The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  “As it turns out, we do, Catherine.” He pointed at the innkeeper with his knife. “This is David Jones. Wouldn’t stay in my brother’s service.”

  “Wouldn’t say a word against your brother, sir,” said the innkeeper.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Benjamin said.

  “And so, those men this morning?” asked Catherine. David Jones shook his head a second time. “These parts are quiet, Madam. If there were men hunting down travelers, we would know of it.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Benjamin. “We will sleep the more soundly.” But his eyes still held worry.

  In the morning, Catherine slipped out of the bed, wrapped herself, and walked down to the warm kitchen. The early sunlight struggled against the small windows of the Red Dragon, and by the time she could make out a low line of scrubby apple trees in the yard, Benjamin had comedown, stretching. A chambermaid crept in behind him, and he said, “Girl, pour us some ale.”

  The maid searched around until one of older servant sheard the racket and, still in her nightclothes, lifted two goblets from a corner cupboard and set them before Catherine and Benjamin. “The ale’s in the cellar, sir.” She flounced a little curtsey, cut the younger girl a look of contempt, and disappeared.

  “Go see that my boots have been polished,” said Benjamin, and the smaller maid brightened. She went out just as her older fellow was returning, and they let a wide swath of air blow between them as they passed in the doorway.

  The bigger maid poured for them both, and, leaving the jug on the table, picked up an egg basket and left them alone. “She’s a good worker,” said Catherine. “They’re all fine in their ways,” said Benjamin. “They’re just children. Not too much danger for them out here in the country. No jewels much, or fine things lying about.”

  “A pleasant situation for them,” said Catherine. She melted a little toward the man. “I wish you had stayed in the country. People say the King’s Sister keeps a loose household. I should have taken you out of it.”

  “It was my choice, Benjamin. A lady’s palace should be a harbor, not a snare.” Resentment tugged at her thoughts. “But her position did not loosen the noose on Margery and Temperance.”

  “Christ’s bones,” said Benjamin. “The law is a tyrant.”

  “And the king makes the law.”

  “The king exists with the parliament,” countered Benjamin.

  “And he is the husband and father of it,” said Catherine. “And its pope.”

  “It is not a peaceful family. May God forgive us all, because we surely do not forgive each other.”

  “God has been mighty quiet these last years.”

  “Then we will make the best of the quiet and call it peace.”

  “I have heard of some kinds of peace that make quiet seem a grave.”

  The smaller girl returned with the glistening boots. Benjamin slid them on and stood. “Catherine, don’t be angry with me. We have done no great sin, have we?”

  “Sin, yes. A great one? I can’t judge that anymore.” He’d moved nearer to her, and she touched his side. A muscle moved under her hand, and her heart leapt.

  “The woman gets the fault laid at her door when the man rides away with a clear conscience. We are all sinners, are we not?”

  He laid his hand gently on her shoulder and guided her toward him. “And we are all redeemed already, are we not?” He smelt good, fresh and green, and Catherine let her head fall against his familiar chest. His body moved against hers, and she trembled. “I must hear the admission from Margaret’s own mouth. I would rather be alone than pecked at by rumor.” He set her away from him. The innkeeper came into the room, and Benjamin gripped his host’s hand, just as Reg entered from the front to say that the horses were saddled. “We must go,” said Catherine. Benjamin said, “You heard our lady, Jones. I am gone.”

  40

  The horses were assembled in the front courtyard, and Reg was checking their hooves. They were on the wide road before the sun had lifted its crown over the eastern treetops. Reg stayed behind, and the other four servants rode before them. Veronica complained until Catherine let her come onto the palfrey. She gave the mare to Reg, and then she lagged, trying to picture Benjamin with Margaret. She still had a maid’s shape, and those fine hands. The Overton women all had fine hands. Hers were rough, and the nails were brittle.

  Benjamin pivoted his horse and stopped. “Where are you? Has that palfrey turned to stone? We will be at the house before you leave the grounds of the inn.”

  “I don’t want to muss my clothes,” called Catherine. But she heeled the flanks of her ride. The palfrey swiveled its head and bit her toe.

  Benjamin said, “Come, let me in on the women’s secret.”

  “The country has a large king and a young prince,” said Catherine. “That has been all of my musing.”

  “You are a great prophet, Lady Catherine. We would have no news at all if it were not for you.”

  Catherine fussed with Veronica’s coif and ignored him until he pulled his stallion’s head around again.

  They rode almost without speaking until they were in the open country. The cold breath of spring still clouded the fields, heavy with bright dew. Then they entered a wooded stretch, and Catherine relaxed in the friendly shade and drew her fur wrap up to her chin. Veronica was dreaming, slack-mouthed, in the crook of her arm. She twitched, her mind working on some private child’s matter. Catherine remembered something her mother had said to her, in those days when she was turning into a woman: “All men are different. All husbands are the same.”

  Catherine was working her brain on a retort. An answer to a dead woman. She stuck her heels into the palfrey’s flanks and Veronica jumped.

  They rode on, the men urging them, faster,now, through the villages and farms, woods and open wilderness. A few walkers stepped aside as they clopped up behind, and a few people came outdoors to watch, but no one raised more than a distracted hand in greeting. Benjamin turned in his saddle and watched any man on a horse until he was out of sight. The sun ruled the day, pushing fat clouds along as it made its progress across the sky. Then it tumbled, and their shadows grew longer, canting off to one side, as the air grew cold again. Veronica’s stomach complained loudly, and Reg produced an apple from somewhere among the folds of his clothing. She chewed at its flesh as they rode along.

  Catherine barely knew she was on her feet again when they turned in at the lane to Davies House and slid to the ground. The saddle had cramped her muscles, and, taking Benjamin’s hand, she stumbled with little Jack Huff past the hulking front door. The great hearth in the dining gallery raged heat, and she fell onto a stool gratefully, holding her palms to the flames. Benjamin ordered food and drink, and Ann came running in.

  “How does the boy?” she asked.

  Catherine drank the ale that was set at her elbow. “He does very well. He had nothing but a bruise, no more than this.” She held up her thumb.

  Benjamin said, “Catherine was asked to stay.”

  Ann raised her eyebrows. “They must hear nothing, out there.”

  “Oh, they hear,” said Benjamin. “We were subjected to more admonitions than a priest would deliver. If we had been ordered to be any better, I would have thought they meant to send us to the angels forthwith.”

  “What does Robbie know?”

  “Only of the prison. And of the maids. It was enough. Lady Bryan had her eyes much on Benjamin.”

  “She has seen him in your company before,” said Ann.

  “And she has not forgotten it, either.” Catherine drank. The ale was good, but she said, “It tastes like dirt. Like mortality.” The liquid came back into her mouth, bitter and bilious, and she forced it down again. “At least it is not bouncing.” She looked around the dim room. “My tongue is ruined for taste tonight.”

  Benjamin set down his own cup and wipe
d his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bring wine.”

  “I am almost slain,” said Catherine, rubbing her haunch. “The only thing I want is a bed.” But she up-ended the cup and emptied it.

  “Don’t you want the story of your sister?”

  Catherine was suddenly overcome with the cold and moved to the fire. She sat on a stool near the hearth, watching the wisps of her breath disappear into the darkness. The flames cast a wedge of gold light over the floor, and Catherine pulled herself inside it. Benjamin turned his chair to face her, and Ann came to sit at her feet. Agnes came in with a maid, and Ann said, “Veronica, there’s your friend Agnes. You go up with her.”

  Catherine said, “Go up, Daughter.” When their footsteps had gone into silence, she said, “Tell us.”

  “Yes,” Ann said softly. She put her hands to the fire. “The word from Overton House is that your banns have already been read three times in Mount Grace. There’ve been no complaints filed, and your sister is in a rage. She has settled herself into Benjamin’s town home, maid and all.”

  “So we will travel to London.” Benjamin stood, sending his chair skidding backward. “She will have to open our door to us.”

  Ann idled her hand over her skirt. It was fine, embroidered at the hem. She had kept it covered with the shawl, but now she cast the outer garment aside. “I expect she will claim you for herself, Benjamin. She seems to have taken your house for her sanctuary.”

  “I am no priest and my home is no chapel.”

  Ann said, “Here is one of your men in the shadows. James! Come in and tell them what you told me.”

  A servant edged into the room and slid forward until the flickering light caught him. Benjamin dragged him into the circle. “What do you say? Does she mean to stay?”

  The man James twisted a short lock of dark, oily hair and spoke to his boots. “She had a letter delivered to her, as though she was the lady of the house. When she opened it, she fell on the floor like a woman almost killed and said she was your wife and that you wouldn’t be wed to no other. We didn’t rightly know what to do, her with her fine clothes and all.”

  Catherine said, “So she is mistress of your property, Benjamin.”

  Ann looked at Catherine. “And a bed in his house.”

  “She is no such thing,” said Benjamin. “This is a farce she plays to get attention for herself. She is afraid and looking for a place to hide. She should have stayed in Yorkshire.”

  “We will see,” said Catherine. “I must get myself to the bed.” She staggered up, and Ann caught her arm. Catherine vaguely hoped that her clothing was free of lice.

  When they were closed in upstairs, Catherine said “My God, it is good to see you.” She pulled Ann into her arms. The familiar warmth. The clean water smell of her hair.

  “You’re a little fatter,” she said.

  “Diana has been stuffing me like a plowman.” Ann pushed Catherine away to look into her face. “How is Robbie? Tell me truth now.”

  “He’s well. The injury was nothing. He wanted me to come, and when he saw that Benjamin was with me, he wanted me to go. He is hard. I have never seen a child with such a skin of anger on him.”

  “The world has made him so. But you’re his mother, and he must love you.”

  “He loves his sister,” said Catherine.

  “All men love their sisters when they’re little.”

  Catherine set her hand on her belly. “He will not love this one.” She looked up to see Veronica by the door to the maid’s room, thumb in her mouth. “Daughter, come here.” She removed the thumb. “You will mar your ring.”

  Veronica’s eyes widened. “Auntie Ann! Look at what the prince has given me!”

  Ann admired the small stone. “You already shine like a great lady, Vere, and it is plain for all to see.”

  The little girl twirled, and Ann swatted her on the rear. “Now off to bed with you, so that you will not grow bags under your lady-eyes.”

  “You must tuck me in, Mother.”

  “You have been in too many strange beds lately,” said Catherine, and she swooped the child up and carried her to the narrow bed in the tiny adjoining room. Agnes was already snuggled in, and Catherine laid Veronica beside her, kissed her head, and pulled the door closed. Ann was bent over the basin and she looked up with a dripping face. The rafters barely gave her room to stand straight, and Catherine touched one of the beams.

  “It is a short building,” said Ann. “It is a good thing that it’s not lower, or our feet would punch through the floor.”

  The laughter burst from Catherine, so hard that she doubled over with it to stop the sound. “Ah, Christ in the East, Ann, it is good to hear your voice.”

  Ann sat on a stool, dried off, and stared at the closed window.

  “You can see nothing there but the reflection of the candle,” said Catherine. “Come over here and drink with me.”

  “The world is nothing but reflections and shadows,” said Ann. She took the cup Catherine offered. “I search for my face and see a darkness in the shape of a woman.”

  “We are all shadows in the night. Look again in the morning and you will see a different view.”

  “Perhaps. But we may appear only as pale specters, under the eye of the sun.”

  “We are free. Let us celebrate it.” She clinked her cup against Ann’s and they drank.

  Ann gazed at her reflection in the window. “Will you marry him? It sounds as though Robbie will be against it.”

  “He will.” Catherine examined the dark drink. “One evening’s carelessness and the world is made perilous for a woman. It is unjust.”

  “My flowers have come and gone, so I am safe. What do you think? Can you still want any man after this?”

  Catherine lifted a shoulder. “I will not have Margaret’s leavings and I will not be with a lying husband. Robbie, poor boy. Veronica can keep William’s picture in her locket, but Robbie turns himself the wrong way out to keep himself shining in the prince’s eyes. Mark me, someone has told him that he’s a bastard, though he will not say it. I wonder if someone has said that his mother is a whore. His talk. You would not believe your ears. He has taken some book on women’s faults to heart.”

  “Go back and fetch him. He can be in his home, whatever he is called.”

  “He is planted too deep in the royal household. It breaks my heart for Veronica. Will she have to be disinherited because she’s a girl? My mother would not have done it. Folks called her hard, and they said she had the temper of a devil. Perhaps she did, but the strait ways of the world made her as she was. She was never so mean-spirited as she was when the king moved against us.”

  “No one of us bore that well,” observed Ann. “It turned us against each other, at the end. It shames me to think what Furies we became.”

  “But she had some love in her, though it was not out for plain view. My mother would have left me all she had to give, if it had been left in her power to do it.”

  “And as it turns out, you have it all anyway.” Ann mused, pulling her lower lip. “Then do as she would have done. Give Veronica the convent buildings. Have your father will his house to her. The boy can have the big house and the little village. The girl will have the smaller house and big village. How would that be?”

  Catherine refilled their cups. “You have a genius for management, Ann Smith. Now can you tell me what to do about Margaret?”

  Ann looked almost like herself again. “Now there’s a temper that we cannot lay at the king’s door. Toss her from the high window. Her head is soft enough to land upon without injury. Or if Benjamin does not prove true, let him catch her for himself.”

  “Benjamin says I should show her some compassion.” Catherine pulled off her sodden shoes. “He has catalogued her misfortunes for me. In truth, they’re not few.”

  “And he aims to win your ha
nd with this talk?”

  “Beshrew me, he’s a fair man, if I think on it with a level mind.” She threw one of the shoes at the wall. “I believe Reg would like to ride by your side.”

  Ann sucked inward. “He might think he does. But I saw as well as you did what happened to William. He loved you. He was good, at first, and fair as you claim Benjamin is. And even he couldn’t bear to think that another man had touched you.”

  “It was his station. Being the heir was forced down his throat, and it ate him from within.”

  “Station. It is all their talk.” Ann said, “I once heard of a house cat who swallowed a great mouse. So eager she was to have this mouse that she swallowed the beast without biting it first. And the mouse resented its captivity and began to chew its way out. The cat could not disgorge the mouse for its large size and died of her prize. The mouse, finding itself at liberty, went on to devour many a sack of flour.”

  Catherine mused on the tale. “Am I this mouse?”

  “This was a mouse of monstrous proportions. A mouse of estate, you might say. A mouse of station. And woe to the cat—or the man—who swallows the lure of high estate in this land.”

  “William fought it as well as he could. Reg is different.”

  “Not great, you mean?” Ann stood and began to loosen her dress. “Too low-born to care who’s rutted his woman?”

  “No! You know that’s not what I meant. He knows where he is in the world and he knows himself. If he’d been born a lord he’d be a lord. William was born a younger son and he didn’t know how to be anything else. The same is true of Benjamin. But he doesn’t care a fig about his brother’s position. He prefers some sheep for himself.”

  Ann pulled off the heavy dress and sniffed her armpits. “I still stink. I need a better wash. I cannot even move my elbows in this room.”

  “You smell like yourself,” said Catherine, but she stepped to the door and called the chambermaid to bring warm water.

  Ann spoke in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself these days. You say right. Reg is good just as he is.”