The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  Mary smiled with one corner of her mouth. “The maids tell each other their secrets.” Someone again knocked at the door, and Mary called, “Enter.” The tallest of her men came into the room. He bowed, and she said, “Welcome, Peter.”

  He straightened and said, “Will we go to the, ah, chapel?”

  “Wherefore to the chapel?” asked Catherine.

  “He mean here,” said Anne. She pushed open a door in the paneling that Catherine had never noticed before.

  They crowded into a small room, unwindowed and dark. A wooden altar reigned against the far wall, with an elaborate, small gilded Virgin in a niche above it. The surface of the figure winked and sparkled as the man lit a pair of tapers. Mary knelt, crossed herself, and slid onto one of the wooden chairs. Anne of Cleves followed her lead, keeping her head down as she sat. The horseman settled himself behind the altar, removing his jacket and replacing it with vestments from a chest against the wall. He opened a square door, high in the paneling, and removed a chalice and censor, a crucifix and a cloth-covered plate. He was praying, and Catherine dropped to her knees, as she had done all of her girlhood, and prepared herself to hear the Mass.

  The priest’s prayers were smooth and efficient, and the three women took the body of Christ with a speed that Catherine had never before witnessed. The priest bent to Lady Anne and said, “Remember to pray for your desires.” When they had concluded, the Lady Anne kissed the crucifix that had appeared in her hand, then laid it in a hollow under the seat. Mary returned hers to her pocket. Catherine had none and so waited for a signal that she should rise. The priest was putting on his woolen riding jacket and becoming Peter the grooms man again. He pushed the square door back into place and nodded at Mary. The king’s daughter tilted her head toward the next room, and the priest led them back out. The playing cards lay where they had been left, the Fates on top, fingering their woolen threads and watching the women reassemble themselves.

  The light pierced Catherine’s eyes, and she placed her forearm over her face until she could adjust to the human world again. The priest was bowing to his mistress and backing away. He twisted his hat onto his head, and withdrew from the room.

  Mary and Anne sat at the table, as though they would resume the game they had never started, and Catherine fell, stunned, onto the seat between them. Her heart was storming around her chest, and she put her hand onto her breast to calm it.

  “Are you ill, Catherine?” asked Mary.

  “No. I am cast back in time and do not know my way toward the future. My breath does not know whether to come in or go out.” She lifted one of the cards that had been rejected. It was the fool, in the guise of a Greek shepherd, and she threw it down again. “Who knows of this?”

  “No one but we two. Now we three,” said Mary.

  “Does your father not suspect?”

  “My father is the head of the church. The leader of our faith. Should he not know everything? Should he not have the power to see into the recesses of men’s souls?” Mary chuckled, a black sound.

  “What of women’s souls?” asked Catherine.

  “Those he may not see so clearly,” said Mary, “as hard as he might look.” She looked at Anne. “This is not the first time we have celebrated the true religion.” Mary lifted her cup to Anne, and Anne touched her own to it. “My father is misled by evil counsellors. He ages and his senses run away with his wits. But we will have God on this island. Will we not, Lady Anne?”

  “Whatever you wish,” said Anne.

  “And you will not sue to him for your return. You will not sue to him for anything. You do not want it,” said Mary. She gestured toward the great stone hearth, then to the ceiling, painted with the heavens and their constellations. “You see what you have. This. And the freedom of your conscience and the safety of your head. You do not want to be queen, to put your neck out for the axe.”

  “I do not,” said Anne. Her hand rose to her throat and stroked it. “But no children.”

  “You want no children. This king sweeps them away as he does his wives. What if you should win him back? And reward him with a daughter? A daughter you loved and taught and who was your dearest love? And that daughter was wrenched from your arms and banished from your presence?” Mary’s eyes showed spots of light, though no rays of sun fell onto her face. “And if you had a son, that would be a grievous occurrence to me.”

  “No children. No children,” said Anne. “I will have the freedom.”

  “We will worship together.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we will make our contentment together until we can search out a better path.”

  “Yes.”

  “We will not speak to the king of marriage,” concluded Mary.

  Anne of Cleves gathered the cards and stacked them into a neat pile. Mary smiled, and, sitting back, closed her eyes. She reached for Catherine’s hand, laced their fingers together, and held on as though she would never let her go. Catherine could feel, through her wound, the erratic beat of life in the other woman’s palm, like the pulse of a flame.

  18

  “Are you awake?” Catherine spoke into the silver light of the bedchamber. Ann Smith lay next to her, but she hadn’t moved or said a word since Catherine slid in beside her. The bed curtains stood open, and the round moon had nudged the darkness aside as it filled the window, etching the lead squares onto the covers.

  “I am now,” said Ann, rolling onto her back. She sat up and traced the shadows with her fingers.

  Catherine lay listening, and Ann cocked her head, then fell back onto her pillow. Veronica slept in the small room beside theirs with Agnes, and Catherine finally threw back the covers and padded across the room to lay her ear against the door. “They can’t hear, can they?” she whispered.

  Ann’s white nightcap moved back and forth in the moonlight. She patted the bed, and Catherine rejoined her. They curled, face to face, like girls. “You smell like Mary’s perfume,” said Ann. “Essence of incense.”

  “She would scarcely let me go. And the Lady Anne, too. It is as though she has to ensure that we are real. And unmarried.”

  “Hmmph,” said Ann. She rolled to her back again. “She wants a court of her own.”

  “She does indeed,” Catherine softly said. “And she hears the Mass.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Tudor. Here. In this house. Lady Anne with her. Jane is right.”

  Ann stared upward. “Do you want to tell me how you know this?”

  Catherine watched the moon tilt until its belly nudged the window frame.

  “I was with them. There was no saying nay. We were playing at cards, then we were hearing the Mass.”

  “Where did the priest come from?”

  “He’s the tall manservant. The horseman. The one who rides forward of the other men. His name is Peter.”

  Catherine’s heart was trembling at the memory. Ann’s breath went ragged and shallow, and Catherine turned to comfort her, but Ann was laughing. She covered her mouth with the blanket and turned her head into the pillow, but finally was forced to rise and dig out a handkerchief to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. “Peter? Peter? Did she name him herself? Sweet Jesus. That woman has the guts of a warrior.” She climbed back into bed, still chuckling.

  “A queen, more likely,” said Catherine. “She is the image of her mother, every inch.”

  Ann scrubbed her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “You may be sure of that, and right through to the heart, too. Folks say she is lunatic, but that woman could lead an army into battle. She is more politician than her father could ever hope to be. If she is crazed with anything, it is grief and anger, and she aims to make someone answer for it. I think she will hit her target, one day.”

  “But Ann, don’t laugh. She could be arrested for it. Tried for it. If the king discovers it, he will wink at his daughter if she shows remor
se, but he will cut the head from Lady Anne’s shoulders. I should have listened to Jane. But think of it. If a marriage did go forward, the king might relent. He’s old and tired. The entire country might—”

  “You are sure no one saw you?”

  “I was with Mary, Lady Anne, and the priest. That’s all. Mary made Lady Anne vow not to marry, but if the king wants her back, I don’t know which way the fight will turn.”

  “That’s hard,” said Ann. “A promise to the little one may mean nothing, but Mary will hold Lady Anne to her word.”

  Catherine nodded. “But the king is still the king. Why must women betray women? Do we not have enough enemies without turning on each other?”

  “I have no answer to that. We all have our battles to fight.” Ann patted her hand. “All of us.”

  Catherine considered this as the moon rolled her bulky body on, casting long shadows behind her. “The moon is our sister,” she said.

  “How is that?” Ann said through a yawn.

  “She is silent and alone and must remain so. She is a sister. Her eye is soft, because she is weary, and she seeks to conceal our imperfections rather than shine an angry light full upon them.”

  “Mm-hm. A sister.”

  “Ann, do you mark me?”

  “Mm.”

  “If we women were more like the moon, we would gleam gently as she does, and not glare like the king. We would illumine one another. It is a priest who has filled Lady Anne’s head with notions of a baby. This one or another of his kind. I am sure of it. And I once thought the priests held our salvation in their hands. They are as wayward as other men. And as deceitful.”

  Ann said nothing, but her even breath said she was asleep. Catherine turned onto her side, away from the retreating light.

  The next Catherine knew, the room was bright and Veronica was crawling over her legs. She bounced there until Catherine opened her eyes, and then she said, “Auntie Ann. You wake up too.” She had the poppet under one arm and she danced it across her mother’s knees. Agnes came in behind the child, scratching her scalp. “How long does the Lady Mary bide here?” the maid asked.

  “I haven’t heard,” said Catherine. She stretched and wriggled her legs to dislodge her daughter. “What do you call her? Your doll?”

  “Just don’t call her Ann or Catherine,” said Ann, pulling off the covers. “We have enough of us already.”

  Veronica gazed into doll’s embroidered face. “I have christened her Cleopatra.”

  Catherine let her laughter out. “She has been listening to you, Ann Smith.” She lifted her daughter to the floor. “Down to the kitchen,” she said. “We are on your heels.” Agnes and Veronica ran, almost bumping into the chambermaid bringing fresh water. Catherine splashed her face in the basin and pulled on a fresh shift. She twisted her hair up and jammed a clean coif over it. She had her skirt and bodice on before Ann had finished combing her own hair.

  “Are you going on a journey that you dress with such dispatch?” Ann asked.

  “Don’t taunt me. I am going to escape out to the garden before I’m called,” Catherine said. “Could you take any longer to get yourself ready?”

  “We don’t all have the fire under us that you have,” Ann said, but she set down the comb. “Give me three minutes.” She threw on her clothes and was still adjusting her hood as they ran down the back stairs.

  They stopped long enough to break their fast with a loaf, some cold meat, and a jug of small ale. The younger maids had their arms full of kindling baskets, and they paused for orders, but Catherine stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth, pointed at the fading fire, and rushed out the back door.

  The morning lay cold and damp before them, the sun chaste, veiled by shreds of cloud. The garden sparkled with fine nets of dew-covered web, strung between the young leaves. One spider had spun a dome among some old nettles, and the early light revealed thousands of tiny chambers. At the center, the dark queen hung, unmoving. Biding her time. It was too damp to work among the plants, but Catherine went anyway, the soft earth giving under her feet. “Look here,” she said. “This spinner has built herself a palace.”

  “It is kept neater than some palaces I know. But this queen looks for someone to bite.” Ann stayed upon the verge. “You will be mud to your knees. My shoes are already soaked through.”

  “Mud is clean,” said Catherine, bending to extract a small thistle from among the new radishes. “Mud we have been and mud we will be again. There’s no harm in it.”

  “Mud dirties the good and the wicked alike?” asked Ann, strolling along beside her. Catherine tucked the straw further under the young berry vines, then turned over the baby leaves to check for vermin. “You do nothing but laugh at me.” She pulled up her skirt. Her feet were slabs of fresh muck.

  “I laugh with you, not at you.”

  “I am born to play comedy,” said Catherine. She’d reached the far end of the plantings, and she laid a handful of weeds on the bare edge of the rows, then rested on a bench, sliding her feet along the long grass. A pair of gulls scolded each other and clopped their beaks on the air. The first stable hid the women from the palace. “How long must we wait?”

  “Until the end comes.” Ann plumped down heavily beside her. “You are not ridiculous and you are no player. Your heart shows in your eyes for everyone to see.” She regarded Catherine. “They are already green, though, so you can be jealous at your leisure and no one will know.”

  “What would make me jealous? I am more than I need to be. Would that he would come. He said he would come.” Catherine felt her cheeks smolder, and she bent to pull off her shoes and scrape the sides clean on the grass. “Let’s make a new accounting of all the kitchen goods today. Pots and pans, utensils, linens. That Martins will not accuse me of keeping sloppy books.”

  Ann turned her face up to the fresh sun and breathed deeply.

  “You are better off spending your time packing up.”

  “It will not hurt us to be shown good huswives. I will plead that we are preserving the reputation of the Lady Anne, getting the lists in order, and we will be in Lady Anne’s good books. It will perhaps reach the king’s ear.”

  “Are you sure that will do you good?” Ann gazed out toward the river.

  “Lady Anne has made her vow.”

  Catherine replaced her shoes. “It will busy us while Mary stays here. I must be busy.”

  “Very well, then, we had better begin.” She stood and when Catherine was on her feet, she paused. “He should have been returned by now.”

  Catherine flushed a little. “I have heard it said that men are different, but husbands are all the same.”

  Ann said, “So that’s your fear? That he will alter like William, but before the marriage?”

  Catherine lifted a shoulder. “He’s been gone a long time.” Her ribs tightened under her skin. Her eyes were hot and she was afraid she would weep.

  Ann put her arms around her. “Forgive me. My tongue flew before my thought. He will come. I know he will.”

  Catherine pulled away. “Is it not strange, that before I fought to be free of men and now I will fight to gain one?” She looked up to gauge the passage of the sun. It was still early. “God must not recognize any of us in our conversions.”

  They were silent the rest of the way, and the house was too busy for the women to speak again. They worked at the accounts between mealtimes, and Mary called for Catherine in the evening, when the light was too low to write easily. Catherine went, leaving Ann Smith with the maids and the piles of dirty plates and goblets. Mary Tudor was sitting alone in her chamber. No maid, no one to undress her. “Sit here at the mirror, Lady Mary,” said Catherine, “while I unpin you.” Catherine unfastened Mary’s dress, then she took off the coif as well and sifted the dry hair with her fingers. “Let me wash this. A princess should have a head of silk. You have neglected
your beauty.”

  Mary Tudor patted her own head. “Will I win a husband with fresher hair, do you think?”

  “If you want one. Any man would be a fool to refuse you,” said Catherine. But even in the sympathetic candlelight she saw that the jowls had already begun to puff and sag at Mary’s jaw, and her hand traced her own smooth throat. “We are within a year of each other in age.”

  “And you have already worn out one husband. I expect you will seek another.” Catherine stepped to the door and called for a chambermaid to bring a basin of warm water. “Thicken it with a pint of milk and put three sprigs of sage into it while it heats.” She returned to help Mary out of her heavy silk sleeves. “I’m not married, Your Grace.”

  “Equivocation?” Mary’s eyes were dark holes in the glass, and Catherine felt that the stars themselves might drop into them and disappear from the heavens. “They say that a certain gentleman is much in your company.”

  “I have my children to occupy me. My son is alight with opinions about my state.”

  “Children do not warm a woman’s bed.”

  “Ann Smith sleeps with me when I am lonely.” Catherine shook out the heavy, embroidered sleeves and laid them over a wooden stand to let them air. She hung the woolen dress on a high hook and pulled out the skirt for brushing. A couple of stems still hung on it. “You have traveled in the dust, Lady Mary. I will have this taken outdoors for cleaning.”

  “Everywhere I go feels dirty,” said the king’s daughter. She combed her hair with her fingers, and Catherine stepped up behind her.

  “Here, let me do that.” A brush lay upon the table, and Catherine parted Mary’s hair and worked it smooth hank by hank. Snowy flakes floated from the strands, and Catherine put her nose to Mary’s head. She smelt sour, like raw meat left too long in the sun. “How is your stomach lately?”

  “Bitter.”

  Catherine nodded and kept brushing. A soft knock interrupted her, and she went to the door before it could be opened by the maid. “Thanks,” she said, lifting the heavy bowl. The girl had a thick clout over her arm, and Catherine motioned for it to be thrown onto her own shoulder. “Now go.”