bear to be apart. I beg Mrs. Leigh to replace Jane as our go-between. She consents with reluctance, if only because she is moved by my evident distress. Twice in the week after the funeral, Ned and I, a touch embarrassed, meet in Mrs. Leigh’s chamber at Whitehall, she making it available, and herself scarce, looking to see there is no one watching, of course.

It adds spice to our coupling, this secrecy; we time our trysts for when the Queen’s ladies are about their allotted duties and busy in the privy chamber. Our lovemaking is always hurried, and usually we dare not undress completely for fear we may be interrupted.

Then Mrs. Leigh comes to me. “If it please you, Lady Katherine, my mother is ill and I crave leave to go down to the country to be with her.”

“Of course,” I say, my heart sinking. “I pray you find her amended.”

Mrs. Leigh thanks me most warmly and departs. I never see her again.

Our meetings now are few and far apart. When we do meet, anxiety mars our reunions, for I am still unsure whether I am with child or not, and I am loath to confide my fears to Ned. My courses are regular, but still scanty, and I could swear my stomach is rounder. Whether these signs betoken I am with child I cannot say, but they trouble me deeply. Yet I do not say anything, as I hate to spoil our brief times together.

Then comes the awful day when Ned breaks it to me that he is soon to depart for France.

“Tell me truly, Katherine,” he urges, “are you with child?”

“In faith, I do not know,” I sob, devastated at the imminence of our parting. “I bleed a little each month and I have put on weight, but I am so hungry and keep eating, so that is not surprising. I fear I am very ignorant of such things. I wish there was some wise woman I could ask, but I dare not.” And I burst out crying again. I am afraid that if I go on this way, always distressed and weeping, Ned will be glad to leave me. And with the width of the English Channel between him
and Queen Elizabeth’s wrath, should she discover our secret, I am sure he will be very glad to be in France. But he surprises me.

“If you are with child,” he says distractedly, “I will not leave you to face the Queen.”

Mrs. Ellen, my old nurse, has come out of retirement to replace Mrs. Leigh, and seems very glad to be back in my service. Inevitably I soon find myself confiding in her. Without hesitation, she agrees to pass messages between Ned and me, and after a few days she tells me he wishes to meet me opposite his house, by the old canopied fountain in New Palace Yard, in front of Westminster Hall. I hasten there at once.

There is no one about as I approach the octagonal fountain. I am early, and Ned is nowhere to be seen. I make to sit down on the low stone rim, but without warning I find myself engulfed by the most terrible sensations of anguish and despair, similar to those I experienced on the water stairs at Baynard’s Castle all those years ago, but far worse. I fear I am drowning, submerged by powerful waves of desperation and horror. I am going to faint …

“Katherine?” Ned is suddenly before me, steadying me as I sway.

“I must get away!” I gasp. “I cannot stay here! Help me!” He grabs my arm and drags me away, over to Westminster Hall, where I slump in the porch, trying to steady my breathing. Once the dreadful sensations have dissipated, I look fearfully over at the fountain.

“Now,” Ned says, alarmed, “try to calm down, and tell me what all that was about. Are you ill, my love?”

“Nay, I was affrighted.” I tell him about the horrors I have just experienced. “Truly,” I say, “I did not imagine what I felt. That fountain is cursed; maybe something bad happened there once. Did you not feel
anything
?”