The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  “They are sent by my father, are they not? That is the routine you speak of.”

  “Don’t talk while your face dries. He must keep watch over his people,” said Catherine. She straightened the ends of Elizabeth’s hair, holding it midway down like a horse’s tail, and in the winter air it sparked and flew. She twisted it into a knot, then poked at the egg pack. “Just a few more minutes.” She poured off some of the water into the bowl. “Soak your feet in the water now.”

  Elizabeth Tudor closed her eyes and they all relaxed. Catherine felt drowsy from the fire and the fragrance and curled up with Veronica on a large pillow. She was dreaming of her garden at home, of rows of apple trees in full blossom, shimmering with bees, when Elizabeth said, “Is it time?”

  Catherine sat up, wiped her eyes, and shook Veronica awake. “We will see,” she said, rising to meet the king’s daughter at the window. Elizabeth’s face was a smooth,expressionless mask, and Catherine tapped it. “Yes. Sit here.” She washed Elizabeth’s skin with a softer clout dipped in the clean rose water, then dried her all over. Veronica helped her back into her gown and sleeves.

  A glass lay on the dressing table, and Elizabeth turned her face toward the light as Catherine fixed her headdress. “Am I beautiful?” she asked.

  “As beautiful as any girl in the land,” said Catherine. “As beautiful as a nymph.”

  “As a princess.” Elizabeth traced her forehead with three fingers. “Soft. You are better to me than any sister.”

  “You smell like a garden.”

  Elizabeth kissed Veronica on the cheek and dismissed them. The maids would carry away the wash. They retreated to their chambers, and Ann said, “Our Veronica is ready to serve a queen.”

  Veronica rose onto one toe and pirouetted. “I am a queen’s lady.”

  “Listen to the child,” said Catherine. “But you were perfection, Vere. How did you learn to undress her that quickly?”

  The small girl waggled her fingers in the air. “Each day I am set to write and write. My fingers have learned to do anything they are asked.” She curtsied with a little flourish of her arm. “How may I serve you, Madam?”

  Ann gasped. “God’s Mother, Catherine, she is the image of you under that Overton hair. You will have to keep her away from men’s eyes.” She looked up at Catherine. “You might want to keep yourself from men’s eyes just now as well.”

  6

  For the next ten days, they tried to hide their packing. Catherine directed the maids in the kitchen and prepared the wash water in her still room, listening for disturbances from above. Her daughter, called every day to serve the king’s daughter, undressed and dressed Elizabeth Tudor without a misstep. Martin Martins put his head in the chamber once, and Elizabeth shrieked. He withdrew. But still he watched, and still Catherine avoided him, slipping down the back stairs.

  Once, she took down the juniper and bit off a piece. Her stomach rebelled at the flavor, and she set it aside. Another day, she considered her stores of pennyroyal and tansy. Tansy would do it, but the herb was treacherous, killing as many women as it saved from unborn children. Ann Smith came in and she pushed them to the corner of the table.

  Ann lifted the pennyroyal. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing.”

  She set it down and chose the tansy. “This is not nothing, Catherine. You must think of your children. You cannot put yourself in danger, and you cannot be sick with bleeding under the eyes of these king’s men. The world has changed. You have changed.”

  “I am thinking of my children.” But Ann’s words were true. It was too soon for her to have felt life, so the soul had not entered yet. But the blood would come. And sickness. There would be no concealing it. She replaced the jars on their high shelf. For now. For now.

  She washed the Lady Anne’s face in the roses every afternoon, and held the glass for her afterward. “Do this make me fine?” asked the King’s Sister.

  “Very fine,” said Catherine. In fact, it did smooth the skin. Lady Anne might be made to look as pleasant as her portrait. She said, as lightly as she could manage, “Have you a summons from the court?”

  “No,” said Lady Anne, “but weather is bad. Spring comes. That is the courting time. Marriages come after Easter.”

  “Yes, Lady,” said Catherine. “And you will be as fresh as the flowers.”

  Lady Anne smiled at her reflection, and Catherine was dismissed.

  Down in the still room, she said to Ann Smith, “Lady Anne is preparing herself for battle. She looks better. Younger.”

  Ann scoffed. “Your imagination carries you away. Listen to Benjamin. Let it carry you away North.”

  “As soon as Benjamin gives the word.” But she hoped as hard for a message from the king, asking for the Lady Anne.

  On the morning of the tenth day, Catherine and Ann woke to women’s voices. Elizabeth was downstairs in the entry hall, scolding someone about the cut of her hood. “She is going,” said Catherine, just as her name was shouted. “We will be freer now. The king will know we’re alone.” She dressed in minutes.

  The Lady Anne was fussing over Elizabeth, pulling her furs up to her ears and pecking at her head. “You keep in the warm and you eat. Mind your music.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Elizabeth, like any girl longing to be away. But when the men appointed to accompany her were stomping their feet outside, she grabbed Lady Anne and clung to her. She hid her face in the wide bosom for a few seconds, then looked up into the woman’s face. “May I return?”

  “Whenever you want, child,” said Lady Anne. She held Elizabeth until one of the ladies coughed her impatience,then she broke her grip.

  Elizabeth took two steps toward the door and slid to the pavers. “I cannot go! They’ll put me in prison and force me to marry a nobody. A pig farmer or a lesser son. Let me stay, Lady Anne. Let me remain with you. Do not send me to be married off.”

  “No, child. No one will do that,” said Lady Anne. She labored herself down to her knees and put her face near Elizabeth’s. “You are just little girl. No, you would not marry no one you don’t like.”

  “And you will not marry. Not ever. Vow it to me.”

  Anne of Cleves fingered the lacy edge of her bodice. “I marry no one. It is not permitted me. I am the King’s Beloved Sister. I obey no one but the king.”

  The women stood in a circle, staring at their hands, until Elizabeth stood, smoothed her skirt, and snapped, “I am ready. What are you waiting for?” A manservant whisked the door open, and the king’s daughter walked out without another word.

  Lady Anne’s face went flat and hard, and she retired, sending her women off with a wave of her hand. Ann Smith guided Veronica out of the room, probably down to the kitchen for a sweet, but Catherine stayed, watching from a side window until the procession had settled onto the wide barge. The lawn and gardens lay bleak and barren, and the river wound away, a strip of iron. She dropped the curtain. Someone’s raised voice hummed through the palace. A door slammed, and Catherine turned.

  Jane Dudley stood before her, her hands folded over her belly like an angry mother. “Can you provide a distraction, please?” Catherine had lost count of how many children Lady Dudley had. It was no wonder she suffered the headache.

  “Who wants distracting?”

  “That man, that what-do-ye-call-him, that money-man,” said Jane. “Martin Damn-him Martins. He’s taken over the entire house, Master Harst and all of the manservants, too. Another one has just arrived in back. He must have come up the road. Chandler Ellers. Ellers Chandler. Whoever he is Martins claims to like your face and he’ll leave Lady Anne alone if you show yourself to him. You might pull that bodice a bit lower, as well. Give him a figure to gape at that is not in a book. Master Harst’s gone to get Lady Anne for another interrogation. My God, they’re dreadful things, these men with names that tangle my brain.”

  “H
ow do you feel this day, Jane?” asked Catherine.

  Jane Dudley waved her hand at nothing. “I am well, well. I am well, I tell you.” She breathed through her nose like a stalled mare. “These Germans do us no good. They set the country on edge. I don’t know why we keep them.”

  “Martins is English,” said Catherine, but she got no reply and followed Jane into the front hall. Martins, looking even shorter under the high ceiling, had adopted a court posture, with one toe twisted outward. He seemed to have risen from a puddle of himself. His right hand clutched one of the hand-cannons. The king had taken lately to wearing enormous padded shoulders and wide sleeves to conceal his expanding girth, and all his men were required to follow suit. On a short, fat man, the effect was that of an overstuffed puppet with a tiny head and hands. On the inflamed Barts, standing next to him, the impression was devilish. The excess of fabric was making courtly gestures a hazard for them both, as they flailed themselves into bows. The newcomer was maneuvering his arms out of his cape as Jane and Catherine approached. He was squat, with long narrow eyes, and when he trained his gaze on Catherine, she thought of a glaring toad.

  “What is that thing on your hip?” asked Jane. “I wonder it doesn’t tip you sideways.”

  “A curiosity to amuse the King’s Beloved Sister of Cleves,” said the man, drawing the weapon from its leather hanger, “and a new fashion that every gentleman requires. It is a wheel-lock.” The weapon wobbled in his hand and he struggled to show it off. “Don’t be frightened. I’ve not packed it with shot.”

  “Do let me see,” said Catherine. She leaned toward Martins slightly.

  “Ah. Catherine Overton. Or, no, I am mistaken. Lady Anne tells me that it is Catherine Havens lately, is it not? The widow. The lady who prefers to stay below. The nun who triumphs over the king’s will. Such a novelty. With your face, you might do better for yourself.” The man tried to both bow and brandish simultaneously, and the weapon almost hit the tiled floor. “What have your girls conjured up for dinner today?”

  “Come down and I will show you,” said Catherine. She twisted her mouth into what might pass for a smile.

  “The moment I am done here, I am yours,” he said. He slid her way, like a cross-eyed slug. His companions glided along behind him.

  “You are done,” said Anne of Cleves. She reappeared at the top of the stairs in yet another new dress, this one the green of deep forests, embroidered with blue and silver thread. She did not smile, nor did she offer her hand. Her advisor Harst and his manservant bristled behind her, unspeaking, like two brown pillars.

  “Not just yet,” said Martin Martins, working the firearm back into its leather loop. “I must bring back a balance. And if you are not disposed elsewhere, we will work.”

  “Can you not breathe a while?” asked Jane.

  “I cannot. The air in this palace is corrupted. I have been informed of some suspicion of thefts. I believe I have found some jewels missing. A ring, for one. A ruby ring that the king claims to have given as a gift. Has it been seen by anyone? It is rather large.”

  “You have not seen the ring, Catherine?” asked Lady Anne, descending heavily. She was breathing through her mouth. “It has the pearls around, and I cannot put my hands on it.”

  Catherine held out her bare fingers. “I do not wear rings. My work prevents it.”

  Jane said, “The king has been most generous to his loving Sister. She is not so constrained that she must count every stone in her possession, is she?”

  “You have not heard the news?” Martins’ mouth tightened at one corner, as though he’d bitten a gooseberry. “The queen is dead. She has paid her debt to the realm. But her excesses put the king in mind of accounts. Master Harst will confirm this, won’t you, sir?”

  The dark-haired Harst shifted to one foot and said nothing.

  “Ah. The Dutchmen cannot fit their tongues to our English. What a misfortune.”

  “Where is she to be laid?” Catherine asked.

  “Who?” Martins asked.

  “The queen.”

  “She was a whore. What difference does it make?” Martins said.

  “Any Christian ought to be laid to rest like a Christian, even one who has been found guilty of crime.”

  “Oh, my dear lady,” said the man. “We can all be found guilty of crime, every mother’s child of us. Treason is a more serious matter. It makes a war within a realm, within a man’s very breast. Or a woman’s.”

  Anne of Cleves asked, “And now he seek me back? That is your business in this house? To see that I am worthy?”

  “Yes,” said Martins smoothly. “That is all. Why do you resist so?”

  Anne of Cleves said, “You may look. All here is in order.” The planes of her face were taut, and in the slant sunlight, her eyes looked hooded. Those heavy eyes seldom opened in surprise anymore. She folded her fingers and laid her hands against her skirt.“I send gift. Henry send gift to me. You examine house as pleases you. I have the ledger book.” She trudged toward her writing room, her gait not quite elegant enough for the fabric. The men all went after her.

  “Do you think it wise to return to your maiden name in these times?” asked Lady Dudley when they were alone.

  “If the king’s wife can return to being a daughter of Cleves after six months of marriage, I can return to being a Havens in my widowhood. I may not remain so.”

  Lady Dudley cast her a level look. “The queen’s household has been dismembered. Her women were sent off with only the clothes on their backs.”

  “I have heard as much.”

  “You had a sister-in-law among them, did you not? A former nun?”

  “My husband’s sister. And, yes, once a sister of my convent. Now one of the king’s sisters. Margaret. She will surely go to Yorkshire.”

  “There are two letters arrived for you.”

  “I trust the seals are still intact,” said Catherine.

  “Intact as my daughters.” Jane stared at the closed door of Lady Anne’s study. “She thinks this interest in her will lead her back into the royal bed. But you know as well as I that when this king truly means to make love, he does not call for a reckoning beforehand.” She turned away. “That always comes after.”

  7

  “I must be called only Overton,” said Catherine. She and Ann were alone in their chamber, and Catherine turned the key in the lock before she laid a letter on the table. “Nothing to recall a Sister Catherine. No more Havens. I’m a widow and nothing more.”

  Ann took it up. The seal of Overton Hall had been mashed into the wax disc, and she ran her rough thumb over it before she opened the paper. “I thought you would have a letter from Robbie.”

  “And I have one. This one is fuller of news. It’s from Yorkshire.”

  “From Eleanor?” Ann squinted at the script and laid the missive down again. “The girl writes better after a few years’ study than I will ever. But I don’t suppose anyone cares to see a pen in this old hand.”

  “Your hands are strong, as they need to be. And not old.” Catherine flattened the letter between them. “It’s Eleanor’s writing, but she speaks for her husband as well.” She pointed to the signatures of the two stewards and Ann nodded. Catherine said, “She reports that Margaret has returned, convinced that all the ladies of the queen’s chamber will be taken to the Tower for traitors.Eleanor asks for my return. It gives me my reason to go.”

  “Margaret should have been arrested before now,” said Ann. “She is more murderess than traitor, and the bodies lie almost under her very feet.”

  “She will swear that she was innocent as a snowdrop in all that. The whole village heard my husband take the guilt for those women’s deaths onto himself.” Catherine crumpled the paper, then smoothed it again. “She let him die with her crimes on his name. She never did anyone any good, not in her whole life.And we are constrained to forgive.
It makes me burn. But listen.”

  The latch rattled, and a soft knock followed. Catherine folded the letter while Ann unlocked and opened the door. Agnes stood there with Veronica, who balanced an old apple in one hand. “The child will have her Auntie Ann to help with her letters,” the maid said. She guided Veronica into the room and curtsied her way back out.

  Seeing the paper, Veronica ran to the table. “What news?”

  Her red curls escaped from her stiff coif, and Catherine folded the stray hair into the cap. “Come up here, Daughter. We have a message from home.”

  “This is our home now, Mother, isn’t it? Aren’t our goods here? And our Lady?” She bit into the fruit and spat a brown slush into her palm. “The apples have gone rotten.”

  Ann said, “Come with me, girl. I’ll find you a solid one. Bring that for the pig bucket.” The child leapt from her mother’s lap and carried the shriveled fruit delicately by the stem. When they had gone, Catherine reopened the letter.

  Greetings from Yorkshire Lady Overton,

  We suffer a cold late winter and the grasses are froward, but the sheep are fat with hay and their wools are soft. Your father has brung some last years' fleeces from the Mt Grace fields and we have much to sell. You know your husbands sister Margaret has showed up from the court. She tells sad news of the queen who is no more. Joseph and me have secured all account books and receipt books in the small room of the loft under lock. She watches from windows but I tell her she is safe at home but who knows what soldiers do now these days. We would be glad for your appearance here among us. I am quick with another child and feel life from last week. Kiss small Vere for me. Do you hear aught from Robbie?

  Your loyal and humble stewards,

  Eleanor (and Joseph) Adwolfe