The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  “Is the king in mourning?” asked Catherine.

  “There’s a general air of deep melancholy. He is fitful and angry.”

  “He will not come tonight?”

  “Not tonight nor any night.” Benjamin picked up a cup of wine and handed it to Catherine before he got one for himself. He bowed to a couple of the palace ladies and when the lute player finished, he stopped to applaud. They they walked on. “The king goes on as though no queen ever lived and no queen was ever sought. He rages. They say he is much brought down but grieves alone. Some say his mind has let in the enemy and it is destroying him from the inside.”

  “He is gone lunatic?”

  Benjamin leaned closer. “Do not say the word aloud. They say he burns with a fire that kills a man’s reason.”

  “Is there any talk of taking the Lady Anne back?”

  “This Anne? Of Cleves? No. Not even a breath of that in the air.”

  “She thinks he will. It would be useful to us if he did.”

  “Good God.” The musicians had started, louder now, and Benjamin turned to see if couples were lining up, but the small crowd was standing in pairs here and there, not looking either to the music or to the Lady Anne. When the strings fell silent in ragged scrapings, ending with an odd squawk from the piper, the listeners clapped lightly and turned to themselves again. “Catherine,” Benjamin said, “you must come away as soon as we can manage it. Say you will. I have asked often enough for any man, and now the time presses us.”

  Catherine chewed her cheek. “Who will be the one to ask for the king’s permission?”

  “There’s no asking of permissions. Not now. Not for anything, but especially not for our marriage. We could try for the continent, if you prefer. We can go tomorrow.”

  “But my son—.”

  “Yes. There’s a problem.” He drank, but his eyes were flickering over the guests. “You know the queen’s household has been broken up and the women are sent away.”

  Catherine’s heart slid. “And have you heard aught of any of them?”

  Benjamin laid his hand on Catherine’s arm. “You mean your sister. I hear that she has gone, that she calls herself Lady Overton and talks of her great estate in the North. She is a straggler now and she may be desperate. She bears watching.”

  Now Catherine drank. “My son will object to a new father who gives him a brother too quickly.”

  “I will win him. I swear it. You feel well? Inside?”

  “My body is well enough. My mind is disordered.” Catherine bit her lip and raised her cup toward the two strangers. “Who are they? The dogs over there.”

  Benjamin’s lower eyelids tightened for a second. “King’s men. They seem to have little to do but look for trouble. Everyone is counting losses now. Everyone has eyes on everyone else. Those two are shallows. Hangers-on. Steer around them. Everyone is looking to please Henry right now.”

  The musicians made another effort, and a half-hearted dance began with four couples, but before they had moved through three measures, a wail from above stairs broke the harmony. Ann Smith dropped her mask and stared at the ceiling. Everyone who belonged to the palace waited, unmoving, for Elizabeth Tudor to appear.

  But the noise finally wound down to a thin whimper, then nothing. The silence held the hall for several seconds, then John Dudley broke it with a cough. People began to circulate slowly again, but soon the guests were leaving, pleading the snow, the cold, the darkness. Most of the food sat untouched.

  “I will take my leave, as well, Catherine,” said Benjamin, “and I will ride to Mount Grace tomorrow to have the banns put up. Here and there, in quiet places. I will get your wools for the Dover market and we will have ready money. Stay on your guard. Confide in no one. Prepare to ride. We are in dangerous times.” He bent his head toward Reginald, who was pulling something from his pocket and pressing it into Ann Smith’s wide hand. “It will put Reg into a consumption if he cannot cross swords with your woman now and then.”

  “She has never been my woman,” said Catherine. “Godspeed, Benjamin.”

  He put his hand around hers quickly and broke away. Reg followed and they were gone. “What news?” asked Ann, coming up behind her.

  “Men’s news. Always men’s news. And it is never good.”

  4

  “What token did he give you?” asked Catherine when they had retreated to their chambers. Ann was unpinning Catherine’s head piece.

  “Who?” Ann bent to work on the back of Catherine’s gown.

  “Oh, who. You know who. Reginald.” Catherine shook out her hair, glad to be free of the heavy clothes.

  Ann loosened her bodice and worked on her own coif. The strings knotted and she cursed under her breath.

  “Well?” asked Catherine. She freed Ann’s hair and leaned close to her ear. “Hmm?”

  “Nothing. Foolish S. Valentine’s Day foolishness.”

  Catherine said, “Let me see this foolish foolishness.”

  Ann held out her hand and a twisted gold chain, wrapped three times, slid into view. From it dangled a locket, and Catherine reached to open it.

  “Don’t,” said Ann. “It is nothing.”

  “If it is nothing, then I will not see a thing.” Catherine had hold of the delicate pendant, and Ann, with a sigh, sat back and let her pull the thing free. Catherine slid a fingernail into the slit and popped the locket open. On one side was a miniature of a Cupid. On the other Reginald himself. “He loves you!”

  Ann snapped the locket closed. Her face was smoldering. “He is a fop to know no better than to waste his money on such trinkets. I don’t wear such things. He means to soften my mind. He is carried away.”

  “Benjamin thinks we should all be carried away,” said Catherine, serious now. “He has gone to Mount Grace. I am to gather my things. You too.”

  Ann twirled the chain and it twinkled in the candlelight. The corner of her mouth crimped. “So there is good news after all.”

  “Perhaps. But what will I say? Benjamin says that there are spies about. And God knows who will see those banns.” The bell that summoned the household to Anne of Cleves’s presence rang downstairs. Catherine had only heard it a few times, the last when the queen had been arrested. Catherine and Ann tied up their shifts and threw robes and shawls over them. They slapped coifs hastily over their hair before they went out. Other women had already flocked into the hallway, clutching tapers and whispering, and John Dudley followed Jane from her chamber. They had obviously been abed.

  “What? What’s the trouble? Is there fire?” John was asking, but Catherine and Ann were already headed downstairs.

  Anne of Cleves stood in the great front hall at the center of a clot of men. One of them was Master Harst, looking at the ceiling. His satyr hooves had been discarded on the floor and he stood bare-footed. Beside him was the fat dog-man. Out of his costume, he was moon-faced and looked like a ball of wax that had half-melted onto his own knees. His feet stuck out from chubby legs like dead fish. He clung to the thin fringes of his black beard with two fingers. His tiny eyes were dark, too, set so close in his face that they threatened to slide together. He’d settled into his own bulk, morosely staring into space. His companion was taller and lean, the color of dull flame all over. He wore spectacles, and when he glanced Catherine’s way, the candlelight danced over their surfaces, making him look like a blindman.

  As the household gathered in various stages of night dress, the Lady Anne stepped back to let Master Harst speak. Catherine wondered how much she understood when Harst flung up an arm in the direction of the fat man and said, “This gentleman is Martin David Martins. He is sent by the king to inspect this household. What is your title, sir? The accounts man? The revenue lost man? Ach, whatever you are.” He scanned the small group. “Do you hear?” He turned to the women surrounding him. “This gentleman must be obeyed. He will be among us for
the next few days.” He indicated the glowering figure beside Martins. “This is Ciaran Barts, his man. You are all to accede to his wishes, as well.”

  “You go to your sleeps now,” said the Lady Anne. She flicked her fingers toward the stairs and the women eased away. John Dudley muttered something about being called from his marriage bed for a penny-counter. Catherine pulled Ann Smith toward the steps down to the kitchen.

  “A bottle of wine would help me,” she said. “By my troth, I thought it might be the king.”

  The downstairs was a bustle of chambermaids and kitchen girls, washing up dishes and sorting dirty laundry. The pastry cook had probably taken the best of the leavings to his chamber, but the girls had set out a plate for themselves. The treats were already half eaten, and Marjory clapped a hand over her stuffed mouth when Catherine and Ann showed themselves at the door. “Don’t mind us,” said Catherine. In the corner cupboard she located a bottle of claret and a loaf of bread that hadn’t been broken. Ann got a plate of butter and a pot of strawberry jam.

  “I hope those girls keep an accounting of the sweets they put in their mouths,” said Catherine. “If that Martin Martins is one of Henry’s, he will take his balance from their flesh.”

  “He’d get more if he took it out of his own flesh,” said Ann. “There is plenty of it.” She shuddered. “That Barts fellow puts me in mind of a seething owl.”

  Upstairs, they sat by their fire, listening to the nighttime palace creak and groan. Catherine fancied that she could hear men’s voices from below. Or was that Lady Anne’s heavy Dutch, complaining about something? They could surely leave all in peace until morning. She poured another cup and watched the flames in the hearth beat themselves against the darkness. More voices. Distant and angry. Was someone shouting in a far room? “The battle is coming,” said Ann, and Catherine’s skin tightened at the sudden sound of her voice.

  “It may be that Henry is asking about Lady Anne’s conduct. It could be a good sign.”

  “I expect it is a sign of something,” said Ann.

  Catherine said, “What will my son say to anew father? To a brother or sister?” She closed her eyes for a second and found them almost too heavy to open again when Ann spoke.

  “He has seen other widows take men. He is only a little boy. He could accustom himself.”

  Catherine said, “The prince is only a little boy, as well, but they say he speaks his mind like a monarch.” She brooded for a moment. “Even he has had a step-mother.”

  “And he’s likely to have another. But in his world mothers come and go. Only fathers remain.”

  “And sisters,” said Catherine.

  “And they must bow to him.”Ann touched the chain on her wrist.

  “I should return this.”

  “You should not! You have made him no promise.”

  “He has a right to think I have.”

  “Men and their rights.” Catherine spat into the fire and the embers hissed. “They wrap a string of gold on us and believe themselves our owners.”

  “That sounds not like a woman bent on marriage.”

  Catherine laughed softly. “Oh, I am bent, but in what direction I will fall I cannot say.” She ran her bottom teeth along her forefinger’s nail.“ Benjamin is not like other men.”

  “Nor is Reg.” Ann lifted her hand and let the locket dangle. “He’s just let his fancies get the better of him.”

  “And what of your fancies?”

  Ann turned her hand, and the chain caught on the knot of her prominent wrist bone. She shook it loose. “I fancy quiet.” She rubbed the locket. “He’s a good man. If I wanted a man.”

  Catherine gulped down the last of her wine. “Let’s sleep and let our dreams tell us what to do. Perhaps all will be well.”

  “I will get in with you tonight. I fear me it’s going to be colder than the king’s heart.”

  5

  Catherine dozed restlessly, with no dreams to lull her, and when she came down the next morning, Elizabeth Tudor was awake and sitting with the Lady Anne. The tragic remains of the masque had been swept from sight, and the floors, under the carpets, gleamed. A slice of untouched cheese in front of Elizabeth had grown a skin of dark oil, and Lady Anne was disassembling a poached trout. Catherine yawned as she curtsied, covering it with the back of her hand, and Elizabeth said, “Lady Catherine. Have you not slept?”

  “The wind kept me awake, Your Grace.” Catherine claimed a wide stool, and Ann Smith curtsied and excused herself. She was headed for the kitchen, Catherine knew it, where she could break her fast with a cup of good ale and the cold meat from last night without disturbance.

  The fire was high, smoking a little from green wood, but its hot breath extended only a few feet from the hearth. The rest of the long room was still clammy and dawn-bitter, and Catherine pulled her shawl up to her neck. “And my nose alerted me to the morning,” she said. “The winter begins to bite into my very flesh.” She reached for the jug of ale and poured for herself. “I have never been a lover of February.”

  “Nor I,” said Elizabeth. She wore a new cover of dark fur, and her skin looked white and dry as parchment.

  “I could brew you a warm wash,” said Catherine. “I have stores of rose petal and honey that will brighten your complexion.”

  The girl put a finger on her cheek, and Lady Anne said, “Will it improve one of my age? I will use this wash.”

  A thread of hope wound its way through Catherine’s innards, though she knew it would not make the Lady of Cleves a beauty. “Yes, Lady Anne. It will work for any woman.”

  “I will have it,” said Elizabeth. “I will take this water.”

  “How long do you stay with us? You will want to apply it more than once.”

  Elizabeth considered. “A fortnight. No, ten days.”

  The hope knotted into disappointment. “We will begin today.” Catherine pushed back and stood, bowing. “I will prepare it now and have it sent to your chamber.”

  “No. You will come and apply it with your own hands.”

  “Very well.” She had no appetite, anyway. The smell of grease turned her stomach.

  Catherine was in her still room, heating the water, when she heard the men again. She waited, her hands in the pot, until they seemed to have gone by, then scooped in two handfuls of petals. She bent her head into the steam and closed her eyes. There was much to soothe the heart at the idea of marriage. The weight of a man to crush the mind’s demons. A man. Her belly warmed, and she let her fancy wander to the last time, at the New Year,that she had allowed Benjamin into her chamber. That must have been when she’d got the child. Everyone was in a holiday mood. She’d been on fire for him then, thinking of nothing else, and she’d let him pull her onto him as he leaned against the wall. It had been irresistible. It hadn’t felt like a transgression. She breathed in the roses. They were heady, one of the few scents that did not revolt her.

  “A small luxury for yourself?”

  Catherine opened her eyes. Martin Martins hovered beside her. His mouth was damp beneath the string of a mustache. She said, “What do you do in the still room?”

  “I must oversee every shelf and drawer of this palace. And what have you there?”

  Catherine looked down. Her hands were deep in the water, and they were covered with softened petals. “Rose water. For the Lady Elizabeth.” Their beauty was suddenly ruined for her.

  Martins nodded and smiled. “The perfume is sweet indeed. It is no sin for a lady such as you to find a moment to enjoy it yourself.”

  “I prepare it for Elizabeth Tudor. As I said.” The high window had fogged, and Catherine lifted the pot from the small iron grate. “If you will give way, please.”

  Martins slid one foot aside. Catherine called for Ann to bring the honey and a couple of eggs, and she poured the infusion into a large porcelain jug. Ann, with Veronica behi
nd her, halted at the door. Her eyes passed over the man, then Catherine, and finally settled on the wall. Catherine asked, “Will you bring this in your pocket?” She handed her friend a cake of soap, and, lifting the container, skirted the horrible bulk of Martin Martins, who was scanning her with his rat’s eyes. Veronica carried the washing clouts and an extra bowl behind the women.

  When they were on the stairs, Ann whispered, “You have left him alone in your still room?”

  Catherine nodded but said nothing until they had achieved the first floor. “I must not call it mine. He seemed to think I warranted watching.” She knocked on the door with her elbow, and Ann opened it. Elizabeth stood at the window, and Catherine added warm water from the ewer by the fireplace to the wash. Ann took a stool in the corner and held the honey to the fire.

  Veronica curtsied and said, “May I help you undress, Lady?”

  Elizabeth patted her cheek and sat. Veronica’s small hands worked the ties loose nimbly, and she laid the dress across the bed without letting it drag. Catherine held out one hand, and Ann poured warm honey into it.

  “Who are those men?” asked Elizabeth as Veronica lifted her hair.

  Catherine rubbed the honey into Elizabeth’s wet palms, then took the clout from Ann and rubbed it down her back. She could count the ribs.“ They have some business with the Lady Anne. I’m sure it is nothing. Here now, splash your face.”

  Elizabeth did as she was bidden, and Catherine broke an egg, stirring it into a slurry with honey.

  “We will smear this over your skin and let it dry.”

  Again Elizabeth obeyed. “Is there a question, that men come to oversee my step-mother?”

  Catherine’s heart leapt a beat. She had washed her hands and taken up a brush, and she gentled the bristles through the delicate, bright hair. “I haven’t heard so. It is likely routine. An unpleasant routine but a necessary one.”