“You are a pack of drunk fools,” said Catherine. “My husband has a dispensation from the king himself for our marriage. Did you think all the nuns would be burned up in the fire of the reform and disappear?”
“There were boats,” the watchman muttered. “They coulda gone.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, a godly solution! Pack the women up and shove them out to sea. Did you not think that some of us are Englishwomen? That some are old? Or without means?” Catherine’s chest was hot and tight and she could barely get out the words.
“I have overstayed my welcome,” said the watchman. He bowed to William. “Begging your pardon, Master, if I have offended. I have only repeated what is spoken to me, as I was bidden.” He pivoted on his heel and pushed through the door.
The constable regarded the second watchman, who was studying a spot high on the wall over William’s head. “What do you know about these rumors?”
The man slowly shook his head. “I keep to myself. Keep myself away from drunkards and gossips.” His eyes remained locked on the wall. “My occupation is to watch when I am called, not to be talking. I pass my evenings at my own home.”
“And what have you seen of this woman in your watches?” said the constable.
The man’s blue eyes slowly moved down and over Joan. “I’ve seen her about. She wears a brown cloak. Teaches the little ones. She can make out her letters right nice. Wrote me out a poem last Christmas that I thought up for my wife. Wouldn’t take no pay for it neither.”
“Did you see her in the last three days?” Catherine pressed forward, her hands on the table.
The watchman met her gaze. “No, Lady, by my troth.”
“Someone did,” said Catherine. She touched Joan’s leg and it felt thick and soft, like a slab of spitted meat. Tears pooled, hot, behind her eyes and she blinked them back. “Someone who did not keep to himself.”
“If you ask it, I will go door to door through Havenston and inquire,” said the watchman.
“That will only bring attention to the others here,” said William. “Catherine, we should let this woman lie at her peace and be done with it. It may not have been a murder at all. She may have fallen. An animal could have dragged her to where she lay. We don’t need to stir up the whole village with talk of a killing.”
“Do animals rape?” blurted Catherine.
“You said nothing about a rape, Master Overton,” said the constable, coloring around the collar.
“Nor did I know of one,” said William. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Catherine did not like to look in the men’s eyes as she spoke about it. “She has all the signs.”
“Of a rape or of unchastity?” asked the constable.
The tears burned behind Catherine’s eyes again. “I have never heard Joan accused of being unclean in any way.”
“Perhaps you didn’t know her as well as you thought,” William said. He put his hand on her shoulder.
“Had she a suitor?” asked the constable.
“No,” said Catherine. She labored to keep her breath steady. The hand felt very heavy.
“You cannot know,” said William. “She was off to herself a great deal. Catherine, I know your intent was to help her. But she might have had chapters you could not read.”
“Well, that makes it a hard one to prosecute,” said the constable. “Who is going to see to the burial? We have enough paupers these days to put in the ground.”
“She will go into our tomb,” said William. “We will have the priest here for the christening and he will see to her rites. Does that sit comfortably with you, Catherine?”
Catherine could feel his eyes on her. She would not weep. “That is as well as it can be, I suppose.”
“Then I will take my leave,” said Peter Grubb. “You might keep a closer watch on your womenfolk, Master Overton, if you don’t mind my saying it.” He slid a cap onto his head and motioned for the remaining watchman to go out ahead. “You don’t want any more of this landing on your doorstep.”
6
John Bridle, the priest, arrived on his roan gelding from Mount Grace the next afternoon, puffing through light snow into the courtyard. He pushed off his brown woolen hood, and, sitting at her closet window, Catherine was shocked at how bald he had grown. He carried the sparrow hawk he’d come to favor on his right arm and handed it to the trainer before dismounting. The priest had taken to birding since Catherine married William, and now he wore his hawk like a badge of office everywhere. Father John was greeted by Geoffrey White, the master of horse, who took the gelding by the bridle while the clergyman threw his bulk to the ground. Little Robert Overton peered at the men from the door of the stable. His thumb went into his mouth when the priest beckoned to him.
Catherine held her breath until the child walked forward. His footprints were tiny in the wet snow. He allowed himself be lifted into the air, and when the old man swung him high, the boy laughed and pulled his beard, and the priest bellowed with pleasure. “Thank God,” Catherine whispered at the glass.
Hannah Hoskins sat by the fire, rocking the sleeping baby. She stopped her soft crooning to mutter, “What is there to thank Him for?”
“Robert has gone to Father without a tear,” said Catherine. “I fear sometimes he will grow up to be afraid of his own shadow.”
“John Bridle has finally bestirred himself to come? If you had to wait for the men to get anything done, you would still be waiting for both of the children to be christened.”
“He’s not young, Hannah.”
“I have seen him move fast enough to catch a jug of wine.”
“Shh,” Catherine said, but she was glad enough that Hannah had laid drunkenness at the priest’s charge and neglected to mention her own birth in the convent. She pushed the window open and leaned out. “Father! Don’t break him!”
The priest looked up, shielding his face with his hand. “This boy is grown a mile! He sprouts like the corn in May.” He bobbed Robert in his arm, and the boy grabbed him around the neck.
“I must go down,” said Catherine, latching the window tight. “I don’t suppose he knows he will have to perform a burial before the christening.”
Hannah scooted the chair closer to the fire. “Where will we lay her?”
“The tomb in the chapel. No one can make a grave outside in this cold. And I can’t bear to lay her in the hard ground anyway. Come down with me.”
Hannah handed the baby to Catherine and eased herself to her feet. “You will have to be the one to convince your man. He would toss her to the pigs if it were left to him.”
“No. He surely would not.” Catherine shook her head, wishing Hannah had known William before. But before what? The king. The soldiers. Perhaps their marriage. “He’s not heartless, you know. It was his idea.”
“Hmph. He must be atoning for something. Have you checked his gambling debts?”
“Shh.” Catherine checked her paddings and took the main stairs down to meet the priest. Her son had led him around to the front door and he came into the big hall with his arms open.
“Catherine. You shine, Daughter, as always. How do you?” He opened his coat and brought out a large book. “I bring you a gift. This woman is on the lips of every Italian, and you must know of her.”
Catherine took the soft, leather-covered volume in one hand. “City of Ladies,” she read. “What is it?”
“A guide to life,” said the priest. He pulled a crock out of the bag on his hip. “Your old friend Elizabeth sends greetings. Here is honey from her own bees.”
“And here is a new person who greets you.” Catherine offered the baby in exchange.
John Bridle gently held the tiny girl, turning her into the light. “She’s an Overton, all right. Look at that hair, straight from the devil.”
Catherine slapped him lightly on the arm. “Don’t you dare say such a thing.”
“Ah, she’s a beauty, just like her mother. So, are we going to give her to God, then?”
&n
bsp; Hannah lowered herself to the last step. “There’s no giving any of them to God anymore, John Bridle. You and your king should know that as well as anyone.”
The priest’s face kindled to his earlobes. “Hannah Hoskins, are you still living?”
“So my glass would say. And I see Satan has let you loose into the world for one more day.”
Catherine handed the crock of honey to the old nun, who tasted it and nodded. The priest regarded her for a few seconds, then the baby howled. “Our God will have this girl whether there are convents in England or not,” he said. He stepped closer to the women and lowered his voice. “And you must watch your tongues when you speak of the king. Walls have ears these days.”
“Where are the walls’ ears?” said Robert, wedging himself between the priest and Catherine. “Where, Mother?”
“You hear that? Be careful what you say,” said the priest. He placed one hand on the boy’s head. “It’s only a manner of speaking, Robbie.”
“She has your eyes,” said Catherine. “Look, when she opens them, if you do not see yourself staring back at you, Father.”
The priest reddened again, not liking to be reminded out loud that he was Catherine’s father in blood as well as spirit, but he grinned at the baby. “When shall we christen her?”
“There is another matter for you. It should be done before the christening. Hannah?”
The old woman took the boy back upstairs, and Catherine led the priest into the front sitting room. She sat gingerly on a hard stool and motioned for him to take William’s stuffed chair. He laid the baby on his lap, lifting her hands one at a time to examine the fingers. “You look fine, Daughter. We will have you churched in the month and you will be about before the spring comes. Has William heard aught from the court?” She didn’t answer and he rambled on. “We will christen the child well enough. She is strong.” Catherine sat silent and her father finally said, “What troubles you, girl?”
“Do you recall Joan? One of the sisters who has come to me?”
“The young one, yes. She had another with her. Little things, not much younger than you. Yes. What has she done?”
“She has done nothing.” Catherine lifted one hand toward the back of the house. “She lies in the kitchen below. Murdered, or I am a badger’s whelp. Some of the tenants found her in the woods.”
The priest stood, pulling the baby to his chest. “My God above. Are you sure? There are dogs in those woods, wild as any wolf.”
“She was buried under some sticks and dirt. What animal does that?”
“Bad doings,” said the priest. “What does your husband say?”
“Very little. He’s convinced it was an accident. But he wants them all turned out to beg. He calls the men who found her villains, then he calls them good tenants. He shifts like the wind.”
“Harsh words, Catherine. Consider his position. He was trained to be a younger son, not the master of Overton House. He took a great risk in seeking to marry you. His brother’s authority doesn’t fall easily on him. Everyone watches to see if he’ll lose the fortune. And he hazards the whole enterprise, keeping a gaggle of nuns here.” He glanced at the doorway. “As do you.”
“What hazard? Are they not women of England now as other women are?”
“They are not as other women, and you know it as well as I. You have a marriage because your husband knew to make his petition when things were . . . well, we need not speak of it. He loved you and made you a lady. Your success will not be repeated for others.”
“I know it right well enough,” said Catherine, “though Margaret tells me often enough what I truly am.”
“If the king of England can make himself the Pope, then the least he could do was to let at least one of his nuns be a lady.”
The priest and Catherine faced each other. She was as tall as he was, and when the light outlined the strong curve of his jaw, she couldn’t imagine how he had ever thought he could deny her. She wondered briefly if her daughter’s face would have the same shape. “You should come and see,” she said. “Tell me if I am wrong in the matter of Joan.”
He followed her down to the kitchen. Ruth and Ann had washed Joan as well as they were able and had laid a clean linen cloth over her. The body looked almost bridal until Catherine lifted the cloth. The wounded face, without the blood, was a broken death mask, and the priest gasped.
“Mother of God, what has done this?” He pressed the baby to his chest as though to protect her eyes. “This is the work of demons.”
“The back of her scalp is scraped nigh off,” said Catherine, turning the head slightly. “This is no demon, and no malicious stone risen up to strike her either. This is the work of men and the two-legged animals that follow their dirty business. Am I mistaken?”
“Who knows of this? Have you called up the constable?”
“He has come and gone. He seems to think it was an accident, as well. One of his watchmen said some kind words, but no one wants to cry up a hunt for the killers of a nun.”
“Not a nun anymore.” The priest seemed to be reminding himself.
“Nor even a woman now,” said Catherine bitterly. “The other watchmen said there are mutterings about us down in the village. As though we need to be the word on any man’s tongue.”
“Men will talk, Catherine. Women as well. When do you want the burial?”
“Tomorrow. I want her laid in the chapel, where the constable may look at her again if need be. We will have the christening the day after. Ann and Margaret will stand as godmothers. Hannah and Ruth and Teresa will attend, Hannah at the front as she midwifed me. We will call her Mary Veronica.”
“Veronica?” said the priest. He frowned. “That old woman was a burden to me for fifty years. She was more harpy than nun.”
“She was like my second mother. Her scolding taught me my letters.”
“Yes, yes.” said the priest impatiently. He screwed up his lips, still frowning. Then the baby squirmed and he brightened. “She will be a new Veronica and make all things fresh. We will christen her and the world will turn as it has done before and the sun will shine on her. The past will be put away as though it never happened.”
Ann came through the back door with eggs heaped in a basket. She laid them gently on the floor before she pulled off her gloves and scrubbed her hands together to warm them. “Those young hens laying in the dead of winter. I wonder if it means the end times are coming.” She greeted the priest with a nod. “You have come to a room of sorrow, John. This should have been a time of joy.”
“It will be all happiness,” said John Bridle. He lifted one of the eggs. “Teresa’s hens are the finest girls in the barnyard and they lay at her bidding.” He set the egg back with the others. “We will bury Joan with all fitness, and then we will turn our eyes to the living, as our Lord instructs.”
“I’m sure a jug of claret will help you over that threshold,” said Ann evenly. She went to the pantry and removed three pewter goblets.
“It can’t hurt us to enjoy the pleasures God grants us,” said the priest.
“Where is Teresa?” asked Catherine. “She usually gathers the eggs.”
“She has gone to walk Ruth back from her morning lessons,” said Ann. “Don’t tell her I waited so late to empty the nests.” She fetched a jug from the pantry and poured, but they leaned against the walls to drink, no one wanting to sit at the table. They had just finished their first glasses when Teresa came in, shaking the new snow from her cloak. The thick noses of fresh bread loaves showed from the cloth sack on her arm, and she headed to the pantry. She returned with a mug of ale and stomped her feet on the hearth. She warmed her backside and surveyed the room.
“Where is Ruth?” asked Catherine.
Teresa blinked. Her eyelashes were fine, almost white, and they gave her a look of constant surprise. “Is she not here with you? I have just come from the baker, and she said Ruth was on the high road over two hours ago. I thought she had come back early.”
“Who did she go to this morning?” asked Catherine.
“The Hills,” said Teresa, “but she wasn’t there. I went and knocked. They said she had come away. I didn’t see her along the road. I thought she had gotten here before me.” Her voice lilted upward and her hand went to her throat.
Ann slammed down her goblet and grabbed her cloak. “I will find her. Teresa, you stay here.”
“I will go with you,” said Hannah, entering from the back steps. “No. No head-shakings from you, Ann Smith. I move slow, but I heard enough. I go with you.” She grabbed Teresa for a quick hug and the two women hurried out.
7
The funeral was short, and Ann came up to Catherine’s chamber afterward and sat across from the rocking chair on a stool. “Ruth would not have missed laying Joan to rest if she were alive.”
Catherine put her face down into the baby’s blanket. It smelt of soap and cold wind and she breathed it in to stop herself from weeping. “What does my husband say?”
“Nothing of note,” said Ann. “I believe he doesn’t know what to think of it. Margaret is worse. She says over and over that Ruth will return ‘in good time.’ Good time is long since past already.”
Catherine’s stomach soured and she snapped, “And Margaret knows this how? Because an angel whispered it into her delicate ear? It’s a wonder she’s not learned to hold her tongue when she has nothing intelligent to say.” Catherine sprang to her feet. “It’s freezing out and Teresa is desperate with grief. For once in her life, could Margaret not be an idiot?”
“Margaret is my kindred, Catherine.” William stood in the doorway, looking at his boots. “She talks out of turn, but she’s my sister.” He came into the room. “Must you belittle her in that manner?” He leaned on the bedpost and rubbed his face. “I need to lie down. My forehead aches me.”
“Lie here,” said Catherine. Her anger flattened into guilt, and she pulled back the cover.
City of Ladies Page 4