“Go to your chamber and I will bring it to you.”
Jane nodded and went, leaving the door open behind her. Catherine looked up and down the hall but the only movement was a lone chambermaid, dawdling at the window in the far wall to watch the lightning. Ann, from her sewing stool, said, “Go make the physic. No one will be travelling in this rain.”
“Not even Benjamin.”
Ann peered out the window, her hand hooding her eyes. “The clouds look like great grey hawks. Owls, perhaps. Do you take it to be an omen?”
Catherine came and stood beside her friend. Lightning split the sky and the thunder seemed to shake the foundations of the palace. “Like the finger of God,” whispered Catherine, “pointing my way to destruction.”
23
The rain droned all night, and Catherine lay next to Ann, listening for movement in the palace, but she heard nothing except the thunder, bellowing somewhere in the distant dark. She must have slept, because she woke with a jerk from a dream of Yorkshire and her first husband, William. He had been in the bed next to her, and when she turned to embrace him, she found herself touching the fat King of England. She said “Oh,” but it was only Ann beside her, stretching.
“I dreamt that you were King Henry,” said Catherine, throwing off the cover and feeling for her slippers in the dark.
Ann sat up and pinched her waist. “I will have to eat less supper, then.”
Catherine squatted before the hearth and poked at the fire but the embers only glowed and smoked, and she finally crawled back into bed. She said, “Even the flame’s spirits are low,” but Ann was already asleep again, and Catherine lay on her back, trying to see Benjamin’s face through the ghost of William’s on the backs of her eyelids, until the pale dawn fingered its way through the shutters.
Agnes and Veronica were up with the sun, and they entered from the maid’s chamber to wake Catherine, but she was already opening the narrow window. “The storm has moved on,” she said. “Look, God is smiling all the way to Wales.”
“Where?” Veronica climbed onto a chair to see the view. “I want to see the face of God.”
“It’s there, before you,” said Catherine. “See how we’re loved today?”
“God was angry at us last night,” said Veronica. Catherine held her daughter’s waist as the girl put her nose to the fresh air. “He was not happy to see Aunt Margaret.”
Ann hauled herself out of bed and plodded over to the basin to wash her face. “The wisdom of God is without bounds.”
Catherine said, “Here, child, you will fall,” and pulled Veronica inside. “Did you hear anything in the halls during the night?”
“Not a cheep or a complaint,” said Agnes. “I will run down and see what the gossip is in the kitchen.”
Agnes lifted Veronica and was gone. Ann and Catherine dressed quickly and took the front steps down. No one was stirring except the chambermaids, listlessly dusting the furniture. No one had laid food to break their fasts, and the two women descended to the kitchens. One of the laundry maids was heating a couple of small tubs, and the dairy girls, newly assigned to the kitchen, were standing at the back door, staring out at limbs fallen over the gravel. Sebastian and another man busied themselves with axes and hand saws, clearing away the brush. Agnes was outside, holding Veronica by one hand. The poppet dangled from her daughter’s fingers.
“Where is the food?” asked Catherine, and the maids startled.
“The rain, Madam,” said one, dropping into a contrite curtsey. “It’s got everyone out of sorts. There’s boughs down all over the yard and the men have been out since before sunup. There’s dead things in the river. I never seen anything so scaring to me.”
“All right,” said Catherine, “but the household will be clamoring for victuals. Get some cold meat and cheese and bread upstairs. Take plenty of ale.”
“Yes, Madam,” said a tall, black-haired girl.
Catherine and Ann went out back to watch the work. Agnes said, “The order is to get the lane cleared and the Overton horses saddled before the sun is over the trees.”
“So she’s going,” muttered Catherine. The wind was high this morning, whipping the sawdust as the men worked. One window had been shattered by a loosened branch, and a young boy teetered high on a ladder, nailing boards over the offending hole. The women’s hoods threatened to sail off. One of the younger maids came hurrying from the dairy with a bucket of fresh milk, its surface thrashed into tiny waves. She was holding her head low and almost bumped into Ann Smith. “Pardon me, Madam,” she said without looking up. “The air is vicious this morning.”
“Indeed,” said Catherine. She watched a ribbon of cloud unwind high in the blue sky. “The whole world has come undone.”
The stable boys led Margaret’s horses out. They were already bridled and saddled, but their spirits were excited, and they stomped and pawed the gravel as they came. “Thank God,” said Catherine. She turned to go back inside when another rider came galloping around the corner of the palace. He skidded to a stop when he saw the other horses in his way and, jumping to the ground, handed his reins to a groomsman before hurrying back to the front.
“That was our messenger,” said Ann Smith, watching him go. “Oliver, isn’t that his name?”
“Come from Benjamin,” said Catherine.
Ann said, “Should we walk through and hear the tale?”
Catherine shook her head. “We must not seem too anxious. We don’t want Lady Anne’s fury to fall on us.”
The Lady Anne had come downstairs and was sitting with Jane Dudley and her other women at the long table when Catherine forced herself upstairs, Ann just behind her. Their cups had been filled and they were being served bread and meat.
“Catherine,” said Jane Dudley. “Have you been out to inspect the damage?”
Catherine nodded and slid into an empty seat. Margaret was nowhere to be seen. Ann took the spot below Catherine. A jug of ale sat before them, and Ann poured. Catherine’s heart was banging, and she drank before she spoke.“The wind was most violent. I saw at least one broken pane and enough torn limbs to make a bonfire. It will be all day getting them cleaned away.”
“Is that all?” asked Jane.
“It was enough,” said Catherine. “The men seem to be bringing the horses from the stable. I wonder that the roof did not collapse upon them.”
“Our rider has returned,” said Jane, breaking a piece of bread and setting a piece of meat on it.
“Has he?” asked Catherine. “He is most expeditious. Has he brought Master Davies with him?”
Ann rose and curtsied to the table of women. “He will want refreshment. I will see to him.” She backed out, but Catherine heard her running down the steps to the kitchen. She was going to see if he’d come in the back way.
“Your woman is most attentive,” observed the Lady Anne.
“Ann Smith is a gem among women,” said Catherine. “I have always been blessed in having her for my sister.”
Anne of Cleves buried her face in her big goblet of ale. She seemed to empty the cup, and a small belch escaped her as she set it down. “You seem both to be very blessed,” she said.
Catherine put her palms flat on the table. “Was he home? Are they married?”
Lady Anne smiled. “Her man is not at his home.”
“Oh. I see,” said Catherine. “Her man.” Her guts rolled over and her arms itched. She felt that her skin was being overrun with tiny feet, and she wanted to cry. “So there is no word.”
“That is not what I say,” said Lady Anne.
“His man is home. The man who run the house. This old man. Jack he say he is.”
“Jack Huff!” said Catherine. “I know him. Is he here?”
“No,” said Anne. “But he say his man no married. He swear it.” She put her hand on her breast. “She must go now. I am sorry t
o know she is your relation.”
A cry came up Catherine’s throat and she let herself say, “Thank God for it.”
“Yes,” said Jane. She sipped from her goblet. “Thank God.”
Catherine rose. “I must write a letter to my father and ask him about these banns.”
Anne of Cleves sighed. “Very well, my Catherine Havens of Overton. Go write your letter.”
Catherine ran from the room and flat into Ann Smith. They both almost fell backward and Catherine began to laugh. “Christ in the East, Ann, we will kill each other just as my heart’s been eased.”
“What?” Ann grabbed Catherine’s arm. “Where is Benjamin?”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine. “But wherever he is, he is not married to Margaret. Come, I have no desire to kiss her hand as she departs. I must write to Father.”
“If Margaret was able to ride here, then we are able to ride North. I say we go. Benjamin is not here. He is not there. We must take care of this matter ourselves.”
“That may be best,” said Catherine.
The letter was scratched at the big kitchen table within the hour, while Ann showed the kitchen duties to the maids and Veronica walked her poppet across the sill of the open window. Catherine re-read the message. It was innocent enough as far as the questions about Margaret were concerned. But she’d asked if Benjamin had requested banns for herself. It was a risk. She signed the bottom and scattered sand over the ink. Sebastian, back at his post, stepped aside to let her melt wax at the big hearth to seal the edge.
“And who will deliver it?” Ann asked.
Catherine waved the missive until the wax hardened, then tucked it into her pocket. “We might send Oliver today, if Jane will spare him. We know that he can ride and we can pay handsomely for his service. We will not be far behind him.”
Ann nodded, but Catherine bent as she tried to rise and let her head fall between her knees. “I will be sick,” she said. “I have built my hopes on sand.”
Ann rubbed the back of her neck. “All will be well when we are gone from here.”
Catherine felt the knots loosen in her back. She stood, slowly and moved to the back door for fresh air. Oliver was there, breaking up branches, and she stepped out to hail him, but just as the man looked up, a noise in the hall made Catherine turn. It was probably Jane Dudley. “Back inside,” she said quickly, and Ann opened the door to find the kitchen empty, except for Martin Martins, waddling up to her.
“Madam. I will need to detain you.”
“What? For what reason? What do you do here?” His swollen hand hovered near her elbow, and Catherine jerked away. “I am busy with a letter to my father.”
“So I hear. A letter to your father about an unapproved marriage. Come with me.” From the shadow of the hall, Ciaran Barts emerged into the light of the room. His red face shone, and his spectacles caught the untended flames.
Catherine and Ann pushed past the men and headed toward the stairs, but Martins said, “No. This way.” He took Catherine in his damp grasp and steered her toward her own small room. She said, “Ann,” over her shoulder, but he shoved her inside and closed the door behind them. The extra silver rattled in the baskets. She could hear Veronica wail.
Martins pushed Catherine onto the wooden seat, among her own books. His breath was rancid and she faced away. He said, “You will empty your pockets.”
“I will not. I carry a letter. It is private.”
“I will determine what is private and what is not. Laws are being flouted. Lies are being told. Women are making their plans, as though they think they are men. Let me see the letter.” His fat hand was out, and before he could touch her, Catherine removed the paper and set it on his palm. He cracked the seal and read, tilting the paper into the one shaft of window light. “Mmhmm. Yes. Private indeed. I was not told that the marriage under consideration was your own, but I have heard of this man. Lady, you are in serious trouble.”
For a moment, Catherine thought to grab for the message and tear it, but Martins had already folded it again and secreted it in his jacket. “This with the other proofs will be most interesting. What have you to say for yourself? And after I have offered you such kind assistance?”
“I have nothing to say,” said Catherine. “I am sick with your threats and suspicions. I have written to my father. There is no crime in that.”
“Oh, there is crime, Lady.” He went to the door and called. Catherine could hear a faint answer from somewhere. Then footsteps. Martins went out, and she could hear him conferring with Barts. Twice the fat man peeped back into the room to be sure she had not moved. The third time he returned and pulled the door closed behind him again. “Yes. There is crime.” He opened his hand. Catherine’s purse lay in it, and he threw it into the air, catching it as it fell. “What do you suppose it in this purse? And where do you suppose it has been found?”
“It is my purse and you found it among my possessions. But what is inside belongs to me and was brought to me from my holdings in Yorkshire.”
“And what of this?” He removed a paper from a pocket in his breeches and flapped it before her face.
At first glance, Catherine didn’t recognize it. “What of what?” He thrust it into her face. Her head felt as though she had walked into a hot blizzard. Her blood began to rattle. “I am sick.”
“I expect you are.” Martins snapped the paper open. It was the list of merchants that Benjamin had given her. She had almost forgotten it.
“Where is Ann? I’m not well.” Catherine squeezed her head between her hands, trying to steer her thoughts in a straight direction, but the snowy light flipped and danced before her eyes. “I must have drink.”
“You must have what I allow you,” said Martins. The wide shoulders of his jacket had begun to sag, and his codpiece was close enough to Catherine’s face to make her gag. “You will admit it. You have concealed goods that do not belong to you. You have meant to make off with them, to marry and leave the country without the king’s warrant. You have like a whore enlisted your lady-in-waiting in this plan. You mean to abandon your young son to have another man, against the laws of the king and of God. You have committed thefts and borne false witness. You have rejected my most generous attentions to your welfare. Admit it.”
“I am sick,” said Catherine. “I have only tried to mend the breaks in this household, to help the Lady Anne to some happiness, and anything I have concealed has been in the service of peace.”
“Peace. I will give you peace. And quiet. Yes, plenty of quiet. You will find the stones of your cell as silent as the grave. And one well-tied knot will give you all the peace you require.”
The blizzard in Catherine’s head whined and roared, and she put her head down again. “I am sick,” she said again. “I must speak with the Lady Anne.”
“You may speak all you wish, but the Lady cannot help you. She will not.”
“I must have the benefit of the law,” said Catherine. “I must be allowed to speak.”
“You may cry your heart dry, but the law of this land will be no benefit to you,” said Martins, hitching the waistband of his breeches up. The codpiece bobbed, and the jewels embroidered on it sparkled. “Let the walls of your prison listen to your tale.”
24
The King’s Sister waited at the top of the stairs, with Jane Dudley scowling at her side. A couple of doughy men slouched behind them, hands idly resting on their daggers. Lady Anne squinted down at the group as they came up.
“You,” said Jane Dudley. She pointed at Martins and he continued up the steps until his chest touched her finger. But she did not back away. “You Martins. You Martin what-do-ye-call-yourself David Martins.” She swung the finger toward Barts. “And you, tall fellow, can you see my finger before your face?”
Barts sidestepped Jane and dragged Catherine toward the front door. Martins brandished his wheel-lock a
nd Catherine heard him say, “You keep thieves in your very bosom, Lady Anne. Liars and whores and thieves.” The other men sidled out from behind Anne of Cleves. One of them twirled his weapon as he walked.
Catherine yanked herself free. “I am no thief.”
“Of course you are not,” said Anne of Cleves. She drifted like a wall of silk toward the bell-shaped man.
“This one,” said Martins, latching again onto Catherine. “I seize upon this one and her companion.” He gestured with the hand holding the wheel-lock to his men. “You may search her chambers after we are gone.”
“You may not,” said Catherine, but Martins’ men had already put on eager faces and taken the stairs. She called to Lady Anne, “You will not allow them to put their hands on my goods?”
But Anne of Cleves was staring at Martin David Martins. Ciaran Barts hovered beside Catherine, his spectacles twinkling as he looked from his master to the ladies. “You will make your searches and be gone?” Lady Anne asked.
“With your leave,” said Martins. He tried out a courtly bow, his little head and chest bobbing over the great belly and legs. He looked into the dining gallery. “I see refreshments have been laid.”
“You are surely too rushed to stop for a meal,” said Jane Dudley. She curtsied to Lady Anne and bolted upstairs. Catherine had never seen her move with such dispatch. She left a scent of rotten urine on the air.
Anne of Cleves watched her go. “Where is the Margaret? The Margaret of Overton? She is the one who bring us such trouble.” She beckoned to Catherine, and Barts brought her forward. “Your sister has done this.”
“I don’t know where Margaret is. I thought she was gone,” said Catherine. She stared up the steps. “They are in our chambers. I can hear them from where I stand.” She put her foot on the bottom stair. “You must release me to see what they’re up to.” But before she could move, Margaret appeared at the landing. She leaned onto the banister, Constance beside her, and one of Martins’ men came up behind them. He had Sebastian with him.
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