City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “Might we marry?”

  “Do you love the man?”

  “My body does.”

  “What of your mind?”

  “I cannot use my wits at all when I am with him. And my soul seems to fly out of me and cling to him.”

  “That is lust, Eleanor, not love. It’s a tasty feeling, but it won’t nourish a marriage. What do you talk of when you’re not abed together?”

  Eleanor cocked her head. “Horses. He is mad for horses. I talk to him of my dreams. My fears.”

  “And what does he say to them? Will he put them on a horse and ride them away?”

  “No, Madam. He says I must learn to read and write so that I may keep his accounts when he has an inn. He will make a fine trade of it and buy me a white cob to ride.”

  “He will make a gentlewoman of you, then?”

  “He says so.”

  “Joseph sounds like a good young man. He thinks of your talents. But what are these fears you speak of?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps that I am dull for learning and that he will see it. Madam, I want to be like Ruth and Joan were. How firm they walked when they would go off down to the village. I would watch them as far as I could see. I used to imagine I was one of their charges, improving my reading and writing.”

  They were at the back door, and Catherine said, “You are improving in those very skills. Now go tell Joseph that I need him to ride to Mount Grace for that willow bark. And study whether you will have him for a husband or no. Remember, you will vow to be his for life. That’s a long time.”

  “Longer for some of us than others, Madam,” said Eleanor.

  “True, Eleanor. True,” said Catherine. She kept her eye on her maid until the younger woman disappeared into the stable, then she walked back to the front of the house. Another kite had joined the first three, and they all circled over the far field. She must check on William’s falcons. She inhaled deeply again. Those birds didn’t come in such numbers for nothing. But the wind brought her only the scent of the gorse and the broken stems in the garden. She plodded back to the kitchen and opened the door onto the chatter of the younger girls.

  44

  The infusion of dock made William’s eyes water when he brought it to his lips. “Can you do nothing to disguise the flavor?” He sat up in bed, held his nose, and drank it down, then coughed until Catherine thought he would retch. “Good God Almighty, if that doesn’t kill everything inside me, I don’t know what will. It tastes as though it came out of the arse hole of a dragon.”

  “It does not attack fever,” said Catherine. She took the cup from him and set it out in the hall. “It is a good tonic, though, and the leaves are bright. Stuffed with physic.” She sat back down and put her wrist against his forehead. “How do you feel?”

  “Stuffed with physic,” he said, falling back onto the pillows. “Where is our daughter?”

  “Down in the kitchen with the maids. She grows like a dock herself.”

  “She will be tall like you,” said William. He closed his eyes. “And red-headed as my brother was. I hope she has a better temper than he had.”

  William almost never spoke of his dead older brother. “Robert was ever fiery in his opinions,” said Catherine simply.

  “Hot as hell, you might say. I still wonder sometimes that he actually accused me of theft. And here I lie in his bed.” William opened his eyes. “If Robert had not had a fever much like this, he would have been Master of Overton House and I would have been hanged for a felon and a traitor against the king.”

  “And I along with you, perhaps.” Catherine pushed back her husband’s hair and stretched out next to him. “Let’s not talk of the past. The convent is closed and your brother lies in his tomb. I am no longer a nun and you are no longer a younger brother. God has mysterious ways.”

  “As did your mother.” He slid his arm under her and held her against him. She could feel the heat of his breast and hear his heart banging like a panicked animal in the cage of his ribs. “Who would have thought a prioress so quick to poison someone?”

  Catherine pushed her face into his neck and murmured, “Who indeed.” She didn’t like to remember what all her mother had done as prioress.

  “And what ever became of her books of venoms?”

  “I couldn’t say.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, and Catherine felt the shame come over her like a dark veil, but William was too ill to notice.

  “Well. I must train myself not to judge if I am to die of a fever and meet God.”

  “Don’t talk that way. You must ask God for the gift of forgiveness. It will ease your mind and your body may follow the way to health.”

  “I will try.”

  They lay quietly for a while, Catherine listening to the bird cries outside. The light through the window was buttery. “Tell me,” she asked quietly, “who do you judge?”

  William laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Have you time for a list? My brother. My sisters, both the dead one and the live one. Myself.” He lay silent a few seconds. “No more. Let me sleep.”

  “I’ll return before dark.” Catherine slid from the bed and pulled the blankets to his chin before she left the room. She went straight to the front door for fresh air. Three more kites were circling over the far field, and two of them landed before Catherine fetched her wrap and a hood and a stick and started walking. A few sparrows harried the larger birds, hoping for a scrap, and a couple of ravens knocked them aside and sparred with the kites. None of William’s falcons were in the fray, and Catherine reminded herself to make sure they were safe at home and fed before she retired for the night.

  She smelt it before she saw it. All of the birds lifted into the sky as Catherine walked over the grassy swathe, the sparrows skittering off on a plane of wind, but the prey was in the gorse that surrounded the field, and the kites landed heavily in the branches of the nearby oaks, hunkering down and waiting. One stayed on the ground, and Catherine beat at it until it backed away, hissing and waving its huge wings. The sun glowered down on the prickly bushes, and Catherine was sweating as she pushed through, searching. The thorns punished her skirt and sleeves, and she thought she heard a voice far off, calling her name, but she pressed on until her hands were bleeding. Some of the bushes lay already bent and shorn. Someone had passed this way before her. But it hadn’t been easy. Catherine stopped to breathe. The call came again on the breeze. From the house. She didn’t turn but shoved on until the stench forced her to cover her mouth and nose with her apron.

  The kites darkened the sky, surrounding her now, but Catherine didn’t need them. She stepped into a small clearing, disguised by broken branches. The flowers and leaves had wilted, however, and they made a sad shrine over the shallow grave. The heavy woven blanket that had covered it had blown into a mouldy heap and stank of rot and dung.

  Catherine stepped backward when she saw the bodies and fell into the outraged and dismembered gorse. The sticks clung to her arms and hips and dug in their thorns, and she had to fight her way to her feet again. Her hands tore, but she didn’t see them. She saw only the dead women, half-covered with dirt and leaves. The kites had scratched much of the sorry covering away. The shredded clothing had not flown far, and Catherine freed a scrap of embroidered wool from a thorn. Bits of linen fluttered among the yellow flowers. She held up the cloth to the sun. It was a piece of Ruth’s skirt.

  Catherine sat on the damp ground and wailed. Even from here, she could see arches of pale rib shining through the torn breasts, one delicate, decayed hand lying upon the yielding earth. She started to lift away a stem, but the wood seemed heavy as stone, and she could not make her fingers remove it. A long twist of dark hair, loosed from its scalp, lay in a muddy trench, and Catherine pulled it out, her stomach lifting and heaving, and wound it into her handkerchief. She stumbled out by the rough path. It seemed hours since she had entered the gorse patch, and she collapsed at the edge of the grass field and vomited.

  “Catherine?”

  A war
m hand touched the back of her neck, and Catherine opened her eyes. A pair of brown boots. The grass, sparkling and innocent under her thighs. “I’m all right,” she whispered.

  “You’re not.” Benjamin pulled her to her feet. She was still weak, and she wobbled. “Let us help you back.”

  “Us?” Catherine shaded her eyes and Reginald Goodall came into view. Joseph was wringing his hands beside the other men. “Reg.” She stumbled to him and caught his arm. “Where is Veronica?”

  “Eleanor has her, Madam. She was sleeping like a lamb.” William’s servant looked into Catherine’s face. “Lady, you are white as any ghost.”

  Joseph shifted from one foot to the other. He was chewing on his lower lip.

  “Ghost. Yes. You all are witnesses.” The bile threatened Catherine’s throat again, and she swallowed the urge. “Benjamin, I will need you to ride and fetch the constable. This evening. Two women lie in that gorse patch, shrouded in dirt. It is a murder, and he must remove them before the kites devour them completely.”

  Reg covered his face with his hand, and Benjamin tracked Catherine’s footsteps until he saw. “Do you think I would lie?” Catherine called. Her skin stung all over. She wanted to slap someone.

  Benjamin came back, quieter than she had ever heard him. His face was ashy and he wiped his beard. “I needed to know what to tell the constable.”

  “I will ride with you, sir,” said Joseph.

  “No,” said Catherine. “You must go to Mount Grace and fetch me the bark of the white willows, the ones that grow along the lane south of our old convent.”

  Benjamin was looking back at the spot where the dead women lay. “I will move more quickly alone anyway. You go get the lady’s physic, son. Go on, run ahead.”

  “Tell my father he must return with you,” Catherine added. “There must be a burial.”

  “Lady Catherine, this grieves me to the soul,” said Reg. He was gazing back at the dark house.

  Joseph bowed quickly and yanked his cap onto his head. “I will be back before you know I am gone.” He sprinted over the field, but as he turned away, the young man was gnawing his lip again and meeting the eyes of no one.

  45

  “Where have you been?” Margaret was stationed at the front door. “The ways are pure dirt. I cannot be expected to go in search of you.”

  “No one expects you to search for me,” said Catherine.

  “I have seen to supper,” said Margaret. “Connie and I. She is still in the kitchen. The other girls were busy with the baby. Reginald, your master will want you.”

  Catherine tramped around to the back door and threw off her hood inside the door. The girl Connie was stirring something at the hearth, and Eleanor sat at the table with the baby, and she laid Veronica in her mother’s arms. Catherine’s hands trembled and her eyes itched, but she could not bring tears. The air seemed to glitter with menace. Her skin felt too thin to protect her muscles. She was cold. “They are in the gorse. Our women. The kites have been at them.”

  Eleanor gasped. Connie stopped stirring.

  “How could any man do such a thing?” said Catherine. “We are creatures of God and we are worse than animals to our own kind.”

  Eleanor stared into her cup. “Were they throttled like the others?”

  “How could anyone know? There is not enough left to tell.”

  “To tell what?” Margaret had come down. She seemed to be tying her hands into knots.

  “What killed the women of this house. They lie in the east gorse, torn to ribbons.” Catherine swallowed her ale. “Let’s get this stew upstairs.”

  “Connie and I have et already,” said Margaret, “but she’ll serve you right here. No sense in dirtying the hall.”

  Connie brought wooden bowls of brown gruel and set them beforeCatherine and Eleanor. “There’s bread, too, Madam. I’ll fetch it.”

  Eleanor took the loaf and broke it, and Catherine dipped a chunk of it into the bowl. “What is this?”

  “Rabbit that one of the tenants brought.”

  Catherine bit in. Her jaw spasmed at the taste, but she worked it down. “What have you flavored it with?” She spoke through clenched teeth to check the urge to vomit.

  “The green things in the garden.”

  Eleanor nibbled at the bread. “I’ve got no appetite.” She drank off her cup of ale. “I will take the baby upstairs.”

  “May Benjamin ride swiftly,” said Catherine. “Change her clout before you lay her down, Eleanor.”

  Margaret made a show of straightening her fancy little headpiece as Eleanor passed by. She rearranged her expression and Connie took the remainder of the stew out, headed toward the stables. “Benjamin again?” asked Margaret. “Why is it always Benjamin? Have you not had enough men for one woman, Catherine? How many have you had?”

  “Is this what you fed me for? To fatten me up to be slaughtered by your insults?”

  “Stop it.” William limped into the kitchen, with Reg behind him. “For once, Sister, shut up, will you?” He put his arm around Catherine. “I feel better. I wondered if you could give me another of that horrid drink.”

  “I see how my efforts are rewarded,” said Margaret. She went out, taking the loaf with her.

  Catherine said, “I must prepare the drink fresh. Sit you here and talk to me of your dreams.”

  He sat, eyeing the kitchen as though he had never seen such a room, and Catherine called down to the laundry for a maid. “Bring me some fresh dock from the garden,” she ordered the yawning girl who answered. “And herb-of-the-Cross. Be sure it is in flower.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Your sister did prepare supper for us,” said Catherine. She forced herself to eat another sour mouthful then nudged the bowl to the center of the table.

  “I want no food,” said William. “I’ve tasted her suppers enough.”

  They sat in silence until the girl returned with the plants, and Catherinebegan tearing the tough center veins out and laying the tender parts flat in a pot of water. She stoked the flames and set the pot high over them so that the water would not boil too ferociously. “Do your feet hurt you?”

  “My soles are on fire.” William propped one of his slippers on the bench, and Catherine pulled it off to examine the thick skin. It was still scarred from the bleeding her father had given him during his smallpox, and she pressed her thumb against the white line. The flesh was ridged and hard, as though a shard of stone were lodged there.

  Catherine shook her head. “This will never disappear. Bleeding does nothing but weaken the sick further. I wonder that anyone does it. And with a knife, God help us.”

  “When they hurt, I know there is a storm coming, so I am useful as a weathervane now,” said William. He grinned at Catherine and looked like himself again.

  “You,” she said. She ruffled his hair and turned back to her hearth. She could not smile, and she could not tell him what she had found.

  “You work like a servant,” said William.

  “Like a woman with tasks,” said Catherine. “I do not like sitting still. I will flay my fingertips to shreds if I’m forced to be idle too long.”

  “That you will. It looks as if you already have. What happened?”

  “The king’s dogs gave me a nip,” said Catherine. “But it is almost healed.” She held out the hand to show the pink scar.

  “God has given you too much heat in the blood for a woman. How long does it take to make the drink?”

  “Some small while. I will add honey to this one to make it go down more easily.” She put her wrist on his forehead. It was almost icy. “Do you feel a chill?”

  “Yes, now. It comes on me suddenly. It feels better than burning, though.”

  Catherine sat across from him and looked at his eyes. The whites were yellow, and his cheeks were sallow. He said, “You have been out walking.”

  “Yes. Over the field into the gorse. There were kites.”

  He nodded. “I watched you from Reg’
s room.”

  Catherine got up and checked the dock. The water had begun to simmer, and she stirred the leaves. Their scent was like hot iron on grass, and her eyes teared. She could not hold it back.

  “Catherine?”

  “Sir—,” said Reg.

  “No, I will tell it.” Catherine wiped the spoon and laid it on the hearth. “I found Ruth and Hannah.”

  A sound came from William’s mouth, but he choked it down. “How long?”

  “Since they were laid there?” She put her palms over her eyes. “A month, maybe more. What day did they go missing first?”

  “It was the beginning of May. The mornings were still cold.”

  “And afternoons warm. It is hard to know for certain. They had been covered.”

  “You took the cover off yourself? With your own hands? Catherine, look at me.”

  She blinked and let her eyes be seen. “No, a storm likely blew it. The smell brought the birds. The birds brought me.” She took the handkerchief out of her pocket and opened it. “This is all I touched.”

  William stared at the skein of damp hair and again the sound erupted from his throat. “I am ill again,” he whispered. “I will go back to bed.” He rose and, leaning on Reg’s arm, staggered from the kitchen.

  46

  It was full dark by the time Peter Grubb the constable came up from the field. He had with him two watchmen, who carried the long, sorry bundle between them. The constable signaled for the other men to wait in the yard, and he knocked rapidly at the still room door, though he had looked through the window and had seen Catherine standing in the candle light. When she opened up, the death smell from outside blew over the vervain that was scattered over the table, killing its sweetness.

  “Where is Master William?” Grubb hovered on the threshold, cap in hand.

  “In bed,” said Catherine. “And where is the man who fetched you here?”

  “Don’t know. Not my concern. My concern’s what to do with a couple of women rotted into a heap. Got to have them buried somehow. Somewhere. Need to have the Master direct me.”