As I've been sitting on this for awhile, I thought publishing it would make me accountable to finishing it! :) This is a work in progress about the utterly fascinating life of Charles Brandon's fourth wife, Catherine Willoughby, who was (to steal Alison Weir's words) "brilliant, spirited and sharp-witted," not at all the wet blanket as portrayed in the television show (Michael Hirst ruining her really made me sad! At least the actress was good!).
I am going to be staring a Master's in Early Modern European History, where I will be writing my thesis about this amazing woman, so I thought writing something about her would help a bit.
Although I am trying to be as historically accurate as I can, for interest of people who'd read it, I'll probably be putting her in situations she wasn't in for the sake of something for her to be doing in some periods of her life. Also, like the television show, I am saying she was a bit older than she was in reality when she married Brandon and that Brandon was younger: about 16 instead of 13, and in mid-30s instead of late 40s. It's kind of squicky, writing about a 13 year old marrying a 48 year old...
Please review if you like it-or if you don't! Constructive criticism is always good. Enjoy. :)
Aeternum salve, princeps clarissima, mentis Dotibus, eximiis adnumeranda viris.
Vix dici poterit, quantum tribuat tibi vulgus, quantum magnates, doctaque turba virum.
Nil tam suspiciunt homines tua stemmata clara, insignes dotes quam, Catharina, tuos.
Eternal God save thee, illustrious princess
The endowments of thy mind place thee on a level with men of the highest distinction
One can scarcely say how much the common folk, nobility, and men of learning alike esteem thee
O Catherine, held in high regard, not so much for thy glorious heritage as for thy legacy
John Parkhurst, circa 1540
Epigram written for Catherine, Duchess of Suffolk
January 1554
The Netherlands
MY HUSBAND CROUCHES before me, rain pelting his hat, dripping off the rim onto the soiled hem of my gown. The heavy wool cloak does not keep me warm. I clasp our daughter to my breast, hoping beyond hope that she will stop crying for cold. I am half-freezing in the rain, shivering like a madwoman. My clothes are drenched; I did not even know they could get this wet. I look at him with my chin held high, trying to be brave, even though I am weeping inside. "I will seek out shelter." He cups my cheek and leans forward, kissing my forehead that is wrinkled with worry. "Stay here, sweetheart." Without another word to me, he turns and walks away. It is only moments before I cannot see him for the fog and rain.
I am utterly alone.
Susan is bawling, each new cry stabbing me anew in the heart. "Shhh," I beg of her. We have traveled so far for safety and here I am, once upon a time the second peeress in England, soaked to the skin sitting on the porch of Saint Willebrord's Church with a baby of only two months. There is no shelter for us. The three of us are like the Holy Family, newly come to Bethlehem, with no room at the inn. Cradling her in my arms, I would do anything to cease her crying, to get her into the warm clothes she needs, to take care of her as I must as her mother. I can do none of these. Have I failed her?
"Oh, my darling girl." I whisper nonsense to her. Perhaps my voice shall calm her. Perhaps not, but surely it will keep my mind occupied from my worries. "Shh, shh." I wrap the cloak I have around me closer, keeping her dear head right under my chin. I pull my knees to my chest, desperately trying to keep myself out of the terrible weather. I can see nothing as I look out into the streets. We have come so far, and to have done so with nothing to wear, nothing to eat, and nowhere to go, I wonder if I am truly just a foolish woman who should have stayed in England where she belonged. I could have stood up for my persecution and if they had decided to tie me to the stake and burn me as a heretic, a Lutheran, then I would have stood my ground a martyr.
Truth be told, I have no interest in being a martyr. None at all. I am no saint, I have no desire to die for my faith. God forgive me, but I thought this was what He would have wanted of me, to go where it is safe for me to praise Him where I would not be assaulted for it. They hate me for believing, no, knowing that the wine and bread does not turn into blood and flesh, that the trappings of Popery are nothing but a show where the people know nothing of what they believe in their hearts. They hate me for daring to read the Bible and put the Word of God in the churches in both Suffolk and Lincolnshire so the people know what it is they believe. I care not that these Papists hate me. Some could say that knowing there are men in the world who want one dead and would go to any lengths to do so would be enough to kill a man from fear. I am not afraid. I am strong as my mother was strong. I go forward, never looking back, never regretting anything I have ever done or said. I always have. Determination and courage are the gifts God has given me. I shall not waste them on worry and fear.
To my crying daughter, I whisper the words of Psalm 27, "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" Though tonight it is cold and the darkness seems like it will never end, I must be strong, I must be fearless, I must never, ever back down. I have been dealt the bitterest cards a woman could ever hold in her hand and I have survived. I have watched a beloved husband die, I have wept with devastation as my children passed away in front of my eyes, destroyed with the loss of two so dear to me, wishing myself buried in the cold earth with them. God took them away from me for a reason. He told me through my suffering at these losses: "Catherine, you must rely on me. You must love me with all your heart and soul." I loved too hard, I loved too much. I did not love God enough. I have seen things and heard things that would make one shudder from the horror of it; I have seen executions of innocent men and women, I have smelled the fires built for heretics and their burning flesh. I am here because I will not become one of them. I will not be afraid for God gives me these trials. Every person, every action, every trial I meet is one given to me by Him. I will get through this. I have stood up to threats of an arrest, I have spoken out for my faith in the den of the lions, I stood my ground when I was sure it would collapse. I have strength and faith given to me by God. He would not want any less, would He?
True to his word, as I cradle our child in my arms hoping she shall cease her weeping, my husband Richard returns. He is completely loyal to me in a way I have never known a man to be to his wife. He loves, honors, and keeps me as he vowed at our wedding scarce a year ago. We married each other for love, not position or money. I am sure it was the talk of the English aristocracy. What horror! The Duchess of Suffolk marries her gentleman usher! I care not what they think of me, those scandalous gossips, horrific people who ought to drown in the sea. I married first where I was ordered by the man I was ordered, a mere child; now I married to please myself, and I have.
"I've found it, thank God," he says to me with a laugh. I cannot believe he is laughing, but it must be for relief.
I force a smile. "Where we have arranged to stay?"
He nods, reaching for me, placing his hands around one of mine. As he helps me to my feet in this sodden mess, I keep baby Susan to my breast with my free arm, pressing a quick kiss to her fair little head. "We are going to be warm and safe now." She is still fussing and crying, my poor little darling.
"They speak Latin," he explains to me as he tucks my hand in his arm, holding me close as we walk together. I cannot see anything at all except the tops of roofs and darkness; I cannot help but wonder what it looks like when not cast in clouds and rain.
I snort. "Oh, do they? So at least you shall be able to understand them."
"Kate." Sometimes, when he says my name, he has a warning to his voice, that I am stepping too far, but he knows my humor. His voice is smiling. "My love, this is the day the Lord has made: rejoice and let us be glad in it! Don't ruin it with your bad temper."
"Yes, well," I say pettishly, rain pounding down upon our heads, the noise all about us, "I will rejoice when the Lord brings us clean clothes and a warm bed. I think Susan here shall too. Perhaps I will even dance with you for joy when you bring us to this home you have found, though how you can find anything I cannot understand."
He chuckles. "I went to every home with a candle in the window."
"A good strategy," I have to say as he leads me to turn a corner.
We approach a small house with light coming through the windows from all the candles. It is nothing like a place I have seen before, who grew up in a castle and had vast manors to command to myself, before we were fugitives. I must remember this is not at all the life I lived before. I musn't be rude, I must be glad of it, but as we step into this modest home where a man and woman are waiting for us with smiles, I cannot help but recoil at how tiny it is. It is warmth. I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, should I? But oh, how I would long for Grimsthorpe Castle with its fireplaces, with my own warm bed overlooking the garden...
"My lady wife Catherine." Richard is introducing me, in Latin, and I smile at them. They bow and curtsy which to be honest looks completely ridiculous considering the situation we are all in. I am no lady, wet and bedraggled. I am sure I look pathetic, like a drowned rat carrying its young. For a moment I wonder what they must think of me, but it is nothing I fret over. I just know I do not look like some great lady from a foreign court. It irks me. "And our daughter, Susan."
The baby, as if knowing what her father is saying, begins to cry. I must get her into something warm. The only thing I wish to do is change my clothes and curl up in bed with my husband and our baby, knowing for now at least I have succeeded—no, Richard has succeeded—in doing my duty to her: making sure she is safe. Without another word, the woman, who probably speaks no Latin and only German or whatever it is they speak here, leads me up rickety stairs.
The room that is to be ours for the night is small, but I must stop complaining. Poor Susan is wailing like a banshee. The woman opens her arms to me but I keep the baby. I am not going to give my daughter, a little lady, to this woman. I am afraid I look far too stony, for the woman takes a step back and squints at me as if she wonders what in God's name her husband has brought into her house. English guests are rude, she probably thinks. Ha! If she only knew why we left, like cowards...
She leaves us alone with a perfunctory curtsy to me. I laugh behind her back, simply because it is not needed, not at all. They have left things for us here, so we need not bother them with any necessities. The fire is burning and keeping the room warm, though smoky, but it doesn't matter much.
"Anything is better than being in the rain. I would be happy in a pig's hovel."
Richard, who has come in after me, is pulling off his cloak and sodden clothes. He stops in the middle of unbuttoning his doublet to laugh at me. "No, you wouldn't." He reaches out to tweak my nose. "You would be complaining even more than you already are."
"I am not complaining." I am frowning at him but he is still mirthful, dark eyes sparkling.
"As I said, love, be happy."
I sigh. "I am happy. Happy I am out of the rain." While I busy myself with changing the baby into warm clothes, generously left by the family in our room, I cannot help but grumble, "So this is where we shall spend the night, with a couple that looks no better than peasants."
My husband looks at me thoughtfully as he sits down on the bed. "You're right, Kate," Richard says, "but we are safe here. They are like us. There is a reason we are here. And most importantly, we are safe. I will keep you safe."
Picking Susan up in my arms, I meet my husband's eyes. "I must thank you for it."
"No." He shakes his head. "I am doing my duty to you as your husband, and as Susan's father. I am keeping you safe from those who would wish to harm you, and me."
Once we are settled, the only option open to us is to sleep, which I am grateful for, utterly exhausted from the day. Just this afternoon I was stepping off of a stolen ship from England, hoping to God no one would find me or stop me, coming to a country where I had only prayed I would see my husband who had left before me. Now, although I do not know what is in store for us, I am calm.
We are here for a reason. They wished to punish us, and so we fled. Sometimes, I think it makes me a coward; but I do not wish to die for my faith, and so here we are, exiles from England, not the first, but among many who have fled to the Continent. What would have my younger self said, if I could tell her this is what her life would be? What would that sixteen year old girl fresh from the country say? I think she would be shocked to her soul.
"What are you thinking of?"
I cannot help but chuckle. He knows me too well by now that when I am quiet, I am thinking. "Myself. My life." I pause, and add, "What has brought me here."
He tightens his grip around me. "Tell me. You've not told me much."
I force a laugh. "It could be a long story..."
"Tell me anyway," Richard murmurs, pushing my hair away to kiss the back of my neck.
I roll over onto my back, looking into his eager, curious face I so love. "If you really wish to know..."