City of Ladies

by Sarah Kennedy

  “No. I mean he has a weight on his imagination. Or his memory.”

  “So you are a theologian after all. You think he needs a priest. You’ve got one in your family, Catherine. Call him and let the man confess.”

  “It is something more than that. William has never failed to confess his failings, and the priest has been here. No, Benjamin, it’s something more. He is beyond weary and into the grip of something more. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Then perhaps the man you should call is your constable.”

  51

  William was awake, sitting in the chair by the window, when Catherine came in with the tea. He dropped the edge of the drape but did not turn. “Did you make peace with Eleanor?”

  “She’s outside being comforted by Joseph,” Catherine said. She set the tea by his hand and took a bowl for herself. “Drink that. You gave her a fright, but she knows we are all treading through a nettle-patch of late.”

  “Prickly indeed,” he said. He emptied the bowl. “That tastes like your other concoctions. Like damp shit and moldy leaves.” He grinned at her with half his mouth. “But I’m sure it’s good for me.”

  “I suffer it with you, Husband. For better and for worse.” Catherine drank hers off and shuddered. “It does taste like a witch’s spit.”

  He wiped his lip and studied his fingers. “I’m a brute and a villain and I don’t deserve you. Have I spread my illness to you?”

  She pulled up a stool and sat across from him, taking his hand in hers. She pressed his wrist and palm, feeling for the life force. It was warm and strong, and she let her hand drift up to his elbow. “Perhaps we need to be next to each other. Where is Reg?”

  “I sent him away.”

  She pulled him to his feet and, backward, over to the bed. They fell together onto the cover, and she loosened his shirttails from the breeches.

  “Is this not a sin during the day?” he asked, leaning back to let her drag the garment over his head.

  “Let God look all He likes,” said Catherine. “He can cover the sun if we embarrass Him.” She loosened the ties of her bodice and slid the dress down to her waist. “Touch me.”

  William’s hands on her shoulders and back were damp and searing, and Catherine gasped at their heat, pressing herself against him. She had almost forgotten the feel of him, and she ran her fingers into his hair and kissed him full on the mouth. He moaned and rolled her onto her back, grasping at her skirts to get her legs free. She wriggled and stretched herself completely onto the bed, opening herself to him, laying her head back onto the pillow. The heat was in her now, and she lifted herself toward him, wanting to feel him on her belly and between her thighs.

  He moved against her, still working her underskirts out of the way, and Catherine looked into his eyes. She thought she would see desire there, and love, but when William’s gaze fell onto hers, his face went white again, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder and lay still. His whole body collapsed onto her.

  “William,” Catherine said softly. She pressed his hipbones hard with her palms, but he lay still and she breathed through her mouth, trying to settle her blood. Stars sparked in her head and she had to pull herself back into herself, like walking in from a summer storm. She stroked his back. His breath came in heaves and spurts and she thought he might be crying again. “William,” she repeated.

  He rolled away, fastening his breeches and tucking in his shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees. “Forgive me. I’m no longer a man.”

  “It will come,” she said. “In time.” The room was darkening to its regular color again, and she rolled to the opposite edge of the mattress and stood to fix her clothing. William hadn’t stood, and she came around to kneel at his feet. “Do you want to tell me what it is?”

  He put his hand on her cheek. “More than anything,” he said. “Now let me sleep.”

  52

  Catherine wandered back down to the kitchen, craving a drink of wine alone in the still room. Her head was alight with pain, as though a handful of sparkling shards had been scattered inside her. She found an open bottle of claret and, sitting on the pavers, poured a glass. It was good, and the ache in her thoughts dulled. She drank another. She was alone. She could do as she pleased. She struggled to her feet and skimmed her hand along the top shelf until she touched her books. They were safe enough. Where was Eleanor? She felt dizzy. Catherine dropped her head into her hands and felt the room tilt. Maybe her maid and Joseph had taken one of the cobs and escaped. And who would blame them? The house was silent above her, but she could feel the weight of its stones, pushing down upon her like grave dirt. If he would divorce her, then so be it. She would take her books, her clothing, and her table. She would set up house with the children and her father.

  The room was still turning, and Catherine, finding the bottle empty, curled up on the pavers and cried. The other maids would go, one by one, or be taken, and theirs would be a ghost house in a hostile, suspicious village. And she had thought to create a city of ladies. What a fool. The fool of the Fates.

  “Catherine, what are you doing in there?”

  It was Benjamin. Catherine had forgotten he was down here. But he hadn’t been in the kitchen. Catherine wiped her eyes on her skirt, but before she could stand, he was kneeling beside her.

  “What has he done?”

  “William? He’s done nothing. He doesn’t know his own mind. His body is sick because his heart is sick. None of us can escape ourselves.” Catherine curled her feet up under her and sat against the rear wall. Her mind was sodden with the wine, and she let her head flop backward. She was hot. She wondered briefly if she was going to die. Then she laughed. They were all going to die. “I cannot find my way to the truth, and my mind is tying itself into knots.”

  Benjamin lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the opposite wall. “Shall I say it?”

  “Do you ever refrain from saying what you think?”

  “You believe that William killed your women.”

  “Shh! My God, someone will hear you.” Catherine slouched forward and put her hand over his mouth, but she wobbled and lost her balance.

  He caught her by the wrists and held her up. “You don’t disagree with me, I notice.”

  His grip was firm and he guided her toward him. The stars in Catherine’s head had all gone out, and she was in the dark. All she could sense was the heat of the man, the closeness of him. He smelt of grass and grain, a clean animal. She could somehow see his eyes, the same clear blue that the sun cast across snow. “Don’t say it,” she whispered.

  Benjamin eased Catherine backward, onto the floor, and she allowed herself to fall and be held there beneath him. He kicked the door shut behind them, and Catherine felt him hard upon her. He worked his hands into her bodice, and her breath got hooked in her throat. She was a caught in a wave, pulling her away from herself again, and then he was pulling away her skirts. His hands not so very different from William’s, but his body taller, heavier, and his mouth on her neck and breasts harder. The stars sparked behind her eyes again, and her body lit up, heat deep in her belly, her knees weakened and open. He was on top of her, parting her legs, then inside her, and she held onto him, pushing herself against him until the warmth overtook her, and the breath came rushing, free, from her. The stars disappeared into a cloud of fire that licked itself to the ends of her body. She lay back beneath him and let herself burn.

  When Catherine finally opened her eyes again, Benjamin was sleeping beside her. The room was dim, but she could now see the outline of the door, his boot still propped against it. The shelves revealed their edges over her, like a line of steps walking up the wall toward the black ceiling. The air was thick and beating in her ear. Someone far away was calling her name.

  Catherine fixed her clothing in the dark. She drove her toe into Benjamin’s shin, and when he complained, she squatted and whispered, “Wake up. Be quiet.” Catherine scrambled to her feet, patting down her clot
hes, and put her ear against the door. The person was not in the kitchen, and Catherine tumbled Benjamin’s leg away and cracked the door. She heard no one in the kitchen, but a chicken was cooking somewhere. She stepped through, closed the door on the man, and checked her skirt and apron. Her hair must be a nest of tangles. She pulled it down and combed it quickly with her fingers, then wound it again on the back of her head and secured it with a long pin and the rumpled coif. Through the kitchen window, she could see Eleanor’s back, bent over the far rows in the vegetable garden. One of other kitchen maids was on her knees nearby, and the other two were headed back to the house.

  “Catherine!”

  It was Margaret, but her tone had a new, plaintive note. Almost like a friend seeking a friend. She was still upstairs. Catherine hurried up to the front door, arranging her face into a normal expression, and met her sister-in-law coming down with the baby. Margaret handed over the infant. “I would say she’s hungry. How does our William?”

  Catherine’s ears went hot at his name. She busied herself with Veronica to avoid looking at Margaret. “He is unwell. I have given him a dose of willow bark tea, and if that does not improve him, I am at a loss.”

  “But you are a genius,” said Benjamin behind her. “I think there is no ailment of the body that you cannot cure.”

  Catherine’s throat closed and she thought she would choke. Her legs began to shake and she felt the stain of shame on her face. Margaret would surely see, but when Catherine looked up, Margaret was smiling at Benjamin. Simpering. “No,” Catherine blurted, and Margaret readjusted her gaze onto Catherine.

  “Oh, I agree with Master Davies,” Margaret said. “You have done all you can for my dear brother.”

  Catherine spun around, and Benjamin reared back as though she had offered to strike him. His eyes were wide and he threw up his hands. “I meant it as no insult, Lady.”

  “Of course not.” Margaret swayed around Catherine and snagged her arm on Benjamin’s. “You know how to divert a woman, don’t you, Benjamin? Shall we make a circuit around the gardens while Catherine oversees our dinner? It would lift my spirits after this miserable day. Catherine. Sister. You look as though you’d watched the night away.”

  Benjamin looked at the hand that had suddenly appeared inside his elbow as though it were some strange breed of small rodent. “Very well, Margaret.”

  They went through the front door together, and Catherine ran back to the kitchen, Veronica in one arm. She laid the baby on the pavers and vomited into a bucket.

  53

  The three maids tiptoed into the kitchen, followed by a scolding Eleanor. “That man can’t hang you without evidence,” she was saying, but she stopped when she saw Catherine on her knees. “Madam, have you caught the master’s sickness?” She caught up Catherine’s hair and tied it out of the way.

  Catherine sat back on her haunches and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Eleanor dipped a towel into a basin of water and Catherine accepted it gratefully. “It’s nothing, Eleanor, just the day’s demons in my head. God’s bones, I need something to drink.” The wine had worn off, and her eyes felt swollen and pebbly. She wondered if she smelt of a man. She wanted to run the cloth between her legs. She wanted to run the clock backward a few hours.

  The baby cried, and one of the maids took her up. “There, there, little one. You’re safe enough.”

  “Would that we all were,” muttered another. “We will be blamed for those murders one way or another.”

  Catherine dragged herself up to the table. The three maids before her were her women now, and she barely knew their names. The slender, fair one cradling her daughter was Agnes, of that she was sure. Yes. Agnes Cartwright. The murmuring one was called Helen. She could recall that because no young woman bore less of a resemblance to that legendary beauty than this upright slab of muscle and wiry hair who stood before her, broad-shouldered and frowning. What was the name of the third one?

  “Maddie, will you give me a hand here with the joint?” Eleanor was removing the meat from the fire, and the unnamed maid jumped to assist her.

  Maddie, yes. Maddie Sawyer. Not a one of them had ever seen the inside of a convent. Catherine tried to imagine the three girls at their books, but for the moment she could not paint the picture in her mind. “The constable must ask his questions, Helen,” Catherine said. “You may be sure that Master Davies was there on your behalf.” His name was a coal on her tongue.

  “That he was,” said Agnes, suddenly animated. “He sent that constable on the run. I thought he might lift him bodily and throw him through the front door.”

  Helen was moved to giggle at this, though coming from her horsey bulk, the girlish sound was slightly grotesque. “I’d’ve liked to seen that.” She held out her arms. “Let me hold her, Agnes.”

  But Agnes wasn’t listening anymore. She was pulling back the blanket on Veronica. Catherine’s beautiful, delicate daughter. “Madam,” the young woman said, “the baby doesn’t look well.”

  54

  Dinner was laid on the table, and Catherine sat with Benjamin and Margaret. William had come down to take the head spot. Margaret had made the salad with her own hands, but it sat wilting on its platter. No one was eating. Catherine was bent over Veronica, examining her eyelids and tongue and the moist, warm creases of her arms and legs. The baby did not cry, but lay limp and breathing in shallow gasps.

  “What’s ails her?” said William. He clenched the carved arms of his chair, the chair that had once belonged to the Mount Grace convent, and it passed through Catherine’s mind that her mother had used to clasp them in the same fashion when she was ready to deliver a pronouncement. Or a punishment.

  “I have said it a dozen times already,” snapped Catherine. “I don’t know.” Her chest constricted with guilt the moment the words were said. It wasn’t William’s fault. And she could not look at Benjamin at all, though she could feel the warmth of his gaze. He would look pitying. Or smug. He might wink. It would be unbearable. “I see no signs of fever or plague. The skin is clear. I can’t tell what it is.” The baby lay listless upon her arm, one small hand reaching at nothing. Her eyes opened and closed, seeming to see her mother then to drift toward the painted constellations that lit up the timbered ceiling. “Did she sleep well in your bed?”

  “Like a cherub from heaven,” said Margaret. She was sitting beside Benjamin, and when he set down his wine goblet, she placed her hand on his. “She never stirred.” Margaret sat back and watched Catherine. Then she scooted forward and served the limp greens to each of them. “We must eat. You and William must regain your strength.” She took up for her knife, but instead of spearing her meat, began to polish the blade with her napkin. “I am no physician, Catherine. I only watched her.” Margaret placed the utensil neatly by her plate and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Poor mite. Perhaps she senses the mood of the house. I only meant to relieve you of a burden. To give you some time for your meditations.”

  Catherine’s guts shriveled now with shame. “I know, Margaret. You three should eat. Let me take her downstairs and see what I can do.”

  “Eat first,” said Margaret. “I worked myself like a servant over it.”

  Catherine shoved a few bites of the salad into her mouth, but even the oil had no flavor. She forced it down with wine. “Thanks, Sister.”

  “I will come with you,” said Margaret when Catherine rose from the table.

  William took his sister’s hand and held it. “No. Stay here with us. We need a woman’s talk at table.”

  Margaret twitched her fingers gently, but her brother held on. “I will stay if you require it. Will it lift your spirits for me to stay, Benjamin?”

  “Your conversation always amuses me,” he said evenly.

  Catherine gathered up the baby’s clouts and went to the kitchen. The maids jumped to their feet at her entrance, their faces tight with fear. She passed through to the laundry, saying “Stay here, girls.” She pushed the heavy door shut and b
olted it.

  Catherine laid her daughter on the flags and uncovered her completely. The body was smooth and clear. She lifted the curled legs to check for scours or sores, but the child was clean from top to bottom. There was only one thing she could think to do. Turning the baby onto her stomach, Catherine reached down the tiny throat with her least finger until the baby retched. Curds of milk, some dark, watery fluid. Veronica wailed and vomited, and Catherine cleaned out her mouth with a corner of the blanket, and cradled her close. She whimpered for a while, then nestled against her mother and closed her eyes. Catherine rocked her in one arm and stirred the murky pool on the floor. Lifted her finger and squinted. Sniffed. Sour and acid. The child was sleeping soundly now, her breathing regular and deep. Could be nothing more than a bellyache. Could be.

  Catherine knelt and knotted her fingers together, trying to pray, but nothing came except her own soft breath, hot on her knuckles, hot as any sin. She said, “Don’t punish her for me,” but she heard nothing in reply. Her knees ached on the hard stones, and she lay on her back, under the table. No one ever cleaned this room but Ann Smith, and in her absence the beams that crossed beneath the table had grown furry with dust. The table was from the old convent, and in it was still concealed the altarpiece. Only Ann and Catherine knew it was there. She lay now under the fragmented face of the Virgin. One of the painted eyes was clearly visible, the wood having dried and shrunk some, and streaks of pink and red showed her skin. The Child was beginning to show behind the planks Catherine’s mother had had nailed across Him, but it was the Mother of God whom Catherine sought.

  “Don’t make her suffer because of my sin,” Catherine whispered. “Lady, make your namesake well and strong again. I will go back to Hatfield and lay me down at the feet of Mary Tudor if you will intervene for me. I swear it. The crime was mine. Mine alone.”