The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  The morning of the third day, Agnes appeared again, slipping past the scowling gaoler. She carried a large basket of bread and cheese and meat, and a young maidservant followed her with bottles of wine. Under the wine were folded clean shifts for both women.

  “Thank God you’ve come,” said Ann, taking the basket. She held a loaf to her nose and inhaled deeply. “I was beginning to feel moldy inside.”

  “I have a bowl of butter, but it likely will not last in this air.” Agnes motioned for the girl to come forward with the bucket she carried. “I will have her leave this one and take the used one.” The girl threw a thick clout over the used bucket and set the clean one in the corner.

  The three women sat, and the girl hovered by the door, rubbing her arms against the dank chamber. Catherine and Ann ate, and Agnes poured them both drink. The bread was white and fine, and Catherine slathered hers with the fresh butter. “You are sent by God,” she said. “I have never tasted anything better.”

  “I would have come yesterday,” said Agnes, “but there was much commotion at the palace.”

  Catherine’s teeth stopped halfway through a chunk of cold chicken. She swallowed hard. “What is the matter?”

  Agnes glanced at the girl, who knocked to be let out. Agnes waited until all was silent beyond the door, and then she leaned over the table and whispered, “It is your sister.”

  Catherine sat back. “Is she still there?”

  “No. Oh, no. The ladies have sent her off, but she has returned, demanding to know where they have put Master Davies.”

  “Has he still not come home?” Her heart twisted a little.

  “No, Madam. No word of him. But your sister, she is not to be diverted. She cried down the house, even brought the Lady Anne to the door, wondering what the disturbance was about.” The young woman smirked, then bit her lower lip. “Lady Jane was white with it. You should have seen her face. I thought she’d lost every drop of blood in her. I thought she might go after your sister with her very claws.”

  Catherine looked at Ann. “It is nothing to ridicule,” she said, trying to sound a prim note, but Ann guffawed, and Catherine could not contain herself. She snorted and had to clean her nose on the edge of a dirty shift. “We shouldn’t laugh.”

  “Why not?” asked Ann. “Why should we sit here in the dark and the damp and the smell of our own shite and be miserable while we wait to die?” She squeezed Agnes’s arm.

  “Now, what of Margaret? Where did she think Jane was hiding Benjamin? Under her skirts?”

  Agnes waited until the other two women had regained their poise. “I don’t know. It never came out where he is.”

  Now Catherine shook her other arm. “Then what is the matter?”

  “Your sister. Lady Margaret. She says that she is with child and that the father must be found.”

  Catherine shoved her stool backward so hard that it fell on its side. “What proofs has she?”

  Agnes’s eyes widened. “I . . . I don’t know, Madam. She didn’t say. I thought she would . . . would know. How does a woman know? Are there not signs?”

  “Her courses would cease. She might puke of a morning. The smell of fat meat might repulse her.”

  Agnes’s head turned from Catherine to Ann and back again. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Ann said, “Margaret would scarcely allow herself to be examined, Catherine.”

  Catherine’s cheeks prickled with shame and she retrieved her stool. She mumbled, “Forgive me, Agnes. You surprised me.”

  “Oh, Madam, I have brought you hard news. But Master Davies is nowhere to be discovered and no one knows what’s to be done. That Connie follows your sister about like the cat in the dovecote, holding her skirt and mopping her face and ‘Lady’ing this and ‘Lady’ing that. Your sister acts like a woman made of glass.”

  “And has she insinuated herself back into the household?” asked Ann.

  “Lady Jane called her a slut and drove her from the door,” said Agnes. “Lady Anne said nothing to it at all.”

  “I wish I had been a bee on the wall to hear that,” said Catherine.

  “But she returned this morning, all tears and wringing hands, pounding upon doors and calling for the Lady Anne to find out where they have put her child’s father.”

  “What does she imagine that anyone has done with him?” She swept her hand around the stone chamber. “Does she think he’s hiding here, in the walls?”

  Agnes shrugged, reaching for a piece of the bread, examining it, and setting it down again. “She does not say. It is all screaming and accusations. I can make nothing of it.”

  “Then perhaps nothing will come of it,” said Ann. “Has there been any word of our lawyer?”

  “No, not a sound,” said Agnes. “Does he not come here to you?”

  Catherine shook her head. “He has told us that the charges cannot harm us.”

  “It seems they have already harmed you,” observed Agnes.

  “Indeed.”

  Ann said, “Do you hear any news from the Davies household?”

  “No,” said Agnes. The gaoler banged on the door and she rose. “I will see if I can send someone to find out.”

  Catherine put out her hand. “Send Oliver. Do not place yourself in any jeopardy, do you hear? And the next time you come, bring me the contents of the blue jar in my still room. Empty it into a cloth and show no one.”

  Agnes nodded as the door was swung open. She curtsied and backed out.

  Ann said nothing.

  The gaoler brought meager meals of soup and ale every morning and night, but Catherine and Ann felt their dresses growing loose in the waists. Catherine’s hair got dotted with lice, and she sat by the window at midday while Ann picked them out and mashed them against the wall. Then it was Ann, infested to the undergarments, and they stripped to their skins during the night and beat their clothing against the floor, hoping to dislodge the vermin.

  “I will die of the itch,” said Catherine, lying under the scratchy blanket she was allowed. “I would give my little finger for a handful of lavender stalks in full bloom.”

  “Be careful what you say,” said Ann. She sat up and scrubbed at her scalp. “I will have you trim me bald when we can lay hold upon a pair of scissors and burn every hair on my head.”

  Outside, the dark wall showed its blank, wide face. After another three days, Agnes and a chambermaid returned with clean undergarments, soap, and blankets, and they went about making up the cell as though they were taking up residence. A basket held fresh bread and cheese, two bottles of wine, and a small linen packet. “We came with three of the wine, but one did not pass the guard’s hands. We will keep you as homey as you please, anyway,” said Agnes, shaking out the clothing. “And before the sun is high in the spring sky, you will be coming back to us.” She stepped to the window and, gazing down, shuddered a little and covered the motion with a brisk rubbing of her own arms. She set the packet on the table. “What else do you require today?”

  “Your company, if you will sit,” said Catherine. “Tell us what you’ve heard.”

  Agnes folded a blanket and they all sat in a tight circle. “Everyone speaks in whispers. The king’s daughters have not returned, but that fat one, that Martin Martins, came once. He makes me sweat.” Agnes picked at the hem of the blanket. “He came up behind me like a ghost, just as I was fixing a meat pasty. It makes me afraid to put my own hand in my pocket. Our Sebastian was with him. He no longer turns the kitchen spit.”

  Catherine said, “What does the Lady Anne do? Does he treat her thus?”

  Agnes said, “I never go up. I stay in the kitchen and keep my nose to the fire. I have got one of the stable boys to help me with the meat.”

  “Who else comes?” asked Ann.

  Agnes shook her head and said, “Your sister returned. I have heard her voice. It is like—like�
��”

  “Like a horn out of tune?” asked Ann.

  Agnes laughed bitterly. “Yes. That’s it. I have heard her. And that woman of hers came right down into the kitchen, that red-haired Connie, demanding sweets. Have you noted how swollen she is? Like she’s swallowed a wheel. A body would say that she is the one with child.”

  “Anyone from the court beyond that Martins and his fellows? From the king?”

  Agnes said, “No. I would’ve heard that, even down by the hearth. But there is talk that the other maids have been found guilty of theft. A boy who brings wood for the fire told me that he heard it.”

  Catherine and Ann looked at each other. Catherine said, “What will their sentence be?” though she already knew.

  Agnes shook her head again. “No one says. No one even says their names anymore.”

  Catherine nodded. “What have you heard of Benjamin, Agnes?”

  “I have not seen him,” said Agnes. “But I have sent a friend of mine to seek him out. Oliver cannot risk it another time.”

  “A friend?” asked Catherine. “What friend?”

  Agnes cocked an eyebrow. “He keeps the harness. He was given leave to visit his mother who lies ill.”

  “And where is this mother?”

  “Ah. A bit north of London.”

  “How very convenient.”

  Agnes winked at Catherine, then caught herself and blinked. “He will bring me what information he can find.”

  “How does my daughter?”

  “She asks where her mother is. I keep her at her letters and tell her that you have business. She sleeps with me.”

  “That is the best I can hope for,” said Catherine. “Has there been anything from my son?”

  “Nothing.”

  The door squeaked open, and the gaoler stuck in his head. “Time enough.”

  Agnes threw her arms around Catherine. Then she backed off, dropping her head. “Forgive me, Madam. I lost myself.”

  Catherine held the young woman’s hands. “No apologies for being a woman, Agnes. I ache to feel the warmth of another person. Kiss Veronica for me.”

  “I will return with more goods,” said Agnes.

  When they were alone again, Catherine sat heavily on the warm spot that Agnes had left. “If Margaret means to stay at court, marriage to Benjamin would suit her nicely.”

  Ann picked at a fingernail with her teeth. “Margaret will find herself next to us in a cell. She will not be given permission.” She spat and went to the window. “Benjamin has deserted us all. I find my trust in God’s two-legged creatures waning.” Ann sat beside Catherine again and threw the clout from the basket. “I will starve inside these walls.” She broke a small loaf in half and bit into it. “Sweet wounds of Christ, this tastes good.”

  Catherine took the second piece. “No mold?” She sniffed and smelt smoky woodfire and oil. The flesh of the loaf was flecked with bran, but she had never put anything better into her mouth. “Wine,” she said, and Ann pulled a bottle free.

  The maids had packed two clean cups, and the wine was thick and peppery. The women drank and ate in silence, and Ann licked her fingers when they had finished. The rat pups nosed from the hole, and Ann threw them a crust. “We must save the other for tomorrow,” said Catherine. “Agnes may not be allowed to return.”

  Ann upended the bottle against her lips then, with a sigh, laid it back into the basket. Catherine put her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

  “Maybe Benjamin sailed to Calais to find better prices. Maybe Robbie has not been told of all this.”

  “Maybe,” said Ann.

  “My father wouldn’t let Margaret publish banns against Benjamin’s will. He would know of it. Wouldn’t he?” Heat bloomed in Catherine’s chest, and she opened her eyes. The ribs of the vaulted ceiling of the little alcove in which they sat seemed to her the swollen veins of some hunched animal, ready to spring. She wanted to scratch the surface with her nails, to tear the flesh of the beast. “I am not in my right mind. The wine has gone to my head.” Her throat burned, and she thought she might weep. “The hammers have stopped.” She lay back against the wall. “What will we do?”

  Ann shoved the basket aside with her foot and walked to the window. She laid her head against the dirty glass.

  “We will sit here and make ourselves merry until we are freed.”

  “Or until we are taken to trial.”

  “A trial will free us one way or the other,” said Ann.

  29

  Catherine lay watching the stars prick the night sky, while Ann slept beside her. An owl fluttered onto the windowsill and held its reign for a few moments, then dropped away from sight. Catherine laid her hand on her breast and let her heart make itself known for a few seconds. “My soul is burning a hole in me,” she said to the darkness, but no one answered. Ann labored onto her side and resumed sleeping.

  The sun was licking at the edges of the panes when Catherine finally rose. Her skin itched, and she poured herself a cup of wine. She wanted ale, but there was none, and her throat felt coated with sand.

  Ann opened her eyes and said, “Are you drinking away our store?” Catherine held out the cup, and Ann got up, stretching. “We might as well drink it and hope for more.”

  “I am losing my hope,” said Catherine. “I believe it flew off in the dark.”

  “You must not. You have always had hope,” said Ann.

  “I have always been able to feel it, alive at the core of my soul. Here.” Catherine laid her hand over her middle. “I used to feel my soul in me like a live thing. I could almost determine the size and shape of it. I cannot find it these days. I feel hollow. Can the soul shrivel and die? Like a flower? Have its day, bloom and wither? Can it burn itself to an ember and go out?”

  “I think my soul is more like a lump of dirt than a flower,” said Ann.“It just gets harder and harder.” She stared into the empty cup. “We live in a harsh time.”

  “Like a sun over a desert. Like a vicious sun making a desert beneath it. I feel like a narrow river, dried up in the summer.”

  Ann poured another cup and handed it over. “Your imagination has got the better of you this morning. You need this more than I do.”

  As Catherine took the drink, she heard voices commence outside their window. Women chattering. Someone crying out. “What is that?” she said.

  Ann wiped at the dirty pane with her sleeve and flattened her cheek against the glass to see down the lane as far as she could. “There’s a crowd. A small crowd. A dozen, no more.”

  “Who are they?” asked Catherine, pushing her aside.

  “Don’t look. You don’t want to,” said Ann, but Catherine was already at the window with the stool. A couple of men were leading Marjory and Temperance by the arms. A few women were gathered around them, talking and shouting, and the two girls stumbled along, their heads down. Catherine stepped up to see better. Their coifs were filthy grey, and Temperance’s was halfway off of her hair. A priest stepped between them and spoke into Temperance’s ear.

  “They cannot,” said Catherine.

  The women who surrounded the girls backed away as they came toward the window, except for one who flung herself down, in front of the girls. “Is that one of the mothers?” asked Catherine.

  Ann shook her head for reply.

  A few men had joined the progress, mostly following silently with their caps in their hands. Marjory was led past and when Catherine cried out, she lifted her head at the sound, then tripped, falling onto her hands and knees. The priest stooped to assist her. She gazed up at him for a long moment, then gave him her hand and rose. Temperance followed Marjory’s path, held at either elbow by a couple of the younger men.

  A thin ray of sun shone down briefly, like mercy, but no one looked at the sky. Temperance screamed, and the priest went to her side. He whispered i
nto her ear, but she curled into a ball at his feet, and he was forced to get down to her level and jerk her back up to standing. Marjory watched, and when Temperance was hauled, twitching, to her feet, she adjusted her hood and walked on, straight as a pin, her hands folded before her. The priest opened his book. The men brought up the rear, and then they were all gone and the lane was silent again. A soft breeze blew through the bright morning. Someone fell against their wall, and they jumped back.

  “They have brought them this way to let us see it. Good God,” whispered Ann.

  “Does a good God allow girls to be hanged for pinching a ribbon or a coin?” Catherine wiped her eyes and felt the smear of her own greasy sweat against her hand. “Does a God who is good look on this killing, this . . . this justice and do nothing?”

  The crowd wound its way on by. They turned away from the window. The rat mother squatted in the corner. She was eating her pups. Ann said, “You bitch,” and flapped a dirty rag until the animal scurried into her hole.

  The day rose and more voices came and went outside their window. Then evening fell, the sun’s last light burning at the corner of their panes, but Catherine and Ann remained unmoving in the darkening depths of their cell. They had not eaten their food or drunk their ale, which was brought in silence and now sat growing cold and stagnant in the cheap dishes the gaoler provided. A reflected ray of red lit them up, and Ann said, “I will pour.” She gathered her skirts around her and pushed herself to her feet, groaning. “I am stiff as—” she began but stopped herself.

  “Go on. Say it,” said Catherine. “Stiff as a corpse.” She rubbed her shins, then her upper arms.

  Ann chanced a look out. “Perhaps they were sent back to Richmond.”

  Catherine took the cup from Ann’s hand and tried to drink, but grief clogged her throat and she began to cry. “They were just girls.” She gulped the ale. It was weak and bitter. “Temperance didn’t lie when she said the things were left around. We have made our island a trap for children. We lure them in with pretty things and then the men of law kill them. The church fathers kill them, priests and Protestants alike. The king kills them in the name of God.” Tears came in earnest then, and she set her cup on the floor and let herself cry. Her joints and muscles were rigid with sitting on the cold stone, and she cried as much at the pain in her body. But she was tired, and the effort of sorrow wore her out. She lay flat out on the floor and closed her eyes. “’When that April with his showers sweet, the drought of March hath pierced to the root,’” she said. “How does it go? ‘then longeth folk to go on pilgrimages.’ Hmm. Yes. ‘the holy blissful martyr for to seek, that hath them holpen when that they were sick.’”