City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

“No. Not in the chapel.”

  He cast his eyes down her body. “You look clean enough to me. And I have known you to be unconcerned for rites in the past when they got in your way.”

  “Don’t mock me, William. Breaking from Rome does not mean breaking from God. I want the time.” Her breasts ached and she wanted to put her feet up.

  “Have it as you will,” he said finally.

  She was ready to go. “But I would like Ann to hold Veronica, not Margaret.”

  “Margaret is more fit, and it will anger her to be set aside. There has been enough strife among us. And it should be an Overton.”

  “Ann held Robert and I heard no complaint. She can hold Veronica just as well.” She crossed her arms and hoped the blood was not slipping down her leg. It would stain the floorboards in a place that could not be concealed.

  “I will consider it,” he said.

  Catherine opened her mouth to insist, but Teresa skidded into the room. She had her hen under one arm. “Sister.” Her mouth froze and she looked in terror at William. He was staring into the fire and she hurried on. “Madam. Two men at the back door. They have found Joan.”

  “What?” said William. He grabbed Teresa and shook her by a skinny arm. “Where?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she cried. The hen shrieked and Teresa wrenched herself free and clapped a hand on its white head. “It’s horrible, the most worst thing I have ever witnessed.”

  “Tell me,” said Catherine. She dropped the cloth. The dog shot forward and buried his nose in the fabric.

  “She’s dead. She’s all, well, she’s all tore up.”

  “How came she so?” said Catherine, slapping the dog and taking up the cloth. “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen,” whispered Teresa.

  Ruth’s high wailing started up from below, and Catherine and William pushed past Teresa. The narrow back stairs were the quickest route downstairs, but William blocked the top step. “You go to bed. You’re pale as the moon. Go have your rest.”

  “I will have the proof of my eyes first.” He gave her a hard look, and she added, “and then I will go to bed.”

  William relented, and Catherine followed him. The narrow stone stairs wound around the corner of the house and ended beside the wide cooking hearth. A half-dozen men in patched woolen coats and broken-down boots hunkered around the big kitchen table and they dragged the caps from their heads when they saw William. Ruth was lying across the laid-out body, keening and crying, and Hannah leaned against the wall in the far corner, apron over her mouth.

  “Get back. Let me see,” said William. The men fell away, looking sideways at each other. “Who found her?”

  “It were me,” said one of the men. He wore a grizzly beard and his eyes squinted as though he were standing in full sun. “I come acrost her whilst I’s gatherin’ wood. Some pigs or foxes’s been at ‘er, ‘d be my judgment, God rest ‘er.” He crossed himself, then tried to scrub it out on his chest. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Master, I’m reformed as any Englishman.”

  “You had better be.” William pulled at Ruth’s sleeve, but she hung over Joan and would not be moved. Catherine gentled her husband aside.

  “Ruth, come away and let me look,” said Catherine. She bent to speak into the girl’s ear. “We must see what has happened here.”

  Ruth flung herself up. Her apron was spotted with blood and filth and her hair had come loose from her coif. “I will tell you what happened. Some man has got at her. She’s ruint and a’ has left her like a bitch in the road. She is murdered for bein’ what God made her and your king couldnae let her be.” She poked her finger at William, her silky yellow hair wild and haloed around her red face. “It ‘as one a’ the king’s rogues, I’ll say so right out loud.”

  The men had gathered backward into a tight band by the back door. William’s left eyelid quivered, and Catherine stepped between him and Ruth.

  “You speak out of turn, Ruth. This is your grief speaking, not your mind. Leave this place. The sight infects you.” She was taller than Ruth by several inches, and she steered the woman toward Hannah. “Will you take her to the chapel? It would do her good.”

  Hannah, with a swift nod, seized Ruth’s arm and marched her away.

  William was bent over Joan. “She has fallen along her way, and knocked herself senseless. She has succumbed to the cold.”

  Joan was frozen, even thinner in death, and her narrow fingers had gone black at the tips. Her nose was ashy, and something had chewed away the end of it, along with a strip of her cheek, so that the jawbone and the roots of two teeth showed through in one place. Catherine pulled the neckline of the dirty shift down. Joan’s throat was dark and mottled.

  “See there?” Catherine twisted the girl’s neck, and the head flopped to the side. Her hair was matted to the back of her skull with blood. She looked up at the knot of men. “Was she against a stone?” There was no answer. The men were staring. “I say, was she found upon a stone?”

  The wood-gatherer remained silent, and a tall, sandy-haired young man stepped forward. “I was with Sam here, and I saw no stone. The lady was under some dirt, covered with sticks. We was breakin’ ‘em up for bundlin’ when we seen ‘er. Hand layin’ right out there, face too. Think somethin’ tried ta drag ‘er out, but she’s too heavy fer it and it leaves ‘er. Chawed some, you see, hands black as the dirt she laid in. No, ma’am, no rock, not that I seen. Whatever done that, I wager was movin’ faster than a stone.”

  4

  Ruth’s screams echoed through the hallways from the chapel on the far side of the house, and Catherine held her hands over her ears. “Fetch the constable,” she ordered, but the men remained huddled by the back door. “Go!” she shouted, “or I will saddle up myself.”

  “Are you deaf?” asked William, and the men stumbled outward, scattering as they hit the courtyard. “I will have to send one of our own men. Those peasants will be in a tavern before they will show themselves to the law.”

  “Why? Is there a killer among them?” It was Ann, coming down the back stairs. “I will hunt them down and bring them back if you order it.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. They are a pack of one-suit villains, as I stand here,” said William. “Have you seen this, Ann?”

  She nodded. She did not look. “I sought Catherine, but she was not in her bed.” Ann cast a glance in Catherine’s direction.

  Margaret’s small heels came clacking down the stone steps from the main hall. “What is it? Is she found?”

  “They say she was buried in the woods,” said Catherine, “under a pile of sticks.”

  Margaret took two steps into the room. “She is dead?” She put out one freckled hand, but when Catherine moved aside, she recoiled. “Dead. Dead. I will be sick.” She lifted the fingers to her mouth and fled.

  Catherine waited until the sound faded up the stairs. “Have you heard of civilized men doing such a thing?”

  Ann said, “There is little I set beyond men nowadays. Someone has waylaid her and knocked her in the head.” She cast her look on William. “Any of your gossips speak ill of this girl?”

  Catherine pulled the shift down to expose Joan’s neck to Ann’s eyes. “She has been throttled. This is what killed her. Turn your head away, William.”

  He faced the back wall, and Catherine replaced the collar and lifted Joan’s skirt and underskirts. She parted the legs and studied the skin. She settled the clothing back into order and rested her hands on the cloth that covered Joan’s legs. “All right.”

  Ann crossed her arms. “Who has gone for the constable? Besides your pack of villains, I mean to say.”

  “I will go myself,” said William. He kissed Catherine lightly on one cheek. “Back to bed with you, mistress, and I will see to this woman of yours. I swear it.” He leapt to the steps and was gone.

  Ann now came to the other side of the table. “What did you find?”

  “By my troth, it’s a rape.” Catherine lifted her eyes to the
window. “She’s bruised all over. I didn’t take any of those men who were here for a ravisher. They are no villains, either.”

  Ann tied up Joan’s bodice as close to the bloody jawbone as she could. “Have the king’s men been here? Anywhere in the village? I’ve heard nothing of them.”

  “If you refer to Cromwell’s men, I’ve heard nothing. Not a one of them for months,” said Catherine. She busied herself with Joan’s torn stockings. “There is little more they can take, and William doesn’t want them around.”

  “You mean he doesn’t want one of them around. Come, you should lie down until the law sees fit to bless us with its presence.” Ann helped Catherine up the stairs and into bed. “That Eleanor of yours is a worthless cow. You should send her packing and get you a maid who’ll see to you properly.”

  “I don’t want a maid to wait on me at all. You see how well we live. And with prices rising so. Her father is no provider, and her mother is a mouse. Is it any wonder the girl is brooding?”

  “Breeding, I think, is the word you want. No laughing, now, you will tear yourself open.”

  Smiling, Catherine pulled up the blankets to her chin. “I’m healing well enough. I itch this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Lord, save yourself from that. You’ll be with child again before the moon is full.”

  Catherine lay back on the pillows, and the maid came sliding into the room with the baby in her arms. “Madam, I have brought your daughter. I have cleaned her.” She eyed Ann sideways as she came to the bedside.

  “Eleanor, have you heard news of our tragedy?” asked Catherine. “Joan has been found dead.”

  The girl handed the baby to her mother and nodded. “They’s been talk of her down at the tavern, Madam. They been sayin’ she won’t be found living.”

  Catherine sat up. “Who has been saying such things?”

  “What have you been doing in the tavern?” said Ann.

  Eleanor went rigid. “I didn’t say I was in no tavern. I say they’s been talk. Somebody told me.”

  “Somebody who?” said Catherine. The girl examined her toes, and Catherine added, “You’ve no need to be afraid. I want to know if the report is reliable.”

  “I have a friend.”

  “What friend is that?” said Ann. Her voice was loud and the girl shrank away.

  “No one. I can’t recall.”

  “Go to, Eleanor, tell truth,” said Catherine. “Your friend is that boy who works in the stable, isn’t he? What is his name, the big one. He has thick hair, brown as a squirrel. That one. What is his name? Joseph, isn’t it? Joseph Adwolfe. Am I right?”

  Eleanor’s skin was so fair that it was almost transparent, and her face flushed bright from collarbone to hairline. She stammered, “Oh Madam . . . Madam, I need . . . this . . . my mother is ill . . . my father will kill me outright if I lose this position.” She fell to her knees in earnest.

  “Stand up.” Catherine patted the quilt and the girl’s head appeared at the edge of the bed. “I’ve seen all I need of this Joseph Adwolfe. But what did he say of Joan?”

  “Well.” Eleanor glanced from Catherine to Ann and bent forward. The women leaned in and she whispered, “They say she murdered newborn babies and fed them to Satan and she wore her old nun’s weeds after dark. They say she went stark naked underneath and that she had a swarm of demons to follow her about. They say she could call them by rubbing her old beads against her nipples.”

  “You don’t believe that nonsense, do you?” Ann asked.

  Eleanor shrugged, her eyes wide. “I go to the church that’s there and don’t say a word about it. I been christened in the old way, but I walk in and do things the new way. They’ll throw you in the gaol if you say your prayers wrong, but I misremember them so I try to say nothin’ atall, just open and close my mouth when the business gets started. What goes on behind closed doors, I don’t venture to guess. Magic, some say. Sorcery. Not my business. I keep my nose pointed forward.”

  “That seems a sensible course,” said Catherine.

  “But I hear what I hear. They’s work to be done whether God’s about ‘r not.” She peered over at Veronica, who nuzzled Catherine’s breast. “This one is an Overton, all right. That other one, he’s your image, Madam. Like he had no father atall.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Ann. Her tone was dark. Eleanor frowned at the older woman. “I’ll be takin’ your things to the laundry, Madam, if you don’t need me here.”

  “Go on,” said Catherine. “Ann will stay with me. Keep that nose pointed forward.”

  “And your legs pointed down,” said Ann. “At least when you’re out of doors.” Eleanor flopped into a quick curtsey and fled the room.

  “What do you think of that?” asked Ann.

  “She’s a girl. Her mother and father are ignorant as dirt, the father in his cups most of the time. It’s a wonder she’s not got a child herself by this time. I couldn’t find it in my heart to condemn her for it.”

  Ann sighed. “Nor I, truth be told. But I mean about the talk. You think Joan was killed for a witch?”

  “Not for a witch.” Catherine gently cleaned the baby’s nostrils with her fingertip. “I wager she was killed for a nun.”

  5

  Catherine slept the afternoon away, and by the time she heard William’s voice downstairs, the light was slanting far into the west. Veronica dozed beside her, and Eleanor sat dutifully on a three-legged stool by the small fire, sewing.

  “I have a fresh shift for you, Madam,” the maid said when Catherine stirred. She set the woolen stocking, with a wooden darning egg inside it, into a basket and brought the clean linen. “You will want to change?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine. She lifted the cover and felt for blood. “You’re good to think of that, Eleanor. Lend me your shoulder. I want to burn this poultice before it smells.” She heaved herself onto the floor, and the girl helped her peel the used pad of cloth off and replace it. Eleanor folded the old one and threw it to the back of the flames.

  “You have done this before,” said Catherine.

  “My mother lost one last year. She’d like to never stop bleeding. No more coming yet, thank God above.”

  “And do you not worry for yourself?”

  Eleanor opened her mouth but nothing came out. “Madam—” she finally managed.

  Catherine smiled. “A woman usually gets the worser part, Eleanor.” She gestured to the window. “You should look up now and then. The rooms don’t all face the front.”

  The maid flushed full again. “Please don’t send me away.”

  “I’ll not send you anywhere.” Catherine put her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder again and stepped into her slippers. “I won’t have you sticking out to kingdom come either, though. Now help me downstairs if you would.”

  “Get the baby, Madam, then lean on me. I won’t let you fall.”

  Peter Grubb, the constable, was in the kitchen with William and two watchmen. Ann was leaning against the doorjamb and she took the infant when Catherine came in.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Madam,” said the constable, backing toward the door. He looked like a storm approaching, white hair spraying from head and startlingly prominent nose. “You ain’t been churched yet, have ye?” He raised one brushy eyebrow at the infant.

  “This is my home,” said Catherine. “You don’t see me out in the road, do you? Where are the other women? They may have information.”

  Grubb chewed his cheek and looked to William.

  “My wife will speak,” said William. “As she says, this is her home. We stand upon no superstitions here. Now, Catherine, what do you say?”

  “I say it again, where are my other women?”

  “Don’t want them yet,” said the constable. His face was deeply lined, but he was a delicately muscled man, an indoor man, and his fingers now worked nimbly over the wounds in the lifeless form. “Your tenant found her, you say? One of your own men?”

  William nodded. “He’s never been in a day
of trouble. Keeps to himself. Feeds his wife and children well enough. Pays his rent.”

  “Mm-hm. What’s his name?”

  “Cobb. Samuel Cobb.”

  “I know him,” said one of the watchmen. “I have a cup with him down at the tavern now and again. Good enough man. Likes his drink. Likes pretty girls.” He glanced quickly at the body. “Too good for doings like that.”

  “Is he a reformed man?” asked Catherine lightly.

  Peter Grubb looked up at this, directing his gaze at the watchman.

  “Reformed?” said the man. He was taller than the constable by a head, but his dirty hairline suddenly shone with sweat. “Why, yes, as reformed as the next Englishman.” He swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple jerked. “As reformed as you, Madam.”

  “What do you imply by that?” William stepped forward.

  The watchman lifted his chin. “Don’t mean anything more than what I say. Think a man’s word ought to match his mind.” One eyebrow jumped. “Woman’s too.”

  “Will you speak this to my face in my own house?”

  Now the man backed a step. “I said nothing out of turn. The lady asked a question. I answered it. I don’t say as much as some others.”

  The constable wiped his hands on his handkerchief. “What others?”

  A line of sweat rolled down, over the watchman’s temple. “No one.”

  “You’ve been conversing with no one? It’s a wonder they haven’t clapped you in chains yet.” The constable pocketed the cloth and looked from the watchman to William. “Go to, man, you’ve come into Master Overton’s kitchen and insulted his wife. You seem to hold a demon in your head. Now out with it, or you will shift your place. I’ll put you in the gaol myself, watchman or not.” The constable barely came to the watchman’s chin, but he held his ground.

  William and the watchman stared at each other steadily, and the other man finally said, “It’s the women. They say the lady here is married against the king’s law. They say the women here keep a convent against the king’s law. Some say they go to the daughters of the village to turn their minds against the new church. They use bewitchments and potions. It will lead us all to the gallows.”