“Yes, of course, Reginald.”
He set the cup with a pile of dirtied pots before he left. Outside, Geoffrey and Joseph passed by on their return to the stable, wiping their hands on their breeches and keeping a distance beyond speech between them as they went. Catherine went out when she saw her father come by.
Joseph brought out the priest’s pony gelding, and Catherine asked, “Must you hurry off?” Joseph tightened the belly-band and slipped the bit between the bored old thing’s yellow teeth. Father John swung himself into the saddle. He’d grown portly in the last few years, and his toes nearly touched the ground.
“If you need me, send for me, Daughter. There’s bad doings here, and you might be better off down in Mount Grace with me. You come if you need a roof. Your husband has not lifted the first board toward making those draperies, and the convent buildings stand empty. It needs a master’s eye on the work. Or a mistress’s. People have already begun to scavenge for stones, and your man Benjamin won’t like to know his investment stands open to thieves. Come on, now, and see to your land. It’s yours as much as his. More.”
“I must stay here for now, Father. I’ve not felt myself today. I don’t want to ride.”
“As you wish. But I will sleep better inside my own four walls.” He clucked at the pony, which sighed and ambled forward. “I keep a bed for you, Daughter. For you and the little ones if you need them.”
When Father John disappeared around the corner, Catherine hurried back to the house, preferring the door into the kitchen to the wide front entrance. Catherine wanted solitude now, a mug of strong ale and her thoughts.
But Margaret was in the pantry, and she brought out a glass, a mate to one that sat, filled with wine, on the table. Veronica was sleeping in Margaret’s arm, and she poured the second glass. “Come drink with me. The baby is settled and William is sleeping.”
“You prepared this for me?” Catherine lifted the closest glass and drank. It was old claret and she let the musty scent bloom in her mouth. “Thank you, Margaret. It is most welcome.”
“Our minds are too full.” Margaret took up her wine and offered a toast into the air between them. “Drink, Catherine. We may be all we have left.”
“God above, I hope not,” said Catherine. “Does he honestly mean to cast me off?”
Margaret drank again. “He spoke of it, and I sent you word, but in his illness I fear my brother thinks of little but his own comfort.”
They finished without any more talk, and when the glasses were empty, Margaret stood. “I will take her upstairs. I feel a heaviness on me.”
“Thanks, Margaret. I mean that.”
Catherine gave herself a few minutes, before she tended on William, to walk out alone, around the garden to the east side of the house. But the gorse now had a tarnished look, and Catherine turned away from it. Her vision wobbled and she almost fell. Her head felt fluid and swollen.
She staggered back to the house, through the front door and down the corner stairs. She was trying not to vomit until she could be alone. William would have to wait. He was surely still asleep anyway.
But William was not sleeping. The kitchen was in disarray, and Catherine could hear that someone was in the still room. “Margaret?” Catherine called. But it was William, kneeling on the disemboweled floor. Catherine’s books lay around him, and he was hunched over one, turning pages. He flung it aside and pulled out another from the hole.
Catherine asked, “What do you think you will find there?”
He whipped around. “You have a whole witch’s library here.”
“You’re ill. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Catherine knelt beside him and gathered the volumes into a stack. He was sweating and she could feel the heat of him. He breathed heavily. “I’m feeling unwell myself, and you should be in bed resting. You’re weak and your mind is wandering. You know I keep a library. I always have.”
“Why do you keep it under the floor? It’s what you did in the convent, when you thought they might be found.” William grabbed Catherine’s elbow and her head went around. She dropped a volume. It was her mother’s book of venoms. She turned it over, but he saw. “That one. You told me you had no such collection.”
Catherine shook her head and tucked the poisons among the others. “It means little to me. I forget that it exists. It might be useful for vermin.”
“Mice? Rats?”
“Something like that. It was at the bottom.” Catherine sat on the pavers and looked at her husband. His eyes were bright. Too bright. And his skin shone with his fever. Or was it her? “William. Let me help you.”
“You cannot. Or you will not. It was right here on the top. ”
“You’re strong. Your heart wants to live.” She ran her hand into his hair, but he pulled back, sitting hard against the stone wall.
“Give me the poisons.”
“Why?” Catherine pulled the books closer to her skirt, out of his reach, but her grasp felt drained and her thumb ached. “What do you mean to kill? Has there not been enough death already?”
“Give it to me.” He snatched the volume from her, dragged himself to his feet, and searched the books that sat on a shelf over the table. “And what is this?” He had the City of Ladies in his hand.
“A gift from Father.” Her voice fluttered and she laid her warm palm against her throat. “For the birth of Veronica. You may ask him.” Catherine piled up the other books and waited.
“Well.” He threw the book back where it had been and, taking the book of venoms with him, left her.
Catherine placed the other books on a high shelf, behind the jars of dried herbs. When she stepped into the kitchen, William was standing at the hearth, searching through the cooking herbs. “Tell me your thoughts,” she said. “They’re fiery, and they heat your brain. William, I am ill myself, I tell you.”
William pulled out a dried sheaf of sage. “What here will bring a man to God? Swiftly and without mark. I would have no marks.”
“William, what is this madness?” Catherine took the flattened stem. “This herb will poison only a melancholy. It may help clear breathing. Will I make you a tea of it?”
“I will not be cured.” He opened a jar and sniffed at the mint. The next was rosehips and he threw a handful away. Then he began to weep. “I am becoming a woman,” he said. “Next I will be a child. Perhaps I will melt away entire and the world will be newer.”
Catherine snapped. “Stop talking like that. I didn’t marry a whining child and I don’t mean to watch you become one now.” She gathered a few of the scattered rosehips. “You know how long it took my women to gather these?”
“Your women. You will always have your women, will you not?”
“What would you have? A troop of chirping boys to cook your food and keep the garden? You think the chickens will bring their own eggs to the house? Your hose will mend themselves? What is wrong with you, William? Be a man, even if you are a sick one.”
“A man. What is a man, Catherine? A creature of God? A stick on two legs, crawling toward the throne hoping for a crumb from the king? Blood of Christ, I had rather be one of my hounds barking at the moon than a man in this country.”
“When have you come to talk so, Husband? I recall a time when you knew how to manage your king and your conscience without doing violence to either.”
“That was when I had an elder brother. I had no name then and could afford to be brash. Now I carry my father’s name on my shoulders. This house. You. And now the children. That boy.”
Catherine sucked in her breath. “Is it Robert? Is that who you mean to murder? Your son?”
“My son. Or another’s. There is no way to know, is there, Catherine? And he laughs behind my back over it. Says he sees his eyes in the boy’s face. Says it puts him in mind of you.”
Catherine’s stomach went cold. “How can you know that? You have never spoken to the man.”
“People talk. Benjamin knows. There is no pretending anymore. That
Grubb will bring him here. Him and all his riding mates. They will know. They will ridicule me.”
“And you will murder an innocent child for talk? It sickens me, William. It is no wonder your body rebels against your mind. It is unnatural and evil, even to think. It is a sin.”
“You don’t understand. And what is the wages of sin, anyway?” he said. “Tell me where to find a poison.”
“I will not. You cannot wring it from me.”
“You are my wife. You are bound to tell me what you know.”
“I am a child of God before I am your wife and you will not stand between my soul and my judgment in the end. No, when you behave like a proper head, then I will obey you. When you act like a puppet on the finger of Satan, I have a head of my own that does me fine.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“Our daughter? Our daughter is with your sister. She took her upstairs after the funeral.”
“And you let her? You who have never let the child out of your arms?”
“Stop it, William. Stop. Margaret is her aunt. You’re feeding the demon in you.”
Eleanor came up from the laundry, looked from Catherine to William, and backed out again. “Pardon me, Madam.”
“Stop there, girl,” said William. “I want to know where your mistress keeps her venoms.”
Eleanor stared wide-eyed at Catherine. “My lady keeps nothing such. I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is a trap for rats in the laundry. It has some moldy cheese in it. That’s all I know.”
“Lying little bitch,” said William. The maid backed away. “You will tell me or you will live to regret it.”
“I know nothing.” Eleanor fled out the door, and William went after her, shoving Catherine as he went. She stumbled and he grabbed her flailing arm, steadying her. They were staring into each other’s eyes, and William held her so tight she could feel his ribs against her, the unsteady clamor of his heart.
“Follow me at your peril,” he said, setting her away from him as though she were a doll. Then he ran out after the maid, slamming the door behind him.
50
Catherine was on William’s heels, and her calls brought Joseph, running from the stable, and Reg, coming around from the front. Eleanor dashed past Joseph and he wavered at William’s approach, putting out his hands, then turning his head to look for Eleanor.
“Out of my way, boy,” said William.
“What’s the girl done?” said Geoffrey White. Joseph ducked away at his appearance, and the master of horse, arms crossed, arrested William’s advance. “That child never hurt a bedbug. Why do you chase after her?”
“Stand aside.” William’s hand went to his hip. Catherine skidded to a halt and Reg, panting, stopped beside her. William and Geoffrey were within striking distance of each other but neither moved. A kite screamed from the top of a distant tree, and one of William’s neglected falcons gave a feeble answer. “Stand aside,” William repeated.
Geoffrey shook his head. “I will yield when William Overton acts the man’s part. Eleanor is Joseph’s woman and you’ll not touch a hair of her head. You’ll not put that blade into me, neither, so take your hand from your side. Sir.” He held his ground.
William took a step backward, almost treading on Catherine’s toes. “I’ll not have the women of my house defy me.” William saw Reg and turned back to Geoffrey. “Nor the men neither. You are no longer master of my horses. Get out.”
“You overstep yourself,” Geoffrey said. He didn’t sound like a servant of the house. “There will be an answer to this.”
“You presume too far, White. Out, you lickspittle. Now. Before I take that tongue from your head.” William pulled out his sword. His right hand shook.
Geoffrey pushed the blade aside with a snort. “You haven’t the stones to scratch my thumbnail, William Overton. I don’t give a fig for you or your position. I know what I know. Keep your distance from those youngsters or you will hear from me.”
Catherine stepped between them, and Geoffrey backed off a step.
“What does this mean?” asked Catherine. “Since when do you call your master by his Christian name? What is it that you know?”
“I call him by name since he has become neither a Christian nor a man.” He was staring over Catherine toward William with eyes dull as a fallow field.
“Explain yourself.”
“Let him explain it.” Geoffrey White nodded toward William, then walked into the stable. He emerged again before Catherine could move or speak, a satchel on his shoulder and a cloak upon his arm. “You will find me in the village if you seek me. You know where my mother and wife bide. Mayhap I will speak with the priest and calm my soul. Mayhap the constable will give me greater peace. They say soldiers are coming toward us. They might make me better masters.”
He stalked off down the wide gravel drive, and William slowly sheathed his weapon again. A shadow crossed a window, and Catherine glanced up. Benjamin was watching, and he stepped out of sight as she raised her hand to shade her face.
William swung his head toward the house. He moved like a man with soft bones. “Who do you signal?”
“No one.” Catherine wrapped her skirts in her sweating fists and walked fast, trying to settle her head. William dropped back and she was first at the kitchen door. Benjamin opened it before she laid her hand upon the latch. “What did you see?” she asked.
“I saw a man lose his position. Two men, I would say.”
William was coming. Reg walked dutifully behind him.
“Say nothing to him,” Catherine whispered. “He is defeated and sick. Do not shame him further.” She went straight to her still room and let herself fall onto the floor. The pavers were cold and she laid her forehead on them, but she could hear the men in the other room.
“So it was you,” called William. “My wife gives you hand messages now? You stare after her?”
“I might look out a window when I hear shouting as well as any man,” said Benjamin. “You say what comes into your mind these days, William, and your mind is fevered. You begin to remind me of your brother. You should learn to hold your words until you are yourself.”
“I am myself. Has my wife not told you that I carry a fire in my head as my reward for sins?”
“I never thought of burning as a wage,” said Benjamin.
“I’m sure you have that from your scripture,” said William. “You are at it night and day no doubt.”
Catherine pulled herself up on the wooden shelves and joined them. “Stop it. Both of you.” She crossed to the pantry, found a bottle of wine, and brought it to the table. “We are bound by grief and we snap at each other like cats in a bag. William, this is your brother’s old companion. I am your wife who loves you. Poor Eleanor has probably lost half her hair in terror. Now sit down and drink. The weather has sapped my strength.”
“The day is fine,” said Benjamin.
Catherine opened the wine. “Perhaps it is the weather in my head.”
William sat and Benjamin took the seat across from him. Reg leaned against the wall in a corner. Catherine poured and when all of the men had settled their hands around their cups, they watched each other. Something moved out in the yard, and Eleanor came creeping out of the stable, Joseph behind her. The girl was weeping, and Joseph was wiping her face.
“Is the constable finished with the maids?” Catherine asked Benjamin.
“He is. They are likely hiding in a closet somewhere, he frightened them so badly. Talked of hanging until they could say nothing at all. I sent him off. I should have sent him with two blackened eyes, but as I am in your house, I thought it beyond my authority. The man will return, as he suspects the murderer is in the house. I will ask your permission to give him a drubbing then.”
“I must to bed,” said William. He was pasty, making his red-rimmed eyes look even sicker. “Reg, help me.”
“I will make the willow bark tea for us both,” said Catherine. The light came through the window
directly onto his skin, and though the scars showed, she could see no other symptom of disease but the pallor. “Let me look at your eyes, William.”
He sat quietly as she stretched the lids and peered into the soft flesh. She tilted his head one way, then the other, feeling his neck, but there was no sign of the sweat. No plague. No coughing or blood. “The tea is the last hope I have to cure you,” she said.
“Bring your maid to help you. I will be in my chamber.” He slid the goblet away and Reg, blank-faced, offered his arm.
“I have never seen such a thing,” said Benjamin, watching the empty space where William had been. “What do you think the malady is?”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine, “but it may not be an illness of the body.”
“What other kind is there? You’re not turning theologian on me, are you, Catherine?”
She could see Joseph and Eleanor in front of the stable. Eleanor was shaking her head, and Joseph was pointing toward the kitchen. “Not exactly. Perhaps. I will tell you this. The head governs the body as a king governs his kingdom.”
“Then we are all dead men for sure.” Benjamin swigged at an empty goblet, and Catherine refilled it. “Damned, too.”
“That’s true whether we are ill or not. Mortal, I mean. If the body is sick enough, whether from an ingrown malady or an outside infection, it will destroy the ability of the head to reason. Dying men rave and confess sins they have thought they could conceal. It is like a king who can no longer control his subjects when they rebel or rise against him.”
“I have seen it.”
“Just so. If the head is diseased, the body fails. The process may be longer, but the body will die if the reason is infected.” She put her hands on her temples. “I may suffer from it myself.”
“I will send for a physician, Catherine. I cannot stand to see you sick.” He pushed back from the table, but she stopped him with a raised hand.
“What I need is sleep without dreams.”
Benjamin nodded and sat again. “But how does a man’s reason become infected? You mean William has been listening to wrong-headed ideas?”
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