City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “That is not the worst of it. Constable Grubb says the Justice will rule that Joan and Ruth quarreled. That perhaps it was Ruth who murdered her friend and has run off from her conscience.”

  “Ruth would not have touched a hair of Joan’s head!” said Catherine. “Ask any huswife in the village. They were fast as kin. Sisters in soul. How can they say so? They would not.”

  “From the constable’s own mouth I heard it,” said Ann. “At least he didn’t call her a witch.”

  “Would that I could go down there,” said Catherine through her teeth. “If I were churched, I would shove this cloth down his lying throat myself.”

  “And you think that would convince him that the women of Overton House are not murderesses?” asked Ann.

  Catherine put her face into her hands. “God’s wounds. We will have to find out the killers ourselves.”

  But just when the old snow had faded, fresh flakes came one night in a whirl and covered the ground, and there was still no sign of Ruth. At Catherine’s order, Hannah left off teaching, and Teresa kept her nose to her poultry yard. Catherine paced her room day after cold day, slapping the fading scrap of plaid against her palm, but she could think of nothing more to do. Joseph and Geoff were sent to search the countryside with dogs day after day, until William finally ordered them to stay home and tend the stables as they were paid to do.

  The month crept by, and though the sun shoved the night aside for a few minutes longer each day, the cold would not relent. Finally, four weeks to the day of Veronica’s christening, John Bridle rode back for Catherine’s churching. She ran downstairs with her daughter to greet him, despite the hard looks from Margaret and Constance as she dashed outside. “At last the time is over,” she said, handing the baby to the priest. “I will run mad in those dark rooms.”

  “You have more wits than any woman I know,” said John Bridle. “Come and walk with me where we cannot be overheard and you may tell me all the news.” The baby slept easily in his arms, and they walked a circuit around the house.

  “Is there no word from Mount Grace?” asked Catherine. “You have asked everyone who might have sympathy with the women?”

  “Nothing, Daughter.” John Bridle breathed the winter air in deep. “Your old friend Elizabeth Aden has asked the question of everyone who buys her honey and has come up empty of information, too. If your little Ruth is dead, she is not dead anywhere near there.”

  “It is a horrible thought. To be dead and alone, flung somewhere savage and wild.” Catherine’s throat clutched at her own imagination.

  “Most hideous to the mind’s eye. The only talk in Mount Grace is of soldiers.”

  Catherine stopped. “Have they come? Do they come this way?”

  “Not yet. Too cold. They have harbored in the south, but we have had traders come through the village who say they will come north soon enough.” He kept walking, and Catherine caught up to him.

  “What more is there for them to take?”

  “Men’s souls. They punish misspeaking for the pleasure of seeing blood run. Women’s souls, too, Catherine. You want to keep your women quiet in these days. They come at the constable’s invitation. Everyone must submit to the king in word and deed while they are about the village.”

  “They are as silent as our tomb, Father. And they stay that way to keep out of men’s minds.”

  “It would be well for them to remember it. And I would not be sorry to see you on a horse to London.”

  Catherine and her father had come all the way around the house, where William waited in the doorway. “Is my wife ready for her churching?”

  “This girl is almost big enough to walk,” said John Bridle, handing Veronica to William. “Your wife is an excellent mother. Is the chapel prepared?”

  “We are eager to have the rite concluded,” said William, standing aside to let them pass.

  Catherine went upstairs to dress for the ceremony, and when she came down, Hannah, Ann, and Eleanor were already waiting. “We want more family with us for this happy time,” said Catherine to the other women. “It will not be spoken, but I want you all to say your prayers for the souls of Joan and Ruth.”

  “And for the discovery of their murderers,” added Ann.

  Catherine set her veil in place and the women made their way to the Overton Chapel. John Bridle performed his role with dispatch, and William lifted Catherine’s veil after the priest had anointed her. “No more of these papist garments, Catherine.”

  John Bridle stepped between them. “Let her keep it. The king leans more to the old rites again these days, I’m told.”

  “What?” asked William.

  John Bridle shrugged. “We race one way, then we run headlong the other. He will still be the head of the church. We just cannot be sure what it will look like from day to day. Best to be safe.”

  Catherine set the cloth back over her face. “I don’t pretend to greater piety than any other wife. But I will not be thought a heretic.”

  The women said nothing until they had all gathered in Catherine’s bedchamber. Eleanor untied the churching gown and sleeves and folded the veil into a neat square, then she joined the others around Catherine’s small table. “Now you can come to the village, Madam, and make those cowards say what they know of your sisters.”

  “No ‘sisters,’ Eleanor. Our family. That is all. The king hasn’t gone that far back toward Rome.” Eleanor hung her head, and Catherine stroked her hair. “You speak right, though. I will see to them.”

  A fist rapped upon the chamber door, and William lifted the latch and put his head in. “Forgive a man for interrupting.”

  Eleanor folded her hands and stared at her thumbs. Ann took up a piece of sewing from the basket near her feet. Catherine said, “You are welcome in my chambers, as always. Come in, William. We are not plotting the overthrow of marriage.”

  He laughed and entered the room, the peregrine on his arm. “Not yet. Give you time, ladies, give you time.” He held up an envelope. “Time, however, you have none of just now. I have the letters we need, Catherine. We are summoned to make our way to court.”

  10

  “A month or two will surely make no difference,” said Catherine. She had followed William downstairs and out the big back door. John Bridle waited with his own bird on his fist, and they all walked into the nearest field. John Bridle set his bird aloft, and Catherine shivered as she watched it dragged earthward again.

  “That’s a fine little sparrow hawk, John,” said William, and the priest beamed like a lord. “I have made arrangements,” he added without taking his eyes from the sky. He might have been speaking either to Catherine or to her father. “We will go this week. Eleanor may come and carry the baby.” Now William let his eyes fall onto her. “Bring another maid if you like. The things we need will follow us. Spring is coming on, and we want to be in London and secure your position. Now.”

  “In London? What will I do there? The king’s children are in the country, aren’t they?”

  “We must lay our plans,” he said, letting his Ruby fly. “Benjamin Davies keeps a city house where we will lodge. You recall him. He always sells his wool at the highest prices. He taught my brother to excel even our father in trade. I will visit the cloth makers and get their wisdom on making the new draperies here. You will wait until the call comes. From there we will make our way.” He whistled and his peregrine circled lower and lower, landing on his upraised arm. “What do you think of converting the convent buildings, John? We will make a pot of money, and you can oversee the works.” His voice had gone tight with excitement, and he clutched the bird’s claws until his knuckles went white.

  The priest, mimicking William’s stance, tossed his hawk into the air and they all stood silent until he whistled her down and fumbled a hood over her head. “It seems a wise use of the spaces.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Catherine.

  Catherine stepped between the men. “But Ruth is not found, William. Teresa still grieves like s
he has lost her own sister. Hannah—”

  “Hannah and Teresa are grown women. Ann can stay here and mind them if they need a keeper. Let them keep their heads down and act like part of this family and all shall be well.”

  “Ann will come with me. She must.”

  “She should stay here for now. It sounds as though she is needed. Perhaps later she may join you. You want her steady head to govern these women, do you not?”

  Catherine thought a moment. “So we will go light, is that it? Fly to London?”

  “You read my thoughts.”

  “Where we will sit like fat ducks and do nothing?”

  “Being prepared is not nothing. I have already instructed Eleanor to pack your things.”

  “What?”

  William and John handed their birds to the trainer, and Catherine fled up to her chamber and flung open her wooden chests. Her clothes and her stack of books were gone. A cold knot twisted in her stomach. William came in and looked with satisfaction at the empty room.

  “And who is to travel with us?” asked Catherine.

  “I have said, Eleanor and another maid for you if you want one. I will have a couple or three men for the horses and Reginald for myself. We will lodge with Benjamin Davies. His servants will do for us, as well, at least for a time.”

  Catherine’s hands were shaking, and she gripped the brass handle of the closest chest. “Who will tend to Robbie?”

  “The boy will stay at home with Ann. He needs to learn to ride and behave like a gentleman before he leaves his home. We will get you settled into a place first.”

  “No! He is but three years old, William. He cannot be left alone.”

  “He will not be alone. Ann is practically his second mother. And Margaret will be here. You mustn’t spoil the boy, Catherine.”

  “Your sister barely knows he exists. I wonder that you would abandon your son.”

  William’s jaw tensed and a muscle under his left eye jumped. “I have not abandoned him. But do not press me on this matter, Catherine. Boys younger than Robert have learned to untie themselves from their mothers’ apron strings. The king’s son does not cry for his mother. I will see to Robert as I have always done. But just now I mean to show off you and Veronica.”

  He came to her with his arms opened, but Catherine backed away. “The arrangements have all been made, it seems. You and this Benjamin have been busy indeed.” She blinked to clear her eyes. “I have never kept Robbie tied unnaturally to me. It is cruel for you to say so. He is a little boy, William, and I will not stay in London while he grows up here. No, don’t touch me, not until you promise me that he will come. Soon. With Ann. Or I will not move a foot from this room.”

  “Catherine, be reasonable.”

  “You think dragging a woman from her childbed and throwing her onto a dirty horse reasonable? You think carting a baby barely breathing in the world all the way across England reasonable? You want me to think of the reasons for that?” Catherine stopped, panting. “Well? Your promise?”

  “Will you believe me if I promise it?”

  “Only if you don’t swear it to God. Only to me.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Catherine, for such a young one. You have my word, then. You and I will go with Veronica, and Robert will come with Ann as soon as is practical. That is as much as I can vow. But you and I will go. Tomorrow.”

  Catherine gasped. “So soon as that?” She stepped away from him again. “Since you have seized my clothes and books, I suppose I have no choice. But I will hold you to that word. Remember it.”

  “You will not let me forget, I’m sure.” He leaned in to kiss her, and she let him have her cheek. He brushed back Veronica’s tuft of hair and went from the room.

  Ann passed him as she came in. “Are you really going to London? Tomorrow? Eleanor says she has been made to pack up your clothes.”

  Catherine burst into tears.

  11

  The road was cold and muddy, and Catherine did not want to get onto it. William was too busy to notice, ordering the pack horses to stand still while the servants loaded the new wool for the London market. Eleanor waited beside the ponies for herself and Catherine while Joseph, whispering, harnessed them, and Catherine held her son against her breast. “You will mind Ann and learn your lessons, do you hear me? And when I send for you, you will come south and perhaps I will introduce you to a princess. How well might you like that?”

  Ann, arms crossed, glared over the fields toward the village. “It is unnatural, Catherine, and William knows it. You should be here until you are strong again. Even Eleanor gets to take her young man with her. Let him go see to the new mills for himself and bring you the directions.”

  “Not so hard, Ann. He has the letters. William’s ambition runs before him and he’s bound to try and catch it. Joseph comes along because he is good with the horses, not because of Eleanor.”

  “Men’s ambitions. He acts like his dead brother.” Ann spit through her teeth onto the gravel. “I notice that his ambition runs off just when that same brother’s old companions are rumored to be on their way to Yorkshire.”

  Catherine looked in the direction of Ann’s gaze. “Are they nigh?”

  “No, not that I have heard. They are just words on the wind yet. They may be nothing more than that. The terror of serving girls and their gossips.”

  Robert leaned away from his mother, pushing his hands against her bodice. “Will you bring me a real princess when you return?”

  Catherine laughed. “I will have you come and kneel before her yourself. Will you be a courtier, Robbie? You must learn to sit your horse first, you know. And you must practice your bowing and your manners in speech.”

  “I will practice it, Mother.” He squirmed out of her grip and walked over to stand in front of Ann. “Aunt Ann will beat me if I slacken, will you not?”

  Ann threw back her head and guffawed. “Listen to the boy. When have I ever beaten you, young Master Robert?”

  Robert planted his feet far apart and put his fists on his narrow hips. “My father says to spare the rod is to spoil the child. I will not be spoilt before I am ripe, Aunt Ann.”

  “You will not rot, Master Robert.” She picked him up as William came out, directing his man Reginald with some baskets. “The boy talks like you, Catherine.”

  “Come kiss me, Son,” said Catherine. She hugged Ann and Robert together until the boy pushed the women apart. She saw Ann’s eyes stray over her shoulder to Reginald.

  “You will strangle me, Mother.”

  Catherine stroked his hair and leaned to whisper to Ann. “You will see to the matter of these real stranglings?” Ann nodded, and Catherine said to Robert, “You are to be good and say your prayers and feed Thomasina so that she may feed her kittens. Will you do it?”

  “I will be sure that he does it,” said Margaret, coming up behind them. “I will manage the household as smoothly as my brother has done.” She patted Catherine on the shoulder. “You may go with a clear conscience. All here will be just as it should be.”

  Robert pressed his face against Ann’s broad chest, and Catherine placed her hand on the boy’s hair. “I thank you, Sister,” she said to Margaret.

  Then Eleanor squealed behind her. It was time to go. Catherine fixed the baby to her maid’s front, then climbed onto her own pony and closed her eyes. “Tell me when we are on the road,” she said. “I have said my good-byes.”

  “But you must turn, Madam,” said Eleanor. “They are all out, seeing you off.”

  Catherine couldn’t resist. She looked back at Hannah, Teresa, and Ann holding Robbie. Margaret Overton was behind the other women, one hand raised stiffly. Teresa had her hen under one arm, and she lifted one of its wings to wave goodbye. “She looks like a child, even at her age,” whispered Catherine. “I hope God will protect her as one.”

  12

  Four days of travel brought the little group from silent winter to the first whisper of spring. The roads became boggier and bogg
ier, until Catherine’s pony could barely drag its hooves through the mud. The saddle bruised her buttocks and thighs, and she shifted from one side to the other, trying to get some relief. The second night’s inn had been alive with bedbugs and lice, and Catherine kept picking them from her scalp. Eleanor once tore off her hood with a shriek and scrubbed under her coif with her nails. “Mother of God, do they never clean the linens in that sty? I have never been so infested.” She picked something from the baby’s face with a little shriek and flung it away with her forefinger.

  Catherine itched just watching, and soon she felt a crawling on the back of her neck. She trapped the offender as it entered her hairline. A large flea, which she smashed against her riding boot with the back of her thumb. The baby wailed, and Eleanor opened the band that held her. Catherine could see the red patches on Veronica’s fat legs. “I will need to soak the child in lavender water up to her nostrils. You, too, Eleanor.”

  That evening, they bathed in bowls of hot water and spent the night shaking out their shifts and sifting stavesacre over the clothes in their cases. Eleanor leaned into Catherine’s folded skirts and breathed. “What is it made of, Madam?”

  Catherine brushed her palms clean. “Larkspur seeds.”

  “Those purple flowers? They seem like towers of sugar.”

  “The very ones. Pray the vermin find it less sweet.” Her bites still itched and she added dried mint to the stavesacre, but even after the bath and a scrubbing with a rough clout, they lay awake yet again, rubbing at the angry welts while the baby whimpered and tossed.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, when London rose into Catherine’s sight, she was so sleepy that the city seemed like a monstrous dragon sunning itself along the southern horizon. The spires of the Tower and St. Paul’s lifted along the horizon, spikes on the back of a huge adder, and Catherine shaded her eyes with her hand. “It looks just as I remember. Except that I was eager then. I see poison in its points now.”