City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “He lacks a wife just now,” Eleanor said, smirking. “Perhaps you can snag him, Ann.”

  “Oh, yes, that is exactly what I had in mind,” said Ann. She showed her hands, red and puffed from hot water. “I’m sure I will be invited to lay these upon the royal willy.”

  “Ann, shh!” said Catherine. She checked the door, but they were alone.

  “Who is Willy?” asked Robert.

  “You see what your mouth does?” Catherine swung the boy up to the table. “He is a make-believe playmate. You have real ones.”

  “I have a Willy, too!” cried Robert.

  Eleanor burst out laughing and Catherine cut a look at her. “Just wait until you have a child. You will see what I teach him.”

  Eleanor flushed, but then she grinned. “The king is coming here!”

  “I know, I know,” said Catherine. “You see to the vegetable stores. I am going to get the girls to gather fruits for the tarts. Ann, you might see to the soft flour for the coffins.”

  By the time Catherine had directed the other maids in the butchering and roasting, the clouds had opened, and the rain came down hard as arrow tips. Catherine left the children in the kitchen with the other women and, pulling her apron over her head, waded out to the strawberry beds. She plucked buckets full, then pulled out her knife and slashed the young rhubarb stalks. By the time her arms were full, she was drenched to the skin, and she ran back to the kitchen, where she dripped by the fire.

  “Don’t forget Elizabeth’s meals for today,” she said. She stripped off the wet layers. Robert had been summoned upstairs to play with Elizabeth through the foul weather, and Catherine turned her back to the fire until she was warm and dry again. A rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes and the children’s squeals echoed down the stairs. She couldn’t stop the warmth of relief that she wasn’t on the road from spreading through her limbs. “Elizabeth sounds well enough,” said Catherine, tilting her head to listen. “That should please her father.”

  “Are you not at all excited?” asked Eleanor. “To see the king?”

  Catherine and Ann exchanged a look. “He will be grand, no doubt,” said Catherine. “He has been little enough of a friend to women.”

  “But he is the king,” said Eleanor. “He owes nothing to anyone but God.”

  “There was a time in this land when that was supposed to mean that he cared for his subjects as the children of God. All of his subjects,” said Ann.

  “I don’t believe a king cares for anyone but himself,” said Catherine. “I don’t believe such a king as you describe ever existed. A king is a man like other men, except this one can cast his women on the dungheap when he is weary of them.”

  “He is anointed by God, Madam,” said Eleanor. “Everyone knows that. And the queen must obey him, as other wives obey their husbands. It is natural as we are daughters of Eve.”

  Catherine was tired and her tongue hurried on. “He is anointed by men in large hats, and queens have sat their thrones by themselves. But in England, the price of queens has fallen. There is a cheap market for them since our Lady was thrown into the dirt.” Ann had brought her a dry skirt, and Catherine pulled it on and tied up her bodice. “Agrippa contends that women were the last creation of God, made flesh from flesh, and that a woman is the pinnacle of creation.”

  Eleanor gasped. “Do you mean we should—?”

  Ann put a warning hand on Catherine’s arm. “There’s no going back. For any of us.”

  “I mean nothing,” said Catherine. “Don’t listen to me. Except for this. The Lady Mary’s mother was once queen of this island, and her mother was queen of Castile. Queen. She had a husband and still she ruled. God did not frown upon it. The king of England did. That is all.”

  Eleanor sat with a thump on the bench at the long table. She stared at nothing. “So the king is not sent to us by God to be our head? Are we not bound to obey him?”

  The warning hand squeezed, and Ann’s brows bent into a dark look. She shook her head, and Catherine knew she was worried for Eleanor’s discretion, alight as she was with anticipation. Catherine stroked her maid’s head and murmured, “Forgive me. I talk too much. We will speak more, but not today. I am worried about William. He may be in need of me and we are forced to stay. I do not mean to sound bitter.”

  “He has Margaret,” Eleanor said, looking up. Her voice had loosened with relief. “She will take care of him until you can go.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Catherine. Eleanor chose a bowl and trotted off to get flour, and Catherine watched until the maid was out of hearing. “I shouldn’t speak of our old life. To her or anyone else.”

  Ann said in a low voice, “You had better not. Not now.” She began to hull the berries. “Best for us to turn our minds to work.”

  Eleanor returned and began on the pastry, flinging flour with such fury that she powdered herself to the waist with the stuff. Ann gathered the stems into her apron, and, ducking her head against the wind and rain, went out to dump them in the slop pail. When the door closed behind her, Eleanor let her fingers drift through the soft pile. Her face was suddenly a map of worry wrinkles, etched in flour.

  “Tell me a story, Madam. Not about England or our king. Nor of the church. No, you needn’t speak to me of the church. You may say a fairy tale if you like. A legend from long ago, if you will have it so.” She was almost whispering now. “But tell me, if you will, a little story about these queens.”

  33

  For three days, the house was in a fever of cooking and cleaning, everyone shouting and running through their tasks. Barrels of ale and wine came by wagon. The bedding was hung from the windows for airing, and Hatfield began to resemble a fairground. The maids sang loudly as they beat the tapestries out on the grass. The stables were rearranged, and the men brought carriages and wagons and animals in and out as they decided where they would lodge the royal procession, while the dogs ran about their feet, barking and growling at each other. Kat’s voice was seized by a hysteria that lifted all her words by their tails.

  Catherine knew he had arrived before the call came ringing down the stairs. She heard the horses gallop into the courtyard, and Kat’s tone shifted to a deeper, more formal note. Different dogs appeared outside the kitchen windows, and the Hatfield hounds came lunging up in defense, pulling the intruders down into dusty snarlings. One huge hairy thing sauntered triumphantly to the back door and snuffed wetly at the threshold, then pranced to a window and leapt up to stare in, its tongue lolling against the sill. It left a long smear and Catherine shooed it off by snapping a towel. Men were laughing out front, Kat and Lady Bryan both barking crisp orders somewhere inside the house. Eleanor was panting and clapping her hands, almost jumping. Ann disappeared into the laundry. Veronica began to wail from her pallet in the corner, and Robert squatted beside his little sister, patting her forehead.

  “You have to go up, Madam,” said Eleanor. “I’ll keep the children. Kat’ll burst wide open if you don’t appear.”

  Catherine smoothed her hair and her skirt. She checked her nails. She examined the reflection of her teeth in a spoon. Her chest was tight, as though her ribs were shrinking. Maybe they would ignore her.

  “Catherine!” came the summons again down the stairs. “Upstairs! Now!”

  Catherine breathed into her palm to check her breath. She pinched her cheeks.

  “Go, Madam. Go!”

  “I’m going.” But Catherine’s feet dragged on the stone steps, and her heart fluttered like a trapped sparrow. She entered the hall and Kat Champernowne grabbed her by one shoulder.

  “Get in line,” she whispered fiercely, pointing to a row of servants. “There. Get at the end. Beside her tutors.”

  Catherine positioned herself. She thought the man beside her was the music master, thought by some to be a genius, but he was greasy and fetid. She placed herself as far from him as she could, and he did not look at her but peered at the spray of light spilling from the open front door. A few old oak leav
es blew in, weaving themselves into ruffles along the edges of the fresh rushes. Kat bent to pick them up, but they crumbled in her hand. Elizabeth stood, bouncing on her toes, at the top of the main staircase, and she suddenly cried out and ran down, holding her skirts in one delicate hand. The doorway darkened and Catherine smelt something rotting. Like a bad tooth. Like something dead. The stench stiffened her nostrils and bile filled her throat. Elizabeth fell to her knee in an elaborate curtsey. The king walked in.

  Henry VIII was huge, and Catherine backed a step as she bent toward the floor, but she studied the man out of the corner of her eye. His gold hair, shot through with white, blazed around his big head. He seemed swollen, exuding light, and he lifted Elizabeth into his arms. He looked her over, one side, then the other, and set her on her feet again. “Let me hear what you have learned.”

  Elizabeth began to recite, her voice tense and flute-like. “O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands: serve the Lord with gladness, and come before his presence with a song—”

  Psalm 100. From the king’s own Bible. An inspired choice, thought Catherine.

  The child hesitated. The king narrowed his eyes.

  Kat gripped Elizabeth’s shoulder until she started again, running it through to the end without stopping. Then the lady smiled. King Henry looked at her, and she curtsied again, saying “Elizabeth is a very forward child, Your Majesty.”

  “So she seems.” The king walked down the line of servants, who had all fallen to their knees. The smell of death hung so strong that Catherine held her breath and kept her face low. Kat was introducing each member of the household as he came, grunting, down the line. She’d made one poor young woman, who cleaned the floors and grates, join them because she was pretty, and the king lifted the girl by one arm, looked her over, and set her back where she had been. He was drawing nearer, stopping to greet the reading master, then the music master. Then the king of England was before her.

  Kat was saying, “And this is Catherine Overton, of Overton House in Yorkshire. She has knowledge of diet and herbals and oversees the Lady Elizabeth’s and the Lady Mary’s meals.”

  “Is she lame?” said the king.

  Catherine shot straight up at this and looked at Henry VIII. He was too fat, with small crimson lines threading his sunburnt skin. His pale eyes shone from deep inside fleshy pouches. He stank of sweat and pus and horse hair. He was staring at Catherine.

  “You can stand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “What else can you do?”

  “I can cook and I study the properties of herbs for the preservation of good health, especially in women. I can teach the primary elements of reading and writing.”

  The king leaned closer, and Catherine gulped shallow breaths. The stench he emitted was putrefying and her nose bone felt like it was melting. He seemed to be staring down at her breasts.

  “You have a husband?”

  “William Overton is my loving husband. We have a son and a daughter.” Catherine was trying to steady her breath to keep her chest still but she could barely get enough air.

  “Overton. From Yorkshire.” The king scowled and looked back at Kat. “This one’s the nun, isn’t she?”

  “Formerly,” said Catherine. The corners of her mouth ached. “And I thank you for your intervention in the matter of my marriage.”

  The king gave a thin smile, then he laughed out loud. “You got the man who got your land, didn’t you? A cunning move. Why did I do it? Give you permission?”

  Catherine’s knees were rattling, and she pressed them together. “I was with child, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “Master William took responsibility for me and our son in his letter. We thank you for your kind generosity to our family.”

  “Maybe I should make them all get married, if anyone will take them,” said Henry to no one in particular. “Nothing I hate more than old spinsters. They’re barely women at all. They’re barely people.”

  Kat murmured, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Catherine was silent, and Henry went on. “Your father is the priest, am I right? Your mother was a prioress.” He leaned back and bellowed out another great laugh, his hands braced against his belly as though to keep it from splitting. He wiped his eyes and they glittered from their spongy pockets at Catherine. “You see? The pope is no more than a man and his houses no better than any other. You are proof of my argument. You were made to hold up a man, not a habit.”

  Catherine’s cheeks were hot with misery and shame, and the other servants were staring, but she mustered a “Yes, Your Majesty, and I thank you for your kindness.”

  Henry looked Catherine up and down, then glanced back at Elizabeth, who waited for him in a halo of sunlight by the front door. “She has grown. You do well, Catherine Overton.” He slipped a small ring from his least finger and put it into her palm. She dropped again and lowered her head.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most generous.”

  “I am!” he replied, turning to the assembled line and raising his arms. “You hear? I am generous and forgiving, and I am starving. Let us see what victuals the mistress of the kitchen can summon to our table.” He walked back to Elizabeth and, lifting her, beckoned to someone. A dozen men rushed in and the king handed his daughter to Kat before all the men went up the stairs, followed by the pale lady-in-waiting, clasping a straining Elizabeth to her side. “Now where is my son?” Henry shouted as they reached the first landing.

  The music master gave her a ferrety, self-satisfied look. “Let’s hope you can cook as well as you claim, or he’ll have all our heads on pikes.”

  34

  “He carries an infection somewhere upon him like the plague itself,” said Catherine, back down in the kitchen. She collapsed onto a bench, gasping.

  Eleanor had scrambled onto the seat, and now she slumped, chin in hand. “Is he not grand?” A slight whine thinned her voice.

  “He’s big,” said Catherine, wiping out her nose with a cloth dipped in sage water. “So is his smell.”

  Ann came through the other door, her arms full of stacked napkins. “I thought I heard your voice. Eleanor, run these up to the table, will you?”

  The maid skipped over and took them with a lop-sided grin on her face.

  “No gawking,” said Catherine. “Even if you see him. You curtsey, you speak if you’re spoken to. Only if you’re spoken to. Do not ask questions. And do not stare. If you cannot get away quickly, you bend your head and keep it bent. Fix your eyes on your toes. Back away if you find yourself in his presence.”

  Eleanor’s face sagged a little. “Yes, Madam.”

  Guilt stabbed her under the heart, and Catherine said, “I tell you this for your own good. If you make a favorable impression, perhaps you will find yourself even closer to the court. You want them to think of you as a superior servant, not an impertinent one.”

  Eleanor’s eyes lit up again. “Yes, Madam. I will be there and back without a misstep.”

  Three of the other kitchen maids were waiting for orders, and Eleanor lingered to hear their instructions. Catherine tasted the leek soup and nodded. “This first, with the salad greens. Be sure there is vinegar upon the table. Take plenty of bread and leave it upon the sideboard for the serving men. Take the carrots and onions next and cover them to keep them hot until they are served. Then take the roast beef and the chickens. Be sure the stuffing is still steaming. Stand in the corners, outside the gallery door, and do not belch nor fart. Do not talk, not to the guests nor to each other. Is that all clear? When they finish with the meats, the men will stack the used things near the door. You bring them down and then you will take up the tarts and more wine. Do not be seen except briefly. You enter the room, you leave the goods or remove the bones. You depart without a word. You are invisible. You are silent. Do you hear?”

  The three young women bobbed their heads.

  “If any of the candles on the sideboards should burn down or blow out, you may relight it from one of the tapers y
ou will have beside you. But do not go to the table and do not drop even a button of wax. Keep your sleeves and skirts well clear. If the men are at the sideboard, you do not enter unless you are summoned. Do you hear?”

  The heads went up and down again.

  “All right then. Off you go.” Catherine shooed them all out. “Eleanor, you stand by and be sure the service is smooth.”

  “Yes, Madam.” She gave the younger maids a firm look and followed at their heels.

  Ann watched her go. “She is very eager. She wants to please you as much as she wants to see the king.”

  Catherine leaned back on the table and took a mug of wine. “She has wits. You have heard how her reading improves. Diana’s presence brings her along, as well, and she will soon be writing as beautifully as any clerk.”

  “Where is Diana?” Ann looked suddenly alarmed. “We have no task for her.”

  “No need,” said Catherine, drinking. “She has been invited to table.”

  “Ah, well. And you are not.”

  “I’m just as happy here,” said Catherine. She spooned leeks onto a couple of plates and set them before Ann. One of the smaller chickens and a dark loaf of bread completed their meal, and she sat to cut the bread while Ann poured wine for them both. “He likes to laugh about my parents. Next it will be William he pokes his fun at. I wonder he does not divorce us.”

  Ann chewed on a thumbnail. “You are going back to Overton House for certain? With the children?”

  “William’s sick.” Catherine tore a leg from the hen and laid it on her plate. “Come with me and he’ll have nothing to say to it.”

  “I don’t care what he says.” Ann checked the stairs and sat again to her food. “I tell you, Catherine, it’s not safe. Someone fastened that stirrup to your son’s pony. Someone who knows he’s your son.”