Eleanor pushed up onto her feet and leaned forward, squinting. “You’ve been before?”
“Years ago.” Catherine stretched toward her maid and pulled the linen over Veronica’s face to keep the dust from her nose. “I was fifteen, and my . . . the prioress of my convent thought I would make a maid for the queen.”
“The old queen, that one?” Eleanor pulled her pony closer. She whispered, “The first one?”
“The very one,” said Catherine softly. “I saw her before she died. Her heart was broken.”
“At least she still had her head on her neck.” Eleanor sat with a thump but kept her voice low. “She was the real queen, that’s what they say in the village.”
“Who says that? Do they not know it is heresy? No one should say such a thing aloud.”
Eleanor nodded. “They know. No one says it in the public house. Not before the constable. He bends whichever way the king blows.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? I have been accusing the villagers in my mind for the deaths of Ruth and Joan.”
“Troth, some would have been glad to see them gone, but not because they hate nuns. It’s because they say the king hates nuns. There’s others who talk of witches, but not all.”
“I wish you had told me this.”
“It’s just the folk I know, my far kin and such. The king has his people, for sure. There’s plenty who’d throw all the old nuns in a fire if they could lay hands on some of their land. I think no one knows what to believe and the confusion makes demons of us all.”
“Shh. We shouldn’t speak of this here.” Catherine glanced over her shoulder to be sure that no one was riding near them.
Eleanor sidestepped her pony closer. “They say that when the king dies, we will have great wars in England.”
“We already have wars in England,” Catherine said.
“Tell me about the convent,” said Eleanor. “Folks say that you were born there. That the village is named after you.”
“I suppose I was. Born in the convent, I mean. I don’t remember.” Catherine closed her eyes and felt her bones rattle in time with the ruts in the road. “My mother was named Havens and I carried her name until I was married. I still carry it within me. What else do you want to know?”
“About you. People say all kinds of things. Some people say I oughtn’t work at Overton House. They say it’s full of witches and ghosts. They say you were forbidden to marry.”
“People say all sorts of silly things. They’re for the king, they’re against the king. They’re for the queen but against the nuns. We run in every direction at once. We draw and quarter our own island.” Catherine opened her eyes and looked at the girl. Eleanor’s face shone with sweat. “Have you ever seen a ghost at the House?”
“No. But I’ve searched high and low.”
Catherine laughed. “The only ghosts in that house dwell in the minds of the living.” She sat forward to ease the pressure from her hips. “And, yes, I was born in the convent at Mount Grace. Do you want to know who my parents were? My real blood parents? The prioress and Father John. That’s right, Father John Bridle. Look at Veronica’s eyes and look at his. You’ll see. And William sent to the king himself for permission for us to marry.”
Eleanor was staring, breathing through her mouth, and Catherine bumped her under the chin. “You’d better close that before the flies get in.” The girl blushed, and Catherine patted her cheek. “Don’t worry, child, I’m no witch. If I were, I’d’ve put a spell on the king’s men to make them act like Christians.”
“They drove you out, didn’t they? They killed your mother?”
Catherine lifted the sides of her hood and let the air cool the hair around her temples. “The walls do have ears. Yes, that’s how it was. They turned us out, and I walked an old friend of my mother’s to Lynn. It was high summer and hot. And the rains would not relent. But we went, on our own feet the full way. We found her niece, and the morning after we arrived, her heart burst. I walked home again. Her name was Veronica and she was another mother to me.” Catherine’s stomach felt scorched and shriveled and she stopped the story there.
Eleanor clasped her hands together. “And Master William was waiting for you in the road when you returned, and he carried you to your father’s house and prevailed against the king and married you, isn’t that right? And then you had little Robert.”
Catherine choked out, “You have told my life story, Eleanor.”
“It is too beautiful and sad. It is a tale for children.” Eleanor unhooked her hands and began to twist a stray tendril of her hair around her finger. “Robert was a sickly child because he was born too soon. Oh, but he looks the image of you, Madam.”
Catherine regarded the girl. “That is a non sequitur.”
“A what?”
“The one does not follow upon the other.”
Eleanor gazed across a small field where some pigs grazed. “Madam, tell me about the court. When you were there.”
Catherine drank from the wineskin on her saddle and let the liquid cool her insides. Then she could begin again. “It was full of music and dancing. The queen’s women wore gold brocade and rubies, and her walls were covered in carpets of blue and green. She gave me a locket, traced silver, and I wore it for years. Until one of the king’s men tore it from my neck. The queen’s eyes were deep as still water, and she spoke with the notes of Spain in her words.”
“And her daughter, Mary. The elder of the king’s daughters. Will she know you?”
Catherine shrugged. “She might recall my name if the occasion is brought to her memory. We are close in age.”
“The king does not love her. Nor the younger daughter.”
“They say not.”
“Both are called bastards.”
“I have heard it said so. But they may win back his love yet.”
Eleanor worried the lock of hair again. “Madam, do not think me impertinent.”
“Don’t be impertinent and I won’t.”
“Master William does not love little Robert.”
Catherine’s heart tipped over. Her ribs felt tight. “Who says so?”
“I don’t wish to spread tales, Madam, but he’s so cold sometimes. It’s like winter blows into the room when he’s with the poor little boy.” Eleanor looked at Veronica’s head, bobbing against her chest. “The little mister says it himself, even. And here we are, without him.”
Catherine’s throat had filled, and she could barely get words up. “No more talk.”
“Forgive me, Madam,” Eleanor whispered. She squeezed the baby, though Veronica hadn’t wakened.
Joseph trotted up beside them, grinning. “We’re almost there!”
“Yes,” said Catherine, and she sat back as William rode up beside the young man.
“How do the ladies? Dust-smothered yet?”
“Well-nigh,” said Catherine, waving her handkerchief. “I will be happy when my head can stop bouncing.”
“Before dark, my love, you’ll be drinking wine at a gentleman’s table.” William spurred his stallion and twisted around to speak to the men leading the pack horses. There was laughter in his voice.
Catherine closed her eyes again and listened to her blood keeping time to the pounding of the hooves that carried them forward. She must have dozed, because Eleanor was suddenly shaking her knee, saying “Madam, look!” and she opened her eyes again to the sight of buildings. They were thumping down a sludgy way. The soft road sucked at their ponies’ hooves, and the animals plowed ahead. They passed a narrow side road, almost an alley, and Catherine spied a small girl in a doorway. Her shift was a rag, and the bones of her face pushed against the thin skin. The air smelt of smoke, and the baby began to cough.
“It is paradise!” said Eleanor.
Joseph plodded along nearby and he pointed. “Look at that, Lady Overton. What is it?”
“The Tower.”
Eleanor gasped and clapped her hands. “That’s where they kept the
Boleyn woman, isn’t it? Where the princes were murdered by the hunchback, isn’t it?” The maid gaped at the dark walls as they passed, straining to see the buildings inside.
“It is where queens go before they are crowned and before they have their crowns removed,” said Catherine.
They rode a while in silence.
“And there, look at that,” said Eleanor. They had come out by the Thames, and a small boat drifted in their direction. “Is that the king’s?”
“No, it’s too small.” Catherine sat forward. The sails fluttered, red and blue flags, and a young man, sun-reddened and hard-muscled, worked in the bow. Joseph waved, and the other man arced his cap at him. Joseph whooped and raised himself in his saddle.
“Did you see that?” said Eleanor. “It is as fine as anything I have ever seen.”
The sun burned away a cloud and shot a gold streak across the water. They were nearing London Bridge, like a long skinny town of its own, stretched over the river. The shops teetered and leaned, and people gathered at the north end, in twos and threes. Catherine’s throat closed completely. Once, she had wanted to be at court worse than she had ever wanted anything. But that was years ago. She’d been a girl. The spikes still speared the sky on the south bank, the shriveling heads of traitors and thieves enticing crows by the dozen. Catherine shuddered. Even that. She had wanted even that.
“Do you see? Look, are those dead men?” Now Eleanor was pointing.
“A piece of them.” Catherine could not help but stare. “A reminder that our king is now the head of our church. You see how they overlook it?”
They could just see the corner of Southwark Cathedral, but William went to the right, and they were back in the dark streets of London Town again. Then left, and right again, until Catherine had lost her way. She saw the dark stretch of St Paul’s behind them, but nothing else looked familiar.
Eleanor clapped her hands and sprang up and down on her saddle. “We are almost arrived. I feel it!” Her pony veered over and bumped Catherine’s.
“We will all feel it if you don’t sit still, Eleanor. You’re like to capsize us into the mire.” Catherine touched her own cheek. “We must look like a pack of beggars.”
Eleanor lifted the ends of her hair and sniffed. “I stink, but you are beautiful, Madam, as always. And little Veronica is an angel.”
“We all smell like old meat in summer,” said Catherine. “Let’s pray there’s a bath and clean clothing.” They turned one more time, left, through an arch into a grassy courtyard, and stopped before a grim, pale building. The windows were curtained and the flat façade was streaked with grime. The front door opened, and a large man came out, hailing them and waving. “And we had better pray quickly. We’re here.”
13
Catherine waited while William greeted his brother’s old university friend. They slapped backs and laughed while she tried to check the snugness of her bodice without looking down. “Am I covered?” she said, and Eleanor, glancing over for barely a second, nodded brightly.
“All right, then. Be ready to hand down the baby when I ask.”
“Yes, Madam. You may depend on me.”
Joseph was on his feet, stretching, and here came William and Benjamin Davies. Benjamin was the taller of the two, and while William’s brown hair showed glints of the Overton red under the sun, this man was black-haired, with curls almost to his shoulders. His beard was salted with stripes of white, and he didn’t seem to mind showing his teeth when he smiled. It was no wonder. They were solid and straight. He put Catherine in mind of a good-tempered sheepdog. The pack horses had been brought forward, and the men pulled bits of wool from the sacks. Benjamin stretched a strand between his hands and nodded. William gestured broadly across the animals then came to help her down. Catherine’s breath hitched and stuck in her throat.
“And here she is, my gentle Catherine,” said William. He gave her his hand, and she slipped to the ground.
The sun tore through another cloud, and the force of the light stunned Catherine’s eyes downward. Her curtsey felt more like surrender than greeting. “Sir.”
“No ‘sir,’ please, lady.” Benjamin lifted her by both hands and held out her arms. His smile beamed through the dark cloud of his beard and Catherine blinked. “She is a beauty, William! No wonder you’ve been keeping her to yourself up there in the wilderness. Look at you, Catherine Overton.”
“I’m hidden under a blanket of muck just now. You should see how I look when you can see my face.” Catherine put her fingers to her neck. It felt hot and she hoped she wasn’t blushing.
Benjamin bellowed out a great laugh and Catherine could see his tongue. “She has a wit, too. William, your ship has certainly come in with this one.”
“And see what she has brought with her,” said William.
Catherine beckoned to Eleanor, who handed down the baby, then hopped to the ground and waited quietly behind her mistress. Catherine offered the child for view. “This is Veronica, our daughter.”
Benjamin held his breath and folded back the cloth covering her face. “She is barely born.”
“And already perfect.” Catherine pulled back the cloth further. “Perfect as her father, and with hair flaming as any Overton.”
Benjamin laughed again. “William, she has hair like your brother. She will grow up to look like Robert.”
William put on a look of horror, but there was pleasure behind it. “She will certainly be more handsome.”
Both men suddenly fell sober. “It was hard, how your brother went,” said Benjamin. He tucked the cloth back up to the baby’s chin. “He was always afflicted with a bilious humor.”
William nodded. “The illness affected his reason. It almost broke our family apart. He went so far as to accuse me to the law.”
“Indeed, the news reached me here. It’s hard times we live in. Families are in splinters all over England. Some have gone over to Flanders.” Benjamin’s voice had dropped almost to a murmur. “A man must take what he can and keep his head on his shoulders.” He looked directly at Catherine. “Women too.”
“You know my history?” Catherine asked.
One of Benjamin’s thick eyebrows lifted. “Enough.”
“I was a nun.”
“I’ve heard the tale. At least one man’s version of it.” Benjamin’s mouth was tight with the effort not to smile. “But he is your husband now and the king’s loyal subject and it behooves him to speak ill of a nun’s profession.”
“I wasn’t a very good one.”
“There’s no shame in being in a convent. Now, staying in a convent is another matter these days.” Benjamin looked from Catherine to William. “We won’t have a flock of black birds about the place, will we?”
“No.” William took Catherine by the hand and squeezed.
“Good enough.” His head on one side, Benjamin swept his eyes over her, top to bottom and back up. “We’ll get you in with the daughter’s household, of that you can be sure. But you’d better keep out of the king’s sight.”
“Does he hate the sisters so much?” asked Catherine. “Even reformed ones?”
“He doesn’t care one way or the other about them,” said Benjamin, “as long as they don’t marry and he has their lands in his pocket.” His face blazed behind the beard, and he coughed. “The ones without his blessing, I mean to say. He is unmarried himself just now and he’s not a man who likes his bed to stay cold.” He shook his hand in the air. “Enough of that. All is well. Come inside.” He put his hand on William’s back.
The house was dark but rich on the inside. The rushes were plushy and fresh, and Catherine’s feet sank in as she stepped over the threshold, releasing the scent of lavender and rosemary and rose petals. Sunlight slanted through the drawn curtains, gilding the tapestries along the far side of the big hall they entered. A large table sat in the room to their right, but not like the big trestle table in the gallery of Overton Hall. This one was carved dark oak with crouching lions for legs. Th
e ceiling was painted with scenes of Jupiter and half-naked women, the god as a bull, as a swan, as a shower of gold. The rafters were set with wooden dragons and deer and leaping fish in painted green and blue and red. Catherine gaped upward until her neck seized.
“You must be starved half to death,” said Benjamin. He stepped past the table and roared through a doorway. He waited for movements below before he added, “Let me show you your chambers.”
They followed him up a staircase against the side wall of the first big room and down a long gallery hung with portraits. A stuffed boar threatened the air from a raised platform, and Benjamin polished its snout as they walked past. “Here.” He pushed open a door and they stepped into a brightly lit bedroom. A cradle had been brought in and filled with folded bedding. “Beyond is a room for your maid, Catherine. William, that door opens into your rooms, with a closet for your man on the far side.”
A full ewer sat on the dresser, and Catherine suddenly itched all over again. “I would like a rest before we eat.”
“God’s blood, have a whole bath if you want. There’s a tub in the alcove between this and the maid’s room. I’ll have a girl carry you up some hot water. William?”
“I’ll walk down with you. Let the women have their privacy.” He kissed Catherine on the cheek and was gone.
“Thank God,” said Eleanor when the door closed. “I thought I would burst.” She ran through to her little room, and at the sound of urine hitting a chamberpot, Catherine clutched her own skirt and searched under the bed for another one.
She laid the baby in the cradle and squatted. The release felt good, but she was still bleeding lightly, and she called for Eleanor. “I need you to help me stand up.”
The maid came back, smoothing her skirt. “Do men never need to piss? Mother of Christ, I can barely hold it when my monthlies are coming.”
“Men can use trees and ditches.” Catherine folded a new pad and tucked it between her legs. “I’m almost whole again.” She tossed the old one into the hearth, and the embers flared. Catherine held her nose against the stench of stale blood and went to the window, pushing open the leaded pane and leaning out. A man and a boy were below in the narrow passage between the back door and the outbuildings. The boy’s head was hanging and the man was yelling. He grabbed something out of the child’s hand and backhanded him so hard the boy fell onto his back. The man flung the object to the stones and disappeared into the house right under Catherine’s window. The boy rubbed the side of his head, then pushed himself up and wobbled off into a shed. Catherine leaned out farther to look. It was a rosary, though the little Christ had broken at the waist in his fall and his face shone silver, unaware that his legs had rolled away into a muddy crack. Maybe rosaries were allowed again now and no one had told the man. The boy might be getting his beating for nothing.
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