The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  Peter Grubb settled himself into his chair. “Now tell me, Catherine Overton. What do you do in Yorkshire?”

  “I live here,” said Catherine. “It is my home.”

  “You have been away a long time.”

  Catherine’s skin rippled all over with fury. She could feel Ann behind her, watching, and she counted ten before she spoke. “I am returned to make a marriage.”

  “Another marriage.” Grubb drank, then set the cup aside and steepled his fingers. “And where is your man?”

  “Did you not hear us? We have been set upon. We have no one and nothing except what you see before you.”

  “Well,” said Grubb. “The world is a dangerous place. I figure you need rest.”

  “I expect they do,” said Mistress Grubb. She still had Veronica by one hand. “This child is well-nigh dead for terror, and these ladies have kept their lives with the courage of lions. Now, Husband, I am going to make up a clean bed for them, and you will hold your tongue and let them sleep.”

  Catherine thought that tears would spill from her, but she clenched her teeth and said, “I know not how to thank you.”

  “I figure there’s no thanks needed,” said Peter Grubb. “I figure that a woman’s got a right to her home as much as a man. Can you not find them a bed, Wife? They look dead on their feet.”

  Mistress Grubb bit her lip. “I am upon the task, Husband.”

  They replaced each other’s bandages with fresh linen and crawled into the one unused bed. Catherine’s eyes were swollen and gritty, but she could not hold them open, and they lay in a row, the child between the women, until the morning cut a bright swath through the shutters and Mistress Grubb was knocking on the door and slipping into their room.

  “There’s bodies found on the London Road.”

  “How many?”

  “Five, they say. Four men, one woman.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Taken to Overton House for the laying out. My man is called on to go.”

  “Then we are gone with him,” said Catherine.

  Two geldings had been rounded up, and the Grubbs’ stable boy was holding them when they came outside. Ann hopped onto one and set Veronica in front of her. Catherine let the boy help her and they were already moving as he let go of the reins.

  It was only a few minutes’ ride, and they found the front courtyard of Overton House alive with horses and men. Catherine’s steward, Eleanor Adwolfe, presided, big-bellied,out front,with her husband Joseph.

  Catherine hung back, letting her horse chomp at the old weeds drooping along the side of the lane. “That’s one of Grubb’s watchmen from the village.”

  Ann pointed. “But there, I see Reg.” She kicked her horse and was off. “Come on!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  They were almost within spitting distance of the house when Eleanor raised her eyes. “Is it you?” she called. “Madam?” She ran to Ann’s side and held onto her leg, but her eyes were on Catherine.

  “Still casting a shadow,” said Catherine, sliding to the ground.

  “They’ve brought four men and poor Agnes, oh, Madam, and they’ve been saying that you were killed and dragged off by the murderers.”

  “Agnes?” Ann jumped down and pulled Veronica close. “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs somewhere. Some of the watchmen are there, and those others that rode up. I don’t know who they are and they all say they want in.”

  “What others?” Catherine pulled her hood closer to her face.

  “I don’t know them,” said Eleanor. She searched the yard. “I don’t see them now. And Master Benjamin’s run mad.”

  Catherine let the hood fall back again. “He’s here?”

  “He brought the bodies,” said Eleanor, but Catherine was running toward the house.

  She lost Ann, who veered off to locate Reg, but no one stopped her as she found her way down the back steps. The kitchen table held two Davies men, stretched shoulder to shoulder. The men of the watch sat on the benches on either side of the dead forms.

  Catherine said, “Where is the woman?”

  They didn’t look at her, but she recognized Samuel Cobb from the village. He slung a thumb over his shoulder without noticing her face and said, “In t’other room.”

  Catherine retreated down the narrow hall, peeked into the laundry and saw no one, and tiptoed on down to her still room. She pushed the heavy door open and there she was, on the old convent table. Agnes still wore Catherine’s old cloak, but the furred hood was dark and damp on one side with her blood. The woman herself was pale and stiff, and Catherine pulled a stool beside her and sat to pray. She put her head down and closed her eyes. She’d said only “Mother Mary” when she heard footsteps and jerked upright again. “Who’s there?”

  Benjamin came in and Catherine stumbled to her feet and into his arms. He said, “I thought you were taken.”

  “And I feared you were dead.” Tears scorched the backs of her eyes but they would not fall and she was blinded. Someone tapped on the door and she felt her body being set a decent distance from the man.

  “It’s only me, Madam.” Eleanor came in, her belly swaying before her, and shut the door. She took the other stool and Catherine sat, blinking her vision clear.

  “I will leave you to the work,” said Benjamin, and left.

  “When does the baby come?” Catherine put her hand on Eleanor’s apron. It was seven months gone, at least.

  “In June, I judge. I felt life more than four weeks ago. Look how low I swing. I think it is a girl at last. Three boys are enough for Joseph.”

  “Where are your sons?”

  “In the stable. Joseph sent them when the men came into the lane. And they’d better stay there, or they’ll get the back of his hand.”

  Catherine put her hand on Agnes’s unmoving breast. “This breaks my heart in twain.” She stood and peeled away the filthy clothing. “Have the watchmen seen this?”

  “They have been occupied with the men. Two of Benjamin’s. The other two are men that nobody knows. They say that three or four escaped with marks on them.”

  Catherine folded the cloak and laid it aside. “This was mine.”

  “I know,” said Eleanor. “I thought it was you when they brought her in.”

  Eleanor pulled off the dead woman’s soiled shoes while Catherine rolled down her hose. The younger woman said, “I will get water,” and disappeared. She returned quickly with a full basin. Catherine handed her a clout and she lifted one of Agnes’s feet. “This girl never hurt a soul.”

  Catherine’s air snagged in her throat. No one disturbed them as they cleaned and covered the body. Catherine rinsed her hands. She was sweating, and she pushed her hood back and ran her wet palm over her own face. “I wish I could cleanse my mind as easily.”

  “You lack food and sleep,” said Eleanor. “The body must have nourishment and rest. I have learnt that of you, Madam. Stay quiet here.” She closed the door as she went, and Catherine was left alone to pray for her lost maid, to say her apologies to God,and to listen to the strange voices murmuring through the walls of Overton House.

  Eleanor returned with bread and cheese and wine, and she laid it on the mixing table. Catherine’s stomach suddenly coiled and rumbled, and she sat gratefully to the food. The bread was warm, like biting into a summer cloud, and, when she took up her cup, Catherine let the wine sit on her tongue for a few seconds before she swallowed. Perhaps it would soften the accusing voice in her head.

  Ann came in and latched the door behind her. “I have locked Veronica in a chamber with Reg.”

  “The constable is old, and there is no judge in the village,” said Eleanor. “The law has no teeth, if you will pardon my saying so.”

  Catherine said, “For some of us, it has the bite of a mad dog.”

  “Who is in there?
” A man pounded on the door, and the three women jumped.

  “Have you the dead woman?”

  “She is here,” called Eleanor. “We are cleaning the body.”

  “Who is ‘we’? Speak up!” Thudding again, rattling the latch.

  Catherine flung open the door while Eleanor covered Agnes. Samuel Cobb stood in the hall. “Is it you breaking down my doors around my ears?”

  “Lady. I thought you was absent.” He retreated a step. “There’s so many folks comin’ and goin’ on the roads these past hours.” He watched his toe move on the pavers. “A man doesn’t know where they get to. And with these dead—”

  “The constable knows I’ve arrived, Samuel.” She pointed back, into the still room. “Do not remove the body. We have just washed her.”

  “I won’t touch her, Madam.” He shuffled over to the table, where he stood, hands folded, and stared down at Agnes.

  Catherine led Ann and Eleanor through the kitchen, past the abandoned dead men. She opened the door and saw, where her most delicate herbs had been, beds of rose spikes. Ann gasped and Catherine cried out, “What is this?”

  Eleanor said, “Your sister ordered it the day she arrived. She had the bushes with her, on wagons. She said it is the fashion to have them. I would not give her the kitchen girls for it, but she ordered the men to do the deed. I have spared what I could, Madam.”

  “Well,” said Catherine. Her most favored flower. “They will smell sweet when they bloom.” The remaining vegetable patch was tidy and weeded. “Thank God you have kept something. It looks like a small paradise.”

  Eleanor said, “That’s the sun, gilding the dirt. In the rain it looks dark and greasy.”

  “May be,” said Catherine. The thorny twigs stood naked as skeletons, but Catherine could imagine pink and red blossoms, blowing in the wind. “I will not pull them up. We will have a new space plowed up for the herbs.” Two dairymaids came from the cow barn, swinging buckets of milk as though their progress through the world went on undisturbed by death. A striped cat trotted along with them, and Reg was walking behind, holding Veronica by the hand. When the girls stopped in front of Catherine, Veronica captured the cat and sat with it, yowling, on her lap.

  “Puss won’t be kept in chains, little Veronica” said one of the maids. “She’ll claw if you don’t give her some liberty.”

  Veronica let go and the animal scrambled away. It shook its head and allowed the child to pet it behind the ears before it sauntered off to stand under the bucket between the maids.

  “Your daughter will not be kept indoors, Madam,” said Reg.

  Catherine shook her head. “I am without words. It is Eden come again, at least on this side of the house.”

  Eleanor said, “Very like, Madam. But today it seems to have sprouted a serpent.”

  46

  Peter Grubb had already gone back and was walking the high road of Havenston when Catherine rode down with Ann and Joseph.

  “No one here has seen any men who don’t live in the parish,” called the constable. “But I will bring in every mother’s son for interrogations.”

  “Benjamin is speaking to the watch.” Catherine dropped heavily to the ground beside him. “We are become a nation of courts and solicitors.”

  “Of gaols and gallows,” added Ann. She led her pony a turn to calm his spirits and hopped off.

  The sun’s glare followed them, and Catherine felt it like a reproachful eye on her. She lowered her head and her hand found the short post of a front gate.

  “This is Gladys MacIntosh’s cottage,” she said, just as the woman herself stood from weeding her rhubarb bed. She was planted like a squat pillar in their line of sight.

  “Lady Overton. It is you, clear as a summer day.”

  “How do you, Mistress MacIntosh? And how does our village?”

  “See for yourself.” She raised her gnarled hand. “Women are busy with the wool. The village makes its way. The constable has been warning us of thieves and murderers, but by my troth you will not find them here.”

  The shrubs and hedges prevented Catherine from seeing all of the dwelling, but the branches had been rough-hewn back from the road, and the gravel was swept and clean. She could see at least two new sets of shutters. A whirr of wheels sounded like a distant hive of bees. “You prosper, then.”

  Mistress MacIntosh waddled forward and leaned upon her gate. “Master Davies brings the payments at the quarter-year. Gives it direct to the wives. Makes the husbands complain some, and there’s one or two that take it downright evil, but it’s a sight better than ‘twas. You see.”

  “I will walk,” said Catherine, “without the law, begging your pardon, Master Grubb.” She wrapped her reins around the gatepost and, followed by Ann and Joseph, forced herself onward. Roofs were patched and doors hung straight. Small flocks of buff and white chickens and ducks. A few geese, hissing their discontent. Half a dozen fat pigs in boarded sties and a nanny goat tied beside a neat garden. The inn yard was laid with new stones and the front door stood open. Catherine didn’t stop until she came near the spot in the road further up. She believed that it would still be defiled with blood, that she could not mistake it, but she found herself searching up and down for any sign of the place where William had died.

  “I have lost him,” she finally said. “He is lost entirely.”

  Joseph stood off, unwilling to come close to her thoughts, but Ann scuffed her sole over the stones. “The world has grown a new skin.”

  Catherine nodded. She watched a young woman run from a back door, chasing a short-legged dog. It was the house she’d bought after William died, for former nuns. At her last count it had housed six women and three orphan girls. Someone inside rang out a laugh. She said, “And now how will we know ourselves?”

  Ann grunted. “We will learn to live in our new selves, whatever they are.” She squinted into a yard. “The entire village is made new. This is your doing, Catherine. The child of your genius.”

  “Not mine alone. It was William and Benjamin too.”

  “Don’t give it over to them. It was your conception to have the women in the village do the spinning and weaving. Yours alone. And to pay them a wage. That house.” She pointed at the nuns’ house. “That’s yours. Your city of ladies.”

  Joseph coughed and said, “Not meaning to be a long ear,but I heard what you were saying. My faith goes with Ann’s. Even Master Davies says so.” He grinned. “Have you felt Eleanor’s belly? She says it’s a woman child this time. A summer child. I would like to have a little daughter to sit on my knee.”

  Catherine nodded. “Please God it will be, and one as lively and good as her mother.” A door opened nearby and she patted Joseph on the arm and went toward the woman who appeared. “Hallo, Goodwife Cartwright. How do you and your small ones?”

  The woman curtsied and backed into the little house, where the dirt floor was packed and smooth, and the spinning wheel was set between the hearth and the small window. A bushel of yarn lay wound into skeins in the corner and Catherine dipped her hand into the fluff.

  “Better, Madam, than ever we have before. The children wind the yarn and Master Davies brings the money. I do the spinning. My Maggie is learning at my hand and we will be turning out twice the lot this time two years on, God willing.”

  Catherine checked the joints and surfaces of the wheel. They were well-oiled and smooth. The girl showed herself and demonstrated her skill. Catherine gave her a coin and Maggie Cartwright dropped to her knee and closed her hand over the money.

  “It is a wonder,” Catherine said.

  “A wonder and a sign,” said Mistress Cartwright. “Turn of the wheel, Lady, if you’ll pardon the expression. We’re up now, sure, you’ll say. I hope there’s not a fall coming.”

  “Why would it fall?” asked Catherine.

  The woman coughed.

 
“Say it freely.”

  “Word’s gone about—” Mistress Cartwright dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her cheeks hard. “You were in prison and would never return. There. It is said. Some say that you were taken for a common thief.” She raised her eyes. “Not that I have anything to say against you. Your man comes regular enough and takes the wools and delivers the monies. So there it is. But your sister followed him out of this village like a hawk after a hare and now my husband says there’s banns been read over at Mount Grace for you and him, you that can’t be married. The talk is that the king’s gone stark mad and cuts the head off any woman who looks sideways at him.” She took a breath and let it out with a huff. “Now I have said it and it can’t be taken back.”

  They stood in silence for a few seconds. Catherine stared out the open front door. A striped cat trotted from behind a hedge, stopped to sniff at the leaves, then backed against the lower branches, tail raised. He shot a spray of his scent, hindquarters shivering, and went on his way. A woman yelled somewhere in the distance. Another door slammed a few houses down. The wheel sang.

  “And what have you heard of a child?” Catherine said finally.

  “Well. There’s some say the children ought to be seen now and then. And then there’s some say the children need to be at the court, learning to be fine.” She lifted her shoulders.

  “I meant Margaret Overton. A child of her own.”

  “She goes about with that red-haired maid. They say the girl is Overton blood and ought to be recognized. They say legitimacy is a fine point of the law nowadays and not to be regarded.” Mistress Cartwright seemed to measure the progress of the morning by studying the lay of the sun’s rays across her front garden.

  “You speak wisdom. I thank you.” Catherine ducked out and found Ann and Joseph, already mounted, in the high road. Peter Grubb was nowhere to be seen. She pulled herself into her saddle, clicked her teeth, and flopped the reins. The pony jolted forward at a trot and Ann rode up close to her.

  Catherine said, “Did you hear what she said of the king?”