City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “I slept like a baby myself last night,” said Lady Bryan. “Your cure worked a wonder.”

  “It pleases me to hear it.”

  “And I have a wonder in return for you. But the other ladies must stay out of the way. Come inside.” They walked into the sun-lit gallery, and at a flick of the woman’s hand, two servants scurried out of sight. “Let me show you through the rooms.” The woman walked briskly before Catherine, indicating bedrooms and maids’ closets, a library, the dining hall. The kitchen below was a flurry of cooks and maids and Eleanor, looking bewildered, and they walked through with a brief stop to look out the window at the herb garden. The knots of green looked well-tended, but the plot was small and Catherine could already see where an expansion could be made. Lady Bryan said, “You will make good use of that” and walked on. Catherine hurried after.

  By the time they reached the top of the house, with its small, dark chambers, Catherine was winded. She could not have told one room from another, and when Lady Bryan stopped, Catherine collapsed onto a stool, breathing hard.

  “I have exhausted you already,” said Lady Bryan.

  “No, no. The exercise strengthens me.” She smiled and held her hand on her stomach. “It will work me back into a better condition.”

  “A commendable disposition. But I have yet to show you the wonder.”

  The room they were in opened into another, then another, smaller chamber, and Catherine could see all the way to the corner, where, on a worn window seat, lay a gilt-edged book. The furniture was cramped but glossy, and the cover on the bed was pale silk. Catherine ran her palm over its surface. “Is this the royal chamber?”

  “This entire house is a royal chamber,” said Lady Bryan. “And you had best not forget it. Tell me,” she said, folding her arms and plucking at her sleeve. “They say you visited our late queen, many years ago.”

  Catherine studied the woman. She already knew. “I saw Queen Katherine twice. Once, when I was a girl. I visited her at Greenwich, with the prioress of the convent where I was raised. There was talk that I would join her court. I saw her again at Kimbolton, when the changes came. The prioress had hopes that she would save our house. It wasn’t possible.”

  Lady Bryan nodded. “The prioress was your mother, am I right? Your natural mother?”

  “I knew it only in the moments before she died.”

  “I wasn’t seeking a confession, Catherine.” She smiled. “Confirmation, perhaps.”

  “I was a nun, but not for very long. Our house was dissolved and I married William Overton after we received permission. I had a son. His name is Robert. And now we have Veronica.”

  “Veronica. An unusual name.”

  “It reminds me of a woman who was once one of my caretakers.”

  “And now, here is the wonder I promised you.”

  A young woman entered from the antechamber. She was dark-haired and somber-eyed. She took Catherine’s hands. “And you are to be my new companion, as long as I am allowed to have anyone at all?”

  Catherine recognized her at once and bent her knee, but the young woman raised her again. “I am no queen, Catherine Overton.”

  “No, but you are the daughter of the king, Your Grace.” Catherine got reluctantly to her feet. Her stomach flipped like a fish and her hands had gone cold. She felt that she could not meet the dark eyes, but the young woman stood silently until Catherine looked. She was not dreaming. She was face to face, not with one of Elizabeth’s women, but with Mary Tudor.

  19

  The king’s elder daughter took one of Catherine’s hands and lifted her arm, twisted her right and left, and let her go. “I have heard that you are a great healer. Is there magic in you?”

  “No magic. Just my eyes and my hands, which God has given me. Have you heard other news of me?” asked Catherine. Her skin was pricking. “Have you heard that I am a witch?” It had come out before she could stop her mouth.

  “Have you heard that I am a madwoman?” answered Mary Tudor.

  Catherine bowed her head so that the princess could not see her smile. “I have heard no such thing, Your Grace.”

  “Tush, you have. I know you have. I see it in your face. Come and sit here with me.” Mary walked through the antechamber into the far room and set the book aside. She perched on the cushion and patted it. There was nowhere else to sit in the tiny room. “They say I am possessed of a devil and that I tear my own hair out, don’t they?”

  “There are likely some fools who say such things. Men often do not rein their tongues. Nor women.”

  “They shift with the wind.” Mary leapt to her feet, not even noticing when Catherine also stumbled up, then down to her knees. The princess paced the few steps around the room, tapping her left palm with her right fist. “They are all the friends of the boy. And such a wonderful boy he is. So devout. So holy. So legitimate. So much a boy. Born to be a king. He already looks like a king, when he can stand on his own long enough to count a hundred.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Catherine. “Can the child not walk?”

  “Oh, he can walk. He can strut like a baby monarch. Then he falls over and they take him to his bed and give out that he is at his meditations and prayers. He will author a sermon before he is five, no doubt, and set the Christian world a-gaping at his intellect.”

  “Meditations? He is toddling yet.”

  “He will toddle into their clutches, once my father is dead, if his counselors have aught to do with it, and be married to one of their mush-mouthed daughters. They would like to see my head off first.” She stroked her neck, and her eyes glittered.

  “Are you in danger, Your Grace?”

  Mary laughed a peal that brought Lady Bryan running from the other room. “Don’t put any of your smelly old poultices on me,” said Mary to the older woman. “My nerves are fine. Fine as a king’s daughter’s. Wouldn’t you say?” Mary held out her hand, palm down. It trembled slightly. “You see? I am steady as a summer sky.”

  Lady Bryan was studying the princess. “My dear lady,” she said, taking Mary’s fingers, “do you not want to rest?”

  “It is barely past midday, and you will force me back into the bed? No, Catherine Havens Overton and I will read together. I have been told that you are a great reader.”

  “I am not as quick as some,” said Catherine, “but I will read if it would please you.” She rose and took up the book. The Psalms. “The sun touches the window comfortably.”

  Mary Tudor put out her hand. Catherine carefully took it and let herself be led back to the seat.

  Catherine said, “Where shall I begin? Close your eyes, Your Grace, and choose a starting point for me.” She offered the book, and, when the book fell open, Mary placed a finger on the text. Catherine took it back, but Mary’s eyes remained closed, and she put her head against the dingy leaded window while Catherine read.

  He shall cover thee with his feathers,

  and under his wings shalt thou trust:

  his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

  Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night,

  nor the arrow that flieth by day;

  Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness;

  nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

  A thousand shall fall at thy side,

  and ten thousand at thy right hand;

  but it shall not come nigh thee.

  Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold

  and see the reward of the wicked.

  Because thou hast made the Lord,

  which is my refuge, thy habitation;

  There shall no evil befall thee,

  neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

  For he shall give his angels charge over thee,

  to keep thee in all thy ways.

  They shall bear thee up in their hands,

  lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

  Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion

  and t
he dragon shalt thou trample under feet.

  “Psalm 91,” said Mary Tudor, opening her eyes.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Would you like me to finish?”

  “No. It is like a blade in my heart. To think that bastard is treated as my equal. The girl is a pestilence, and the boy is an arrow that flies through my day.” She whirled on Lady Bryan, silent in the doorway. “Where is she? Where is the bastard?”

  “In her chamber. She has not been allowed out today.”

  Catherine gasped. “She is in this house?”

  Mary Tudor giggled, then she leaned toward Catherine and whispered, “I am only here to be their serving woman. They want me to take my meals in the gallery now, like a common member of the household. The Princess Mary is not here at all. I am a ghost!” She jumped up and pirouetted about the room. Her skirt brushed the embers in the small hearth, and Catherine jumped up and flung her arms around the whirling princess to stop her.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you will set yourself afire.” Catherine let Mary go. “I thirst. May I send for drink?”

  “Ah, I am parched as well. What shall we have?” Mary pulled herself loose, spun one more time, and skidded up to Catherine. She was flushed and her eyes held an unnatural light again.

  “We will have wine,” Catherine said to Lady Bryan. She walked the other woman to the door and murmured, “Have you any herbs in your still room?”

  “Indeed we have.”

  “Have you any poppy? Or hellebore?”

  Lady Bryan went to the farther door and stared down the hall. “I will inquire.”

  “Infuse the wine with poppy if there is any to be had. Hellebore if there is not. Small amounts. Tiny.” Catherine pinched her left forefinger and thumb together.

  “I am gone and back.” Lady Bryan fled the room, and Catherine returned to Mary and took hold of her forearms. Her skin was cold, even inside the silk sleeves, and Catherine could feel the life thumping unevenly along her wrists.

  “Have you friends, Your Grace? Surely there is someone who knows your station.”

  “I have nothing. I am nothing. My father would sell me to a footman if he could get him a new wife for the trade. He would like me in the tomb next to my mother. No. Not next to my mother. He would fear that we would rise together to haunt him.” She snorted out a laugh, and her nose ran. Catherine offered a linen cloth, and the princess allowed her face to be wiped, as a child might. She drew a set of beads from inside her bodice and pulled them over her head, then pressed them into Catherine’s hands. “You will have these. And you will hear mass with me. Put them away and show them to no one.”

  Catherine lifted the rosary and the small silver Christ twirled. She rolled them around her hand and secured them in her pocket. “I stood before your mother. Twice. She was every inch a queen.”

  “And now she is worm’s meat. Rotting in the tomb.” The eyes brightened and Mary Tudor giggled again. “And so is the bastard’s dam. With her head under her arm like a lap dog.”

  “Your Grace, I would serve you. I will serve you.”

  “You will only if you are let to. Ah, here is our refreshment.”

  Lady Bryan had come in with a pitcher with a long wooden spoon in it and goblets. She had brought a fresh loaf, too, and Catherine stirred the wine, lifting the ladle to see if the herb had been crushed properly. The poppy mash floated up, and she mixed it back in. “This is good. Let it sit while we break this bread, and our hearts will be eased by it.” She tore off a bite for the princess, and while Mary ate, Catherine swirled the drink around. Finally, she poured, sniffed, and tasted. “This will do for now. Drink, Your Grace.”

  Mary did as she was bidden, and Catherine, giving another goblet to Lady Bryan, took up one herself. She sipped, watching the princess over the edge of the silver, until Mary had emptied hers.

  “I cannot stay here,” Mary said, “if they will make me eat the food they give the servants. I suffer from the headache. I cannot eat fat meat. I must have white bread.” She looked into the empty goblet, then up at Catherine. She smiled. “You have healed my heart, and now you must stay with me. You say you will serve me, Catherine Overton? You will not stay under the hand of the bastard?”

  The light in the princess’s eyes had dimmed, and she was any young woman again. Lady Bryan had backed out silently, but still Catherine whispered. “I will be at your service, Your Grace, if I am allowed.”

  Mary Tudor’s eyes glowed again. “I will have the head taken from the shoulders of anyone who removes you.”

  20

  “Now we will go see the Lady Elizabeth,” whispered Lady Bryan. She was waiting outside Mary Tudor’s door, and she continued on her way as though there had been no interruption in their perusal of the house.

  Catherine followed her down the drafty hall. “Do they never meet? Does the princess stay only in those stifling rooms? It must be like a prison to her.”

  The woman stopped, and Catherine almost toppled over her. “The Lady Mary does not come out often. She tends to both body and soul privately. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes.” Catherine lowered her voice. “Is there a priest?”

  “Not to be spoken of. Lady Mary is delicate and she must have dainty food. She prefers to take her meals alone. That is what we say.” Lady Bryan tiptoed to the main stairs and peeked down. “Sir John believes she should eat in the gallery. He has lately been insistent. It will kill her. You are to see to her food, do you understand me? You are to oversee her health. Make certain that she eats enough. That she has physic for the headaches. Her flowers are not regular, either, and you are to see if you might not have her flowing like a regular woman.” Lady Bryan took a breath, then two steps down and halted again. Stepped back up. “And, yes, she is in a sort of prison. She has been in a dungeon of the soul these ten years and more, since the Boleyn woman became the king’s whore. You will teach the other one her letters and read to her as it pleases the child, so that you may have tales to tell your husband. You may see to her meals, as well.”

  She hurried on down the hall. Catherine could hear high-pitched wailing, a child’s pitch, and she said, “Is that my Veronica? Eleanor should be tending to her.”

  “It is not your baby,” said Lady Bryan. “Your baby doesn’t throw fits and break her dishes, does she?”

  “No,” said Catherine. “Do you mean—?”

  “Yes. It’s that little red-haired Welsh horror. You will have your hands full, trust me.” She opened a door and waved Catherine in. “Brace yourself.”

  They entered a large room, lit by banks of windows in the far wall. The hearth blazed, and the chairs were covered with velvet the color of claret. A long wool carpet, worked with Tudor roses and unicorns, covered the oak planks, and on it lay a small girl. Her legs were in the air and she beat at nothing with her fists as she screamed. Two women gazed down at her, one in an attitude of disgust and terror, the other in despair. Neither of them moved toward the child.

  Catherine walked up to the trio. “What is this? Is this a royal baby?” She looked back at Lady Bryan, who was still by the open door. “You surely do not expect me to teach this.”

  At her words, the girl fell silent. Her hands dropped to the rug, and she opened her eyes. Seeing Catherine, she rolled to one side and pushed herself to her feet. She set her fists on her hips and stared, silent. The tears still shone on her pale lashes. Her hair was fiery in the sunlight. She kicked at a torn edge of the rug. It looked as though it had been ripped from the wall.

  “This is an infant,” said Catherine. “She needs a wet nurse, not a teacher. I study physic. I can teach letters or translation. I can teach reading. I can teach cookery. But this?”

  The child sniffed once and swiped the back of her hand across her nose.

  “No, no, that will not do,” said Catherine, kneeling. “You must clean your nose upon your cloth. There are evil spirits in that discharge and you will fall ill under their influence if you don’t rid yourself of them completely.” She
drew a cloth from her pocket and dabbed at the child’s fingers. “You’re as fair as a snowfall in March. You must care for a skin such as this.”

  The girl slapped at the cloth, and Catherine gave her a hard tap on the side of the face with her forefinger. The women behind her sucked in their breaths.

  “By my troth, you will not hit your elders. Do you mark me? It is wicked. You are a king’s daughter, and you will behave like one. It is common and low to strike out in temper. It is not like a lady. Nor is dragging the hangings from the wall.”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide. She did not speak, but she allowed Catherine to touch her.

  The two attendants tittered. “She has not been so tractable since we have served her.”

  “So this is she?” Catherine rose. “This is the little Lady Elizabeth?”

  “Elizabeth,” repeated the child.

  “So she is,” said Lady Bryan. “She is a froward thing, and she will now be the charge of Kat Champernowne, the new waiting gentlewoman, and you will meet her soon enough. My time with the child is at an end.”

  “You are leaving Hatfield?”

  “No, but I will be overseeing the care of young Prince Edward. I will be here if you need me to help you teach this Elizabeth her lessons. I will just be on the other side of the house. I trust I have left things in order on this end.”

  Catherine regarded the pale girl. “Any child may be taught her lessons, if she is not stupid or spoilt. Are you stupid, Elizabeth? Are you spoilt and stinking like old meat in the sun? I will not waste my time on a child who is already rotten.”

  Elizabeth did not move. She shook her head slightly.

  “And what is it I am called to teach you? I have a son just a few months younger than you. His name is Robert.”

  Elizabeth still did not move.

  “And what do I teach my Robert? He must bow to his elders. He must not pull the cat’s tail. He must not let his temper run off with him like a wild pony. An ill-governed temper is the doorway for the devil, do you hear me, young Elizabeth?”