The woman clutched the handle of the open door until Catherine ducked her head and went out. The door slammed behind her, and the heavy latch dropped into place.
42
Catherine stood alone in the high road. Havenston was closed up tight and quiet as an old graveyard, the doors locked in their frames as far as she could see. The sign for the Rose and Thistle creaked a little in a soft wind. A bee swirled past her head, and she swatted it away. Did someone laugh behind a nearby shutter? She turned and looked back the way she had come, but the constable’s comfortable beam and plaster house was closed as fast as the others.
“What bedevils you people?” she cried out to no one. “Women have died and you hide like frightened children.” She wiped the sweat from her face and could feel the life galloping inside her wrists. Her thumb throbbed with anger and yellow spots bloomed and faded before her eyes. The coins she had meant to give to the MacIntosh girls jangled in her pocket.
The door of the inn opened and Benjamin Davies came out, shading his face. “I thought I heard your voice, Catherine.” He screwed down his eyebrows into a mock scowl and bowed. “Let me fetch our steed.”
“I will walk,” Catherine said, but as soon as she spun on her heel she could hear him running toward her. She braced herself for the tug on her elbow and let him turn her.
“What do you mean, bellowing in the road like a fishwife? Let me get Caesar and get you home before the constable sets the watch upon you. You think William needs to be redeeming his wife from the gaol?”
“Oh and what are you now, my savior?” It came out too loud, and she saw a shutter flap open a little nearby. “Show your face, will you?” she yelled at the blank cottage front, but nothing else moved. “Why would he redeem me, to divorce me in private? I don’t know that he would set foot outside the house to redeem me from the devil.”
“I am your kindly friend, lady,” said Benjamin. “And your voice will be heard all the way to your home.”
“I cry you mercy, I took you for the gallant who has followed me halfway across England.” She shook him off and pointed at a cottage. “And you are in there. I can hear you. I can see you!” She stomped away. “Toads and chickens. A village of sheep. You all act as though the Scottish king has invaded us already.”
Benjamin called after her, “No. Do not walk alone. I will not allow it.”
She kept walking. He ran off and before she reached the hedge that marked the Havenston boundary he had caught up on Caesar and ambled along beside her, his hand down. She did not look up. He rode on ahead and leapt to the ground, blocking her path, and she lowered her face.
“Will you continue the stubbornest woman in Christendom?” he asked. He was in her way and she stopped, staring at the toes of his boots.
“The women who put their trust in me have been slaughtered like animals,” Catherine said, “and not a soul cares. They will rot wherever they lie, and the worms will love them more than their fellow Christians. So hold your tongue on the subject of religion. I see few signs of it here.”
She glanced up. He was looking over her head, back at Havenston. “The men at the inn were laughing about it. Their wives are afraid.”
“Of their husbands?”
Benjamin lifted his shoulder. “Of the world. They have been visited by the watch. Some have been called in to the constable. They say he has sent for soldiers and that they are on their way. The last time they were called, it was to make them swear Henry as the head of the church and Elizabeth as his heir. Then came the prince and now Elizabeth is a bastard. The Latin is out, then the Latin is in. They cannot tell the difference, Catherine. They want to keep their heads on.”
“So did Ruth and Joan. And so did Hannah and Teresa. God help us all because we surely cannot help ourselves.” She slapped at his boot, but he sat fast and she could not stop the tears from running down her face.
“Get on the horse, I beg you. It shames me to have you walk.” She walked on, and he called, “I will help you find out what has become of your women if you will ride.”
At that she stopped and faced him. “Do not perjure yourself, Benjamin. This is not a joke.”
He showed her his palm. “God may damn me if I am not your right hand.”
“You wager your soul?”
“You heard the words.”
“All right. Put me on the horse.” She returned and offered her foot. He hoisted her easily into the saddle.
By the time they trudged into the courtyard of Overton House, Catherine’s breasts ached and her head was heavy. She checked the high windows as they rounded the corner into the back yard. The curtain at her chamber fell, and she slid down before Benjamin could touch her.
“I must see how William does.”
Benjamin looked up, but the house showed nothing now. “Are you one of those women?”
“What women?”
“Those who are afraid of their husbands.”
“Go to. William is gentle as a lamb, but he is sick and the fever puts him out of his senses.”
“So he has disavowed this divorce business?”
“I haven’t spoken of it. And I won’t unless he does. The constable said nothing of it either. It’s a fantasy.”
“As you wish. And so the messenger was a spirit. However it stands, William seems much changed.” Benjamin pulled the reins over Caesar’s head and led him to Joseph, who waited at the stable door.
Catherine went in through the kitchen. Eleanor sat at the board table, with Veronica in her arms. “Madam, your sister has been in a fit,” the maid said.
“Margaret? She is always in a fit over something or other.” Catherine took the baby and loosened her bodice. “The people in the village are all bewitched by terror. They will not a one of them speak to me of Hannah and Ruth.”
Eleanor leaned forward and whispered, “No, I mean a screaming demon is in her. Margaret. She has been up and down stairs crying you down. That nasty maid of hers, too. I wonder that the walls have stayed up.”
“Over what?”
“She says you have poisoned her brother so that you could ride away with his friend. She has sent down to the constable.”
“The woman makes herself look a lunatic. Has my husband waked?”
“I don’t know. I stayed down here with the baby.”
“Did Margaret ask you anything of me?”
Eleanor nodded. “She asked me if you stayed in your bedchamber at Hatfield. If Master Benjamin came to visit. If he ever stayed the night.”
Catherine stretched her neck right and left. “That horse has wrenched my backbones all out of place. I suppose she thinks Benjamin has been stored under my bed like a chamber pot?”
“I told her you were as proper as could be. That Madam Champernowne would have it no other way. There’s rumors enough around Elizabeth is what I told her.”
“What do you know of rumors?” Catherine put Veronica to the other breast.
“I will bet she knows plenty,” said Margaret at the door, “and while you have been off riding with your suitor, your husband has been wrestling with Death himself.” The red-haired Constance crossed her arms behind Margaret.
“I will take him another draught,” said Catherine, rising and passing the baby to Eleanor.
“You will taste that draught yourself before you pour it down my brother’s throat,” said Margaret. “You have poisoned him into an unnatural sleep enough for one day.”
“Margaret, charm your tongue and get you upstairs,” said Catherine. “I’ve no more poisoned William than you have read three words this twelvemonth. You haven’t the sense to know sleep from an epilepsy, and you ought to keep your ignorance to yourself. A lack of reason is a worse infection than the pox.”
“You may cover your felonies with glib speech, but I will have the constable to hear of this.”
“I have been at the constable’s house this day, Margaret, and you have piled yet another stone upon the monument of your reputation for silliness. Do yo
u see any constable? He seems not to have rushed in obedience to your summons.”
Catherine went to work mashing fresh lettuce leaves. The drink upstairs would be stale if William hadn’t finished it. When she was done, Catherine pushed past Margaret, sloshing a little on her.
William was sitting in an armchair by the hearth, though the room was stuffy and hot. Reg squatted on a stool in the corner, whacking a rag over the surface of a boot. Catherine checked the pitcher by the bedside. The drink sat, a film upon its surface, where she had left it. “This smells spoilt,” she said. “I have brought you a new one.”
William slouched, not looking at her. She thought he might be sleeping, and she touched his shoulder.
“Where have you been?” he asked
“In the village. I went to speak to the constable and to the women whose children Joan and Ruth taught.”
“Who was with you?”
“No one, until Benjamin caught up to me and loaned me the use of Caesar. Insisted upon it. I did not ask him. I did not invite him.”
“And so my wife was riding through the village on the arm of Benjamin Davies?”
“You’re in a fever, William. No such thing. I rode and he walked. We parted company at Peter Grubb’s house. He accompanied me back home. Nothing passed between us beyond what is warranted by honest Christian friendship.”
“And did you bring back the bodies to lie in our kitchen and stink?”
“William, drink this. Your heat is conjuring Beelzebub in your mind. You need to cool down and rest.”
“I saw you ride in with him.”
“If you saw indeed, then you saw me ride in, with him walking at my side. If you saw what Margaret has reported that you might have seen, then you are letting her eyes see for you. Benjamin walked by the horse’s side. That is all.” She held out a drink and he regarded it warily. “Your sister has been making you hotter with the flames of her accusations, William, and it’s no wonder you haven’t improved in her care. Her reason is thin, and it blows this way and that with every puff of an idea. Drink. Here, I will drink first.” Catherine swallowed a large gulp while he watched. “See? Now drink.”
He took the goblet and looked into it. Then he drank the cup empty.
“Now come to bed.” She pulled him out of the chair, and when Reg had slipped out the side door and William was settled, she lay next to him. “Do you recall those days of your smallpox?”
The tight cords of his arm relaxed. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “You cured me.”
“So you have always said. But I wonder if such a malady can live deep in the body and waken now and then to cause you harm.”
“Like a viper?”
“Something like.” She rolled to her side and stroked his damp hair. “But I see no signs on your skin. It is probably just a fever and will pass if we keep you down. Your birds must miss their master.”
“Very like. But it is you I fear will fly away from me. Don’t leave me again, Catherine. I need you here.” His voice grew thick. “I cannot live alone in my mind when you are away.” She started to ask him what he meant, but William was gone back into a fitful sleep.
43
“Madam, your ladies were all good women, were they not?” Eleanor was bouncing Veronica on her knee while Catherine leafed through her receipt book, searching for remedies for fever that she had forgotten.
“Yes, of course.” She closed the book. A pain hammered the space between her eyebrows, and she rubbed at the spot with her forefinger. “Who says they weren’t?”
“No one.” The baby screwed up her face, ready to cry, and Eleanor passed her to Catherine.
“Come into the garden. I need to think.” Catherine pulled on a hood and threw a wrap around her shoulders. The sun was high but hoarding its heat today and the pale young leaves on the trees shivered in the wind. The three younger kitchen maids were weeding the salad greens. The radishes and onions were spearing the soil, but the dock had been allowed to spread under the ground and it threatened to choke them off. Catherine got on her knees. “It might do,” she said.
“What, Madam?” Eleanor squatted by the first row of strawberry plants and pulled a sprout of wild daisy. She tucked the straw back under the runners and flung the weed aside.
“Or willow bark, if I could lay my hands on it. Could Joseph ride down to Mount Grace and fetch me some?” She spied the limp plant in the grass and lifted it. “Daisy.” She smelt of the leaves. “They might give some relief, but they’re not mature. In full flower would be better.” She pocketed the weed and called to the other maids to bring the dock leaves when their baskets were full. “Come walk here with me while the air is fresh.” They strolled along the grass verge for a minute, and when they were far from the house, Catherine said, “Has someone been talking of them?”
Eleanor was fiddling with the baby’s cap. “Who, Madam?”
“The women who lived here.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No more than usual. There is gossip, you know. The younger girls hear the talk in the village.”
“Then why did you ask if they were good?”
The maids caught up to them with the dock and Catherine inspected it. “This is good. Take it to the kitchen and wash it well. Put the bigger leaves to soak in salted water.” They went off together, swinging their baskets.
Eleanor watched them go. “It’s just that you cared for them and taught them so well. And now all you have is me. And those girls.” She waved at the retreating forms. “They don’t have much interest in learning to read or write. Margaret has told them they must not.”
Catherine eyed Eleanor. “Flattery usually oils the way for a prickly request. What is it?”
“Nothing.” Eleanor shifted a clod of dirt with her toe.
“A confession? Have you done something?”
“It’s not a thing I have done. Not alone, anyway. And I will not have the reputation for holiness that your scholars had and you will cast me off.” The baby whimpered, and Eleanor gave her to her mother.
Catherine laughed. “Eleanor, I saw you through the window upstairs with your shift up around your ears. God’s blood, I am not going to turn you out, I thought I had made that clear. But others feel differently about such things, and I advise you to be cautious. At least go indoors if you have to lift your skirts.”
“I have,” Eleanor said miserably. “And much good it has done me.” She was looking at Veronica, who was smiling now in Catherine’s arms.
They walked toward the house, Catherine stopping now and then to turn a leaf or pull a weed. At the door, she put her hand out to stop Eleanor opening up for her. “Are you with child, then?”
Eleanor’s face bloomed red, and she peered through the window beside the door. The maids were chattering amongst themselves as they sorted the dock on the table. “They look so happy. It’s because they are young and pretty and know nothing.”
“This way.” Catherine led the younger woman around to the front courtyard, and they took a turn on the graveled walk. “Now tell me, but keep your voice low.”
Eleanor rubbed her palms down her skirt, then scrubbed them together and rubbed the skirt again. “I fear me so, Madam. What have I done?”
“As you say, you’ve not done it alone. Have you spoken to Joseph of this?”
“I am afraid.”
Catherine halted. “I cry you mercy, of what? Does the young man care for you or doesn’t he? He works for this house, and he will not be getting my maid with child without answering for it.”
Now Eleanor laughed but the sound was syncopated with crying. She began to hiccup, and Catherine said, “Hold your breath,” while she counted slowly to ten.
Eleanor exhaled with a low note. “Will you speak to him for me?”
Catherine set off on her circular route again. “Marry, that I will not. You must be a woman and say your mind. You’re no girl, and he has used you like a wife. How will your life go if you let a man get up inside you, then shake to speak of it
to his face? No, I won’t have you some wilting rose afraid to show her face to the cold wind of trouble.” Catherine laid Veronica in the grass and leaned on the broad edge of a stone pedestal. The vase that had sat upon it was empty. She would need to plant something in it. “But before you speak to him, you must tell me how far along you are.” She pressed her hands on Eleanor’s narrow waist. “You don’t show any swelling at all.”
“I have missed my flowers once. And I sick up at the sight of fat meat.”
“So hardly at all. Maybe not at all.” Catherine released Eleanor. Counted backward, staring up at the sky. “God’s foot, Eleanor, you must have gone to it when he came to fetch us home. Did you bring him up those back stairs?”
The maid tightened the bow of her apron. “We had been apart some time, Madam.”
A cloven-tailed kite sailed overhead and dived knife-straight into the far field. “Do you want this child? If child there is?”
“Want? What difference what I want if God has delivered it to me?”
Another kite came into view, circling the area where the first had come down. After two circuits, the second landed, too. Catherine breathed deeply, but she smelt nothing. She shivered and plucked Veronica from the grass. “Tush, God didn’t deliver it. You went in search of it. We can try to unseat it before it’s settled, if you want. If you have only gone past the moon once, there is yet no soul.”
Eleanor pursed her mouth in thought. “How long before the soul enters?”
Catherine headed back to the house when the third bird came into view. “They say you will feel the child leap when its soul comes to it from heaven.”
Eleanor’s mouth dropped open and she put her hand on her stomach. “How does it get in?”
Catherine put her finger under Eleanor’s chin and pushed. “Through there, if you’re not careful. Now, do you mean to bear this child?”
“Let me think.”
“Think before you speak to Joseph. Words are children, too, though they are conceived in your mind, and you cannot take them back into you once you have loosed them into the world.”
City of Ladies Page 22
