City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  Eleanor came in from her little side room. “Shall I carry the baby downstairs, Madam?”

  “If she’s not fussy. William and I will take an hour of rest.”

  “Yes, Madam.” Eleanor gathered up some dirty linen as she took up Veronica and crept from the room with Ann.

  Catherine toed her slippers from her feet, loosened and dropped her skirt, then fell upon the bed in her shift. William threw a log onto the fire and stirred it to flame before he pulled off his boots and breeches and lay beside her. She stroked his arm, then turned onto her side and unbuttoned his shirt. She slid her hand inside, against his skin. He was hot, as he always was, and she let her fingers lie on his chest until his breath came regular and deep. She felt herself drifting into a dream, and she was back in Mount Grace, a young nun in her summer garden. She was picking leaves from a mound of early mint, and the more she clipped, the faster the plant grew. A bee was suddenly at her ear, and when she turned to slap it, the thing had the face of a man, hissing at her. Catherine jarred awake and found the sound was William, snoring at her side. She rolled to her back. At least it wasn’t the old nightmare. The canopy was moving gently above them. It must be the force of the fire. If she could only stay like this, quiet and warm. But she could not keep her mind from Ruth, out somewhere in the cold. Alone. She sat up and William’s eyes opened.

  “What is it?” he murmured. “Lie down with me.”

  “Nothing.” She smiled at him. “You were snoring and I thought I was being stung.” But she could not keep back the hot tears. “I dreamed it was high summer, but Ruth is out there in the snow. William, she is dead. I know it.”

  “Come here. She may have gone back to Scotland. She’s not been found, and if something had happened to her, there would be evidence of it.” He pulled her into his arms and they lay breast to breast, William combing her hair with his rough fingers. “You are here with me. That is all the matter in the world to me this minute.”

  “I wish it were so plain as that.” Catherine softened, enjoying the feel of his hands. Her skin tingled, and she shuddered with pleasure. “I was every bit as much a nun as they were. And yet I am here and they have nothing.”

  “They have had your protection. It is more than most will ever get.” He leaned back and looked into her eyes. “Would you not consider letting Margaret hold Mary at the christening? You said yourself that she needs calming. Or something to that effect.”

  Catherine rolled onto her back and stared at the wind-bellied fabric, shifting overhead. “She has acted holier since we left the convent than she ever was during our years inside it, but it has made her no less superior in her attitudes. You know it was she who drove off the rest of the sisters before you and I married. And after she brought them here. With the same promise the king made—to keep them in their old age. And she turned them out and keeps that dreadful little pony-faced Con instead. God knows where they are these days.” She tasted the bitterness of the words. “But I know what you’ll say, that she’s repentant of her behavior. That the times are dangerous.”

  “They are. And I think she is. We should assist Margaret in her reform. Is it not our duty?”

  Catherine sighed. “Oh, sweet heart of Mary, I suppose it must be.” She was still seething, though, and the fury brought a picture into her mind. “Con.” Catherine rolled to her side. “Her hair is as red as Veronica’s.”

  “So it is,” said William.

  “And your sister is strangely attached to her. What make you of that?”

  William crossed his arms under his head. “I can hear in your voice that you have solved that puzzle long since.”

  Catherine had never raised the subject directly before. But she had never had a daughter before. “She is your brother’s bastard child.”

  “I’d wager so.”

  “And who was the mother?”

  “That I have never been told.” He pulled Catherine into his arms again. “I was gone for too many years. The girl was here before I was home again. She puts me in mind of a talking turnip, but I cannot tear her from Margaret.”

  “Nor would I ask it, horrible as she is.” Catherine chuckled. “Vegetable indeed.”

  William twirled a lock of Catherine’s hair. “And it was my brother who brought me back to Yorkshire, however bad the circumstances were.”

  Catherine pulled herself free. “He meant to turn me out to beg and to have you stand at his side as he did it.” William’s face had blanched at the memory, and she added, “But he could not have known what an independent spirit you have. And I will speak to Ann.”

  William smiled at this. “Ann is solid enough. Her pride will recover.”

  “Ann is pure gold. She always has been.”

  “She’s not frail, not like those others were. And these women who have come to you—they all seem to be teetering on the threshold. I feel like I’m staring into the past when I behold them. A hole like a grave, the dead past.” He flopped onto his back again.

  “Dead as three queens,” said Catherine.

  “Dead as my brother Robert,” he answered. “I do not mean to say that I approve of Margaret. Nor did I approve of my brother, as well you know. But we must tread carefully.”

  “Who will old Harry choose next?”

  “That’s the great matter of the moment, isn’t it?” A tremor of excitement sounded in William’s voice. “And there’s the daughter. The prince is well petted, of that you can be sure, but the daughter, now. There’s an opportunity for someone.”

  "She’s almost my own age. Surely she has women of her own.”

  “I don’t mean the papist one. I mean the little one.”

  Catherine propped herself on one elbow. “Not the bastard?”

  William linked his fingers behind his head and grinned at a spot somewhere above them. “The very one. She’s royal, bastard or not, and she needs people about her. Good, sober women. Stable. With those skills you have so much of. She needs someone like you, my love.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “I’m as serious as a sword, Catherine. Think of it. The king’s household is all scattered just now. He’s busy seeking something to warm his bed, and the children need tending and teaching. Little girls have ailments. And think how she’d love Veronica, with all that red hair. She’d be a doll to that Elizabeth.”

  “You would give away your daughter to be a toy for a bastard?”

  “Give her away? No, indeed. But let her sharpen her young wits on a princess? I would.” William grabbed Catherine’s arm and pulled her down for a kiss. “And so will you, my lady, if you know what is good for us all.”

  He tasted of wine, and Catherine lingered against him. She almost asked and what of Robbie? but held her tongue. William was happy, imagining his daughter at court.

  Someone rapped, and William called, “Enter.” Eleanor’s face showed around the corner of the door. His face bent into an annoyed expression. “What is it, girl?”

  “The baby wants her mother,” said Eleanor without looking into the gap in the bed curtains. “She is hungry.”

  “Lord, I have married me a fishwife,” said William, swinging his legs to the floor. He bent back and kissed Catherine again. “I can’t say I blame her, though. Save something for your husband.” He winked and called “Reg!” William’s man, tall and rangy as a scarecrow, stalked in behind Eleanor and flapped his master’s breeches toward the flames before holding them out.

  “Go on, you men,” Catherine said. She took Veronica and settled back into the covers.

  Eleanor waited until William and his Reginald had gone, then sat on the foot of the bed. “Madam, I think Teresa will run mad. She is sitting in the kitchen crying as though she will burst her heart. Ann and Hannah are taking care of her birds, all but that one she coddles. It has shat upon her best skirt and she doesn’t take any notice.”

  “Who is out looking for Ruth today?”

  “Geoff and Joseph rode out after the christening, but they’ve re
turned and found nothing. Ann has gone to the village to seek the watch, but only one of the men said he would search.”

  “One of them who were here to see about Joan?”

  “Yes. But no word yet.”

  Catherine switched the baby to the other breast. “William wonders if she has gone home.”

  “To Scotland? It’s a long way to walk in the snow.”

  “But where else can she be? Someone should have found her by now.”

  “I have no answer for it, Madam.”

  “Nor do I.” The baby fell away from Catherine’s breast, breathing through her lips in sleep. “We will keep a search out. If Ruth is here, we will find her. Let’s pray we find her alive.”

  8

  Ruth was not to be found, however, not that day nor the next. The christening was carried on as planned, the family below in the chapel while Catherine waited, in her bleeding woman’s body, up in her chamber. It seemed to go on for hours, and Catherine grew bored, sitting at the open window. The garden was frozen and buried, but to pass the time she began to plan where she might lay out a few rows of apple trees. By the time Veronica could write, they would bear enough fruit for the household. She laid a parchment on the table to sketch the orchard, but the sky had cleared, and her eye was drawn outside, where, under the new sun, the snow in the courtyard had melted into small blue lakes. The young groom Joseph brought out Jupiter for his exercise, and the great black stallion turned a few obedient circles then reared against the halter, striking at empty air. Joseph rapped the horse on the muzzle, and when his sleeve fell back, a plaid ribbon was revealed, knotted on his arm. Catherine squinted, then ran down the stairs and out, stopping only by the back door to throw on a cloak.

  “Ho, there, Joseph! Joseph Adwolfe!”

  The groomsman turned, and Jupiter snorted out a blast of air. He pawed the ground and nipped at Joseph’s shoulder. “Damn you for a devil, Jupiter,” said the young man, striking the leathery nostrils. “Get off me.” He shortened the lead by wrapping it around his forearm. “Lady, you had best stay back from this demon. He’s wanting the road today. He smells spring in the air.”

  “He’s like his master in that.” Catherine offered her open palm, and the horse blew hot breath on it, then snuffed with flared nostrils. “He’s not a bad animal, Joseph. Just tightly wound. He wants playing to put him in tune.”

  Joseph laughed, showing his straight white teeth. His arms were hard as oak branches and he held the halter tight while Catherine stroked the horse’s neck. “Careful there, Lady. He likes your touch but he’s changeable as the weather. Sunny one second, stormy the next.”

  “As are we all these days.” She stepped back. “Joseph, will you show me the ribbon you wear?”

  “What? Oh, this thing?” He pushed back the sleeve. “This what you’re on about?”

  Catherine touched the end of the fabric. “This belonged to Ruth.”

  “Your Ruth? How do you know? I never saw it before yesterday.”

  “And how did you come to have it?”

  “Found it. Right there.” He lifted a hand toward the stable. “In the straw. I thought someone had cast it off. Works right well for a sleeve garter.”

  “And how comes it that you found it yesterday? Ruth has been missing for two days. You’re in and out of that stable every hour.”

  “The wind, methinks. There’s a mighty strong draft through there. Maybe she dropped it. I don’t know, Lady Overton.” He pulled the ribbon loose and offered it. “I won’t be taken for a thief.”

  Catherine accepted the strip of cloth. It was woolen, mostly blue, but badly faded. She put it to her face and inhaled but no scent remained save horse sweat and hay. “I believe you, Joseph. You saw no sign of her at all?”

  “Not a thing, Madam. We asked at all the public houses when we were in the village. It’s as though she dissolved into the very air. Or that is what’s said.” Jupiter whinnied, and Joseph pivoted, leading the horse at a trot.

  “What’s that?” Catherine followed the young man as he went. “More talk?”

  “Some say she went up like smoke. That’s not all. There’s soldiers coming this way. They say the constable’s summoned ‘em to see to the women in the village, to round them up and make them swear to follow the king.” He coughed lightly. “That one is coming back this way with them.”

  Catherine’s chest iced over. “Which one?”

  Joseph looked back at the stable, then up at the high windows of the house. “That proud one the master’s so taken against. That Adam Hastings. He’s gathered himself a few men and they ride together. They say he was raised not too far off from here.” Joseph spit onto the ground and the horse shied a step sideways. “He claims the king’s warrant but they say he’s little more than a rich highwayman.”

  “How do you know he’s coming back here?”

  Joseph trained his eyes to the dull gorse bristling through the white drifts over the hillside.

  “Tell me,” Catherine insisted. “How do you come by this knowledge?”

  “It wasn’t said to me. It was the priest. That John Bridle.” Joseph looked her full in the face for a second. “Your father. I heard him tell Geoff. He said to tell the master.”

  “And what makes you believe your master has any opinion of the man at all?”

  “Heard Geoff say it. Might say I’ve heard the master go on about it a bit with my own ears. Now I’ve done spread one more tale than I should and I don’t want to say another word about it.”

  Catherine started to go, then turned back. “My Eleanor is a good young woman. She takes care of Veronica. And of me.”

  Joseph began to work through the tangles in Jupiter’s mane with his fingers. “I don’t mean her no harm.”

  “I’ll be missed inside.” Catherine raised the ribbon and it fluttered in the wind. “Thanks for this.”

  The groomsman nodded and Catherine hurried back inside. Hannah was in the kitchen, stacking hornbooks and chalk, and Ann poked her head in from the pantry. “What are you doing downstairs?”

  Catherine asked, “The christening is concluded?”

  “Yes,” said Ann, “and your sister has taken your daughter off, your father and your husband with her. They have ordered a meal.” She came out when Catherine didn’t move. “What is it?”

  “This was in the stable.” Catherine handed over the ribbon, and Ann held it up to the light at the big window. “It’s Ruth’s, am I right?”

  “Yea, for certain it is,” said Hannah, standing. “She told me it was a gift from her father when she was a little girl. It used to be a whole scarf, when she was in the convent.”

  “It should go to the constable,” Ann said. “It may rouse him to a closer search.”

  “There’s other news,” said Catherine. “Father was overheard saying that there are soldiers coming to Mount Grace. That the constable has sent for them to investigate women. That means us.”

  “Where have you been? London? Your man said nothing of it upstairs.” Ann studied the ribbon. She frowned. “Who are these soldiers?”

  “Same soldiers as always,” said Hannah. “Men with the king’s eyes and their own swords. They’re all alike.”

  Ann nodded. “Anyone among them we would recognize?” she asked Catherine without looking at her.

  “One, perhaps.”

  “One what?” said William Overton, coming in behind them.

  “Nothing. Women’s matters,” said Catherine.

  “Ah. Of course. And look at you, woman of women, up and about. You look strong enough to travel.”

  “She is barely out of the childbed,” said Hannah. “A month she needs, hale as she may look.”

  “Not my Catherine.” William put his arm around her. “She’s off to London, isn’t that right?”

  9

  “William, you cannot think I am able to ride yet.” Catherine closed the door to her chamber and lifted Veronica from her cradle. One of the maids had swaddled her tight, and Catherine
loosened the bands on the arms and legs. “When will we give up this practice?” The baby waved her hands, and Catherine kneaded the little limbs. “Gerald of Wales says that we should not bind up our children. As though they were criminals at birth.”

  “And aren’t they?” asked William, looking over her shoulder. “They say bears must lick their cubs into shape or they will never stand and fight. Margaret insists that she must needs be swaddled.”

  So that was the culprit. “Margaret knows nothing of the body. Our daughter is not a bear and she will stand just fine.” Catherine backed off to allow him to see. “Her eyes already follow the light and shadows, you see? She will be a philosopher, our Veronica. She is keen for the world.”

  “Advanced, is she?”

  “A female genius. You’ll see.”

  “I mean for the rest of England to see her as well.”

  “I go nowhere until I am churched.”

  “That means four weeks.”

  “I will not go before.”

  “If you demand it. I’ll use the time to send for letters of introduction.”

  “You had best get to writing, then, Husband.” She gave him a sideways smile. “Your gander month will be gone before you can count one hundred.”

  William slapped his leg. “And you will be tipping a cup for the princess before you see the gooseberry blossoms.” He kissed Catherine on the cheek and chucked Veronica under the chin. The baby squawled, and he backed to the door, finger to his lips. When he got into the hall, he whooped and sprinted off.

  Catherine lifted the baby and said quietly, “And I will have time to discover who stalks my family.”

  But the ribbon yielded no new information, and when Ann returned from the village, she flopped down at the table, where Hannah and Catherine were sorting through turnips for rot, and tossed the scrap of wool onto the wood. “No one will say anything about Ruth at all. The constable thinks she has run off to Scotland.”

  “She has done no such thing,” said Hannah. “This is Ruth’s home now. She would not have gone without letters. Without her coin. It would be madness.”