Catherine did not respond and Ann rushed on. “I don’t like saying it outright, but you cannot act like a blind woman. You think it’s coincidence that your women disappear one by one? That your son is almost killed? You could be next.”
“His own wife? His own son? William has always been devoted to family.”
“Robert’s as good a boy as I know, but William can count. He can see, too. And the boy doesn’t look like him.”
“No. He looks like me.” Catherine’s voice crumbled and the words were barely audible.
“Yes,” said Ann, taking the other chicken leg. “Exactly.”
“I have to go. Margaret will have me before a court of law if I fail to return.”
The young women returned for the vegetables. Catherine checked their tenderness and color and approved them for the table. Eleanor showed the younger maids how to fill the serving dishes and the four of them were gone again.
“William is the reason I’m here.” Catherine looked at the ceiling. “I hope Diana has enough sense to show herself a pleasant presence at the table.”
“Not too pleasant, I pray,” said Ann, swigging from her cup. “The king will want to marry her before he departs.”
Catherine shuddered at the image of the slim girl trapped under the heaving bulk of Henry VIII. “God’s cross, how could any woman bear it?”
Ann shrugged with one shoulder and poured herself another drink. “He is a king, Catherine. Need I say more?”
“Diana is a practical girl. And she likes her learning.” Catherine could hear the tremor of insistence in her voice. “She does.”
“So did the Boleyn woman.” Ann thought a moment, wiping butter over her bread. “We have us another school then.” She nodded toward the door. “Those three younger ones may come to you for instruction in intellectual matters as well as manners.”
“Perhaps.” Ann was smirking, and Catherine added, “They may not be geniuses, but they could learn to read accounts and sign their names. It would do them good.”
“More good than reading Cicero,” agreed Ann. She’d plucked a volume from the windowsill and plopped it onto the table. “You will not subject them to this, will you?”
“We have different ideas about reading.” Catherine fished in her pocket and drew out the ring. She tossed it onto the boards and it rattled toward Ann. “What think you of that?”
“Where did this come from?” Ann lifted it with her middle finger and let it slide down. The garnet at its center glowed, and the gold foil glittered. The red stone was surrounded by small pearls.
“The little finger of Henry VIII,” said Catherine. She lifted it from her friend’s hand. “Looks like a drop of blood, doesn’t it? And I fawned like any merchant’s wife to get it. Thanked him for his generosity.”
“We say what we must to keep our heads on our necks.”
“I once despised such opinions. But that was when I was sure of truth’s strength.” Catherine threw the ring down again. “I will sell it for some paper and ink. For our school, as you call it. For books.”
“It troubles me,” said Ann. She listened for a moment to the shreds of laughter that twisted down the stairs from the gallery. “To have women gathered together for study. After what has happened at Overton House. I do not believe that Ruth and Hannah left on their own. Not for a second.” She snapped her fingers.
Catherine went to the door and checked the stairs again. She and Ann were alone. “Are the children still sleeping?”
Ann stuck her head into the side room that led to the laundry. “Like two angels,” she said. “Thank God that Robbie is not old enough to care more if he sees a king than if he sees a speckled pup.”
“Would that he might stay in that frame of mind,” said Catherine. She sighed and sat at the table. She started to speak, but the four maids came trotting down the stairs and into the kitchen for the meats. Eleanor loaded up the platters and expertly herded the three younger ones out again.
Catherine waited until their footsteps could no longer be heard on the steps. “The events may be unrelated. At home, I mean.”
“Do you believe that? Honestly?”
Catherine searched her mind to see if the idea would hold. All she could imagine were her two friends, lying in the dirt somewhere, prey for wild animals. “Not in earnest.” Catherine spun the ring in the light. “When the king goes, I will be on the road home. I will leave this with you to sell as you see fit. William may have uncovered some lunatic. I think the villain must be someone who resented the convents.”
“What about Robert?”
Kat Champernowne came down, and Catherine’s chest froze up again. “His Majesty summons you,” said the lady. Then she whisked off up the stairs.
“Put linen wads in your nose if you are called up,” said Catherine to Ann. She ripped a corner of a clean rag and stuffed her own nostrils. “The man smells like rot. He must be filled with maggots.”
“I mean not to be called at all,” said Ann.
Catherine climbed the stone steps as slowly as she could, her skirt twisted in one sweating hand. She wiped the other against her side as she passed the three maids and Eleanor, who were standing at attention just outside the door to the gallery. Eleanor’s eyes glowed almost feverishly and she whispered, “The king is in there!” She pointed frantically at the door. “He is there and I have laid eyes upon him!”
“Yes, Eleanor.” Catherine touched her maid with a damp palm, took a deep breath, and entered the gallery.
The table was a shambles of gnawed bones and wads of glistening, chewed gristle. Three dogs crouched near the king’s chair, growling and snapping over the scraps that had been tossed to the floor. Henry stripped the flesh from a breast in one rip, pulling sideways with his teeth and spitting the skin away. His plate was heaped with meat and bread, and his face pulsed with the effort of eating. He sat back and chewed, washing the mouthful down with a swig of wine. He spied Catherine as he set down the goblet. “Come, woman. Don’t stand in the shadows like a ghost. Step forward and show yourself.”
Catherine approached the table and curtsied. She was standing behind Elizabeth, who had nibbled at a sliver of chicken. A few remnants of salad and carrots were strewn in the grease. The child bent her head in its velvet cap backward and smiled up. “Lady Catherine. Have you made my supper for me?”
Catherine moved so that she was beside the king’s daughter and curtsied again. When she raised her eyes, she met the gaze of Mary Tudor, who sat across the table from her sister. The older Tudor daughter was in dark green, and her hair was fixed severely under a black cap stitched with pearls. She nodded almost imperceptibly at Catherine. Diana Davies sat beside Mary, her face pale and bright with terrified excitement. Catherine dipped her chin, then turned to Elizabeth. “I have overseen your food, my young Lady. I trust you have eaten your fill?”
“I have.” Elizabeth took Catherine’s hand and spoke to the king. “Lady Catherine keeps me strong, Father, so that I excel in my lessons.”
“Are you satisfied with her, then?” It was not clear if the king was addressing his daughter or Kat. His piggy eyes were on Catherine. Her chest felt exposed and cold.
“She pleases me,” said Elizabeth. “Her baby is my doll, and she teaches me to make my letters beautiful so that I may write to you.”
“You have a writing master for that, Daughter,” said the king. “And I pay him handsomely for it.”
“Yes, Father, and I thank you, but Catherine sits with me of an evening, and she lets me sleep if my eyes are heavy.”
“She does, does she?” The king was still watching Catherine. “How will you learn your letters if you are sleeping?”
“Lady Catherine says that my mind is awake when I sleep, like my soul, Father, and that it needs to rest.” said Elizabeth.
“And what part of Lady Catherine is awake during these times of sleep?” asked the king. “Do you sleep with parts of yourself alert?”
Catherine opened her mouth
to reply, but her tongue was dry. She closed her eyes, thought, Mother be with me, and said, “My soul is always wakeful, Your Majesty, and it meditates night and day upon the welfare of my husband and the children who are in my care.”
“Shall I show you my writing?” said Elizabeth at her side.
Henry wiped his beard and threw the cloth to the floor. “Another time, child.” He leaned back and his stomach lurched until he belched. “Do my daughters always eat this black stuff?” He lifted a chunk of the dark bread and ground it with his fingers. A damp wad remained in his palm and he flung it down. The dogs landed on it as one.
Catherine felt as though lightning was rippling across her collarbones. The king was staring at her. She said, “The young ladies have delicate stomachs. The grains improve them.” The words were fluttering birds in her mouth. “Their bodies must work to be strong.”
The king looked at Mary. Looked at Elizabeth. “This is nun’s food?”
Catherine’s guts twisted and flipped. She was afraid she might lose control of her water.
Mary broke a crust and spread butter on it. “This food has made my skin shine, Father. Catherine is mistress of her kitchen and she knows what she is about.” She nipped the edge of the bread.
“Hmph,” said the king. “Has the mistress of the kitchen any puddings to follow the meat?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Catherine curtsied quickly. “May I have leave to attend the younger maids in the kitchen? They are young yet and green in their duties.”
“Go, go,” said the king, waving his hand. He had already shifted his attention to the dancing master before she left the room.
Catherine snapped her fingers at the four young women as she hurried out. The tarts were still warm, thanks to Ann, and Catherine put a jug of sweet cream into the hand of the smallest maid as they lined up. “Hand in the pastry first. Then the cream. Replace the wine. Clear the bones from the sideboard if the men do not.”
“Are you not coming back up, Madam?” said the first. “The king seemed much interested to speak with you.”
“I will stay here until called.”
They went in a dutiful line, and Catherine sat, putting her head on her arms.
“Is it over?” Ann slid onto the bench across from her.
“Almost.” Catherine raised her eyes. “The man eats like a hog and stares like a fat hound with a cornered rabbit. Christ, you can hear the swish of the axe in his voice.”
“Smells like death. Eats like a hog. Sounds like an executioner. It does not increase my faith in his church.”
“Nor mine. But if the reformers are not liars, the Pope is no different. Nor the cardinals in Rome.” Catherine picked up the garnet ring that Ann had left on the table and turned it. “And yet, the girl is sweet as a rose in June. With a mind as sharp as the thorns.”
Ann shook her head, confused. “Which one?”
“Elizabeth. They are as different as night and noon. Mary sits still as a dark star in the sky, and when she speaks, the air changes. Elizabeth is all chatter and sunshine.”
“Ah, the little bastard. You once said you would never serve anyone but Katherine of Aragon’s child.”
“I know,” mused Catherine, though when she tried to call up the feelings of resentment she had once felt toward Anne Boleyn’s daughter, she could not find them anywhere inside her.
“So which one will you give your loyalties to now?” Ann drank deeply and regarded Catherine over the cup.
“Mary, of course. She just now saved my skin. But Elizabeth when she needs me. No, Mary.” Catherine wiped back her hair, dripping from the heat of the fire. Something smoldered in her chest as well and she could not get cool again. “I do not know.”
35
The king wanted to go by the time the sun was well up and Catherine counted the minutes. She had been awake since the middle of the night, directing the victuals for the king’s men to break their fast and making sure the ale was fresh and sweet. The maids had been baking since midnight, and Catherine had put her head down for a couple of hours in the laundry room, but when she smelt burning meat, she’d awakened to find the girls fussing over a scorched joint of pork.
“Never mind,” said Catherine as the maids began to squabble at the mess, each blaming another for failing to watch the fire. “Find something else. Get the hams from the cellar.” She stabbed the smoking, black thing with a long fork and opened the back door, only to be assaulted by the strange dogs. One snapped at the meat and caught Catherine’s thumb. “God damn you,” she blurted, losing her grip on the handle. Three animals went at the downed meat and each other, and Catherine backed away, hoping one of them would swallow the tines in its fury.
Her hand swelled and, back in the kitchen, Catherine clapped a quick poultice of fresh lard and dried thyme leaves on the wound. “Mark me if this doesn’t leave a scar,” she muttered.
Ann came in, rubbing her eyes. “Are you baiting bears out there?”
“You are a rare comedienne,” said Catherine. “You see what those devils have done to me to get at a charred chunk of pig?” She held up the thumb and Ann whistled. The blood trickled from under the bandage.
“God’s foot,” she said. “You could have lost the hand. Next time throw it from a window.”
“I will throw a butcher knife next time. Now let’s get this food upstairs before the royal stomach growls.”
Catherine started loading up the platters with her uninjured hand and the maids followed suit. The baby woke and cried, and Ann went to tend her.
“Say a sweet good-bye to the royal arse as you see it depart,” she whispered as Catherine went by, laden with fruit and ale and still holding the clout tightly wound around her thumb.
By the time the king and his men were finally mounted, Catherine was in the garden, watching from a distance as Henry bade his children farewell. Lady Bryan held the prince, and Catherine strained to see the boy’s face, but he was swaddled too deeply. Elizabeth clung to her father’s neck and he gave her a few thumps on the back before he set her on the ground and pointed his fat finger in her face. He was presenting her with some admonition or other, and Catherine was glad she couldn’t hear it. Mary hung back, standing straight as a pin with her hands folded neatly in front of her. She exchanged words with King Henry briefly and curtsied low, but she did not move to embrace him, nor did he seem to seek it.
Elizabeth stood with her hand in Kat’s as the horses stampeded off. She did not cry. When Mary, after they were gone, turned on her small heel and walked inside, her little sister followed without looking back.
Catherine took a loaf of fresh warm bread and a bowl of fried apples with a jug of weak wine up to Mary’s apartment, but no one answered, so she went down to Elizabeth’s room, knocked softly on the door, and swung it open. Elizabeth was sitting in her small rocker, with her simple embroidery in her lap, but she was not working. Kat sat on the bed. Mary was in a wooden armchair by the window, holding the edge of the curtain.
“I have brought the ladies somewhat to break their fast.” Catherine set the food on a dresser, tucking the bandaged thumb into her palm.
The child set the needlework aside. The apples were spiced with cinnamon, and she lifted one to examine its color before she set it on her tongue. “Come and taste, Sister. These are like candy.”
“Better for your bowels than candy,” said Catherine, and Mary rose, tempted by the food, and sat with Elizabeth.
“I will cut this for you,” said Mary Tudor, taking a knife to the apples. “You want smaller bites for your size.” She fixed the apples, covered a slice of bread with butter, and handed the plate to Elizabeth. They could have been a young mother and daughter, and Catherine was astonished.
She watched for a while as the sisters ate their food in silent concord. Then Mary rose and said she would retire to her own chamber. When she was gone, Catherine said to Kat, “My husband may be lying in need of me. And there is the matter of the women missing from our household.”
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“Yes. You will leave your children here, then?”
Catherine thought for a few seconds. The Tudor sisters had never been as tender with each other as she had just seen them. It was a temptation. But she had no idea how long she would be gone. And her son was safer at her side. “Robert has been away from me enough. He and Veronica will travel with me.”
“You have spoken with Master Davies?”
“I thought you might intervene there for me.”
“I’ve no doubt he will provide you with his best equipment.” Kat shook her head. “The very best. If it suits you, I will send word to him.”
Catherine went at once to pack her cases again. Eleanor brought Robert, and the boy jumped onto his mother’s bed to watch while the maid busied herself in the next room.
“Will we go to see my father now?” Robert asked.
Her son was picking at the hem of his shirt, and one leg swung back and forth.
“Why, yes. We will go together.”
The boy put his thumb into his mouth and Catherine removed it. He popped it in again.
“That will make your teeth crooked, Robbie. You are too old for such tricks. You must behave like a boy of your station.”
Robert slowly let the thumb slip from between his lips but his eyes glistened with tears. Catherine knelt beside the bed and took his hands in hers. “Do you not wish to go home?” The boy’s face flushed, and the tears spilled down his cheeks. “Mother—” he began, then he tumbled from the bed. It was too late. The wet spot was large and the child crumpled onto the floor. “I will do as you command, Mother.”
“Robert, come here.” Catherine held her son until he grew cold. “You must get out of these things and put on something clean.” She pulled off the urine-soaked garments and washed the boy at her basin. She held the soap to his nose. “Doesn’t that smell like the garden?” Robert smiled and allowed himself to be clothed in fresh linen. Catherine stripped the bed and called Eleanor to take the soiled covers down to Ann. The maid did not ask questions though the scent made the entire room acrid. When she was alone again with her son, Catherine set him in a chair and sat on the floor before him. “Now tell me. Do you want to stay here? I must go, but you need not. Ann could stay to take care of you. She would relish it.”
City of Ladies Page 18
