The King's Sisters

by Sarah Kennedy

  “I thought it was Dudley who got you set free.”

  “Well, perhaps he played his part.” Benjamin flushed.

  Catherine said, “Recite me a verse or two.”

  “What? Oh, I’m tired,” Benjamin said. “The road wearies a man’s memory. How is this? ‘When a man rides by a fine lady, all his wits will turn to gravy.’”

  Catherine said, “That is the worst rhyme ever to assault my ears. And the verse halts like a goose with a bitten foot.”

  “You heard me plead for mercy. And yet you have wrung a line of poetry from me.”

  “It sounds wrung, in truth,” said Catherine.

  “It’s no wonder you were driven from Dover.”

  “You will have to keep me, then, until I can perform better. You may test me or my word, at your leisure, when I have had some sleep. I will make you a verse on any matter you choose.”

  She trained a look on him. “And you will seek your liberty by this test?”

  “I may instead be sentenced to put my head in a yoke, my Lady Judge.”

  “Enough of this,” said Ann. “I am weary with our work.” She took up Veronica’s hand. “Will you go to bed and keep me company? I’d rather listen to you giggle at your dreams than endure this man’s wit.”

  Veronica yawned. “Yes, Auntie.”

  “Agnes?”

  “My haunches would be glad of a mattress.”

  They waved their goodnights and retired. Reg watched her from his place at the bottom of the table, and Catherine said, “Come here, Reg. I want to see your face. Move into the light.”

  Reginald looked into his cup, then lifted it and came up. He sat across from Catherine, where Ann had been. “Here I am, Madam. It’s a countenance you’ve beheld many a time.”

  “And never one that showed a lie,” said Catherine. “You will ride home with us?”

  “If I am asked.”

  “You are. But it’s a long road and we will be much in each other’s company. We know that men’s minds change over time.”

  “Women’s, too, if I might speak openly,” said Reg.

  She nodded. “Right enough. But Ann Smith is not fickle. She’s the most steadfast being I have ever known, man or woman. She is more than a sister to me. And what injures her wounds me.”

  Reg peered into the cup again. Then he looked into Catherine’s eyes. “You’re wanting me to leave the lady to herself?”

  “I want her to suffer no more harm.”

  Benjamin laid his hand on Catherine’s arm. “Who can promise that another will come to no harm?”

  Catherine pushed back the bench and stood. “Any one of us can work for good.”

  “But the work of our hands is not always matched by what our hearts wreak on us. And the world.”

  Catherine looked down at Benjamin, but his eyes were shaded by his long lashes and the tumble of dark hair. Then at Reginald, who waited without moving. She said, “I must sleep. Forgive me. I don’t know what I say. I will not see Ann harmed. Not a hair. Nor played false.” She plucked a bottle of wine from the table, and Benjamin handed her two cups.

  Ann and Agnes were already asleep, and Catherine lay beside her friend but her eyes would not close. The logs whistled softly as the fire whisked through them, under the thick matting, and to Catherine it sounded like a melancholy song. Then one cracked and fell. She rolled over, put her arm into Ann’s, and slept.

  Before the second day was showing its face on the eastern horizon, Benjamin and Reg had horses out for the men to load. The noise in the hall woke them, and they were dressed before the servants came to drag the chests down.

  Catherine found Benjamin at the table. “And now you will ride by my side and smile upon me?” he said.

  “I will be moving forever,” Catherine said, “like the sailors of the old stories.”

  “Every sailor wishes for home,” said Ann. “And hopes for a smiling welcome when he arrives.”

  They finished eating without speaking and threw themselves into the saddles once more. The clouds scudded along above them, tracing a pale crown around the low, bloody sun, and Catherine closed her eyes and let the light twist into colors behind her lids.

  “How will Margaret travel, without more than the clothes on her back?” asked Catherine.

  Ann yawned. “She has money in her purse and two men to ride by her side. I wonder that your mind still works on her.”Catherine shifted in her saddle, unwilling to speak, and Ann said, “You are growing. Do you feel life yet?”

  “No. But I feel the weight in my hipbones. I hope Eleanor has gotten the corn into the ground.” The cold day blew around them, and Agnes pulled Catherine’s fur cloak up to her chin. The wind gathered and shook the trees, and Catherine almost wished she hadn’t given it away. She settled back into a thick woolen blanket, dreaming of warm fires and a jug of red wine. It was going to be a long ride.

  And it was. Benjamin kept looking behind for signs of followers, but no one appeared, and soon they all faced forward and rode hard. Hours of spitting, cold rain, and sudden bright glaring sun. Joints of hard mutton and stiff bread eaten in the saddle and washed down with weak ale. When the sun dropped into the west, they all stumbled into an inn, barely seeing the fish stew laid before them. A thin mattress. A short night. Catherine and Ann washed in the icy water of their basin and dragged themselves onto their saddles again the next morning, before the sun had opened his great cold eye.

  Another day, then another, then another, and Catherine ached so much across her belly that she wondered if the child had lain sideways in resentment. They rode past woods and broad fields, into villages and out again. The men stayed ahead, whistling and exchanging tales that made them laugh. Sometimes they sang a snatch of old melody. But Catherine and Ann rode in silence, while Veronica tried out the men’s songs or recited parts of the psalms. More days and more nights. The season moved backward as they pushed northward, and soon the tender blossoms had become buds, then the buds bare tendrils of green trying out the air. The sheep here were not yet shorn, and the cows showed their ribs as they ruminated over moldy winter hay. Havenston had to be close by this time. It had to be. It would be over soon. Done. Catherine could not help herself from looking backward. The road lay empty behind them.

  Another day wheeled by. They passed through yet another wooded stretch. The branches here showed the first nipples of bud, and a few brave crocuses opened their mouths to the sky, but the view was mostly grey studded with brown trunks of leafless trees. The sun yawned on the western horizon. “What mother would ride into such a dull season to get a father for her child?” asked Catherine.

  “Only every mother alive,” answered Ann.

  The words bit at Catherine’s mind, and she twisted her hood to loosen her hair.

  Ann, unaware, spoke on. “Women will meet an army to let any ugly, dim-witted baby come into the world without the stain of sin upon its head.”

  “And why should any child be marked by sin for being born? It is monstrous. Why should a few words, spoken between a man and a woman, change the nature of a child? It is not even a child yet. We are all born with the original stain upon our souls. Does it not make us equals in the eyes of God?” She shoved her right hand into her pocket and her finger found the pennyroyal that she had taken from the still room of Benjamin’s country house before they had gone to Ashridge. It was brittle, and it brought her son’s face into her mind

  Ann said something in reply, but a shout drowned her words. The men had stopped ahead. They faced another party of men. Many men. They brought their horses to a stand across the road. They wore cloths wrapped around their faces. “Stop,” said one of the strangers. He drew a sword from his side and pointed it at Benjamin. Two men sat on either side of the leader, swords also drawn. Catherine turned. A dozen men blocked the road behind them.

  Benjamin motioned Catherine
and Ann up behind him. Reg brought his horse over to stand next to Benjamin’s. Ann pulled her palfrey beside Catherine’s. Veronica had opened her eyes at the noise, and Ann bent to murmur into her ear.

  “What is it?” Catherine called. “What do you want of us?”

  Benjamin and Reg approached them, and the Davies servants circled Ann and Catherine. “I will have your cases and bags,” said the stranger. He brandished the sword, and Benjamin reached for it, but he pulled the weapon back and trained it on Benjamin’s face. “Drop your goods.”

  Ann yanked her reins and dug her heels into the animal’s sides, forcing it backward. She held Veronica tight against her.

  “Ann!” shouted Catherine. “Wait!”

  “Let her go, Lady Catherine,” said the thief. He turned the weapon in her direction.

  “How do you know me?”

  “The palaces whisper your name, Lady Catherine. They say you have wealth that you keep hidden. Many secrets that you keep inside you.” He shouted over her. “Take it all.”

  Catherine gazed at the long road that unwound beyond the dark figures and their companions, while the chests were unloaded. The heaviest ones, brought by the Davies servants for Benjamin, clunked to the ground. Horses’ hooves thudded in the dust behind her, and the other men grunted and chuckled. A clasp clacked open. “Good stuffs here, man,” said someone.

  “Have done and be gone,” said Benjamin.

  “I know you for one Benjamin Davies, a Welshman,” the leader said. “The Welsh are a race of cheats and liars. They eat cheese and fart.”

  Benjamin’s face flooded with blood. “The king himself is a Welshman. You speak slander and treason.” His hand was on the hilt of his dagger, and four of the bandits drew on him. Catherine sat very still.

  The thief’s eyes glittered. “I slander no one. And I would keep my hand where it lies, if I were a man in your position.” He backed his sorrel three steps. His partners did the same. He raised his left hand and crooked a gloved finger. Catherine turned in her saddle to see horses disappearing in a blur of dust.

  Catherine kicked her palfrey and faced forward, expecting the others to have gone, as well, but now more strange men surged from the woods on either side. Their swords were out. Two of the Davies manservants behind them went down without a sound, and Catherine grabbed Ann’s reins and kicked her own ride. Veronica shrieked, and Benjamin charged Caesar forward. Reg was already fighting, his weapon out, but Catherine could hardly see him for the dirty gloom and the dull flash of blades. Benjamin was stopped between two horsemen, and Catherine’s palfrey shied away from another man, who had come up on her side, and smacked flat into Ann’s mare. Catherine fell, rolling to avoid hooves, and then Ann was on the ground beside her, flattening herself over Veronica. Agnes screamed from somewhere, and Catherine felt a hand grabbing the cloth of her bodice and pulling her to her feet. She jabbed backward with her elbow, and when she felt the grip loosen, she shouted, “Run, Ann. Agnes! Run.”

  Ann was with her, clutching the child, as they fled into the trees. It was darker here, and Catherine ran northward, as well as she could tell from the light. A fallen limb tripped her, and she fell, but Ann’s fingers were on her arm, lifting her, and they kept going until the sounds of steel on steel, of cries and groans, were far behind them. Catherine buckled into the loam beside a great oak, and Ann collapsed beside her. Veronica groped for her mother.

  “Come here, child,” whispered Catherine, gathering her daughter to her chest. Ann was heaving for breath. “Are you stabbed?”

  Ann felt her bodice and arms for tears in the fabric. “Bruised from the fall.” She cocked her head. “If it had been lighter, we would all be run through.” Her palm bled, and she tore a piece from her shift to pack it.

  Catherine’s skin buzzed all over, and her guts fluttered and tossed. “Agnes. Did she run? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Ann murmured. She lay back on the mossy roots. “My brains are drowning. Can you hear anything?”

  “No.” Veronica was shaking, and Catherine rubbed the small limbs, hard.

  “You’re safe now, girl,” she whispered. But she listened for footfalls, a voice, anything creeping through the silent woods. Her left wrist and thumb throbbed, and she pulled back her sleeve.

  “I’m damaged here.” She had an old scar from a dog bite, and it sang with pain.

  Ann took her hand. “Is it broken?”

  Catherine waggled her fingers. “I must have landed upon it. But not broken.” She tore a strip from her own shift. “Can you wrap it?”

  Ann made the bandage, and they moved on until they found a cover of firs. An owl dropped onto a low branch over their heads and watched a while, then lifted its broad wings and hoisted itself into the darkness. Catherine startled at a snapped twig, but it was only a badger that waddled by without taking note of the shivering women. They lay huddled together, listening, while the stars picked their way across the night sky.

  45

  Catherine must have fallen asleep, because the east was growing silver before she had said all of the prayers she knew. Her eyes were gummy, and her cheek was numb from lying against the damp ground. She shook Ann.

  “I’m awake,” Ann said. Veronica was sleeping between them on a mat of softened needles.

  “Let me take her,” said Catherine, but Ann shook her head and lifted the child. They crouched and made their way to the next wide tree, stumbling from stiffness and fear. Catherine studied the sky. “This way,” she said.

  “Are we going north or back to the road?”

  “North. You think the road is better?”

  “I think alive is better,” said Ann. “Did you see aught of Agnes?”

  “Maybe she ran another way,” said Catherine. “Did you recognize any of them?”

  “They were masked,” said Ann.

  “They were waiting for us,” said Catherine.

  Veronica was alert, staring. She’d put her thumb in her mouth, and Catherine let it stay.

  “We cannot be far from the village.”

  They walked, then trudged, then stumbled forward, searching through the trunks and branches for anything familiar. The day waxed and waned. Finally, a spiral of smoke mingled with the mists of the evening fog, and Catherine followed its thin twist in her mind’s eye all the way to its source at some woman’s hearth. She said, “That comes from a chimney,” and Ann lifted her eyes from her boots. “We’re almost home.”

  “Where is home, Mother?” asked Veronica, squirming.

  “There.” Catherine pointed. “Can you see the fire? That’s our village, named for your family.”

  “Overton,” said the child. “The village is Overton?”

  “Havens. It’s Havenston. You remember it.”

  The girl pushed herself up in her mother’s arms. “How are we Havens? We are Overtons.”

  “You’ll understand one day,” said Ann.

  They crouched in a thicket near the high road, watching for stragglers from their party. For the armed men. Catherine’s stomach grumbled loudly, but she pressed her hand to it and waited. The bulge of new child pressed her onward, but she waited until the sky was dark to take a chance and broke out, staggering up the high road. She almost did not know where she was. The hedges were trimmed, and the verges of the road had been mowed all along the way. But the sturdy house of Peter Grubb, the constable, was unmistakable, and his old mare nickered from the stable as they passed. He and his wife were probably already asleep, but Catherine turned up the little lane anyway and pounded on the door. “Peter Grubb!” she called. “Open for us!”

  The eye-hole slid open. “Who’s there?” said a woman’s voice.

  “It is Catherine Overton, Mistress Grubb. And Ann Smith and my little daughter Veronica.”

  The door opened and the woman, dressed only in her nightdress and cap, stepped ou
t and caught Catherine as she fell.

  “Christ’s wounds, what has happened? Ann Smith, what has befallen you?”

  “Murderers and thieves,” said Ann, dropping into the front hall. She laid her head on the dusty woven rug.

  Catherine slumped onto a chair. “Thank God,” she said. She could have kissed the stones of the floor, but she was too tired to bend.

  “Who’s here?” Peter Grubb himself appeared in a ratty jacket, tossed over his night shirt. The white froth of his hair caught the fresh moonlight. “Light me a taper, Wife.”

  “Catherine Overton.” She dragged herself up so that he could see her. “We have been set upon.”

  Peter Grubb hurried to the front door, and Catherine heard him bolt it. “Have you brought killers into the village with you?”

  Mistress Grubb flicked him a look. “They are half-dead. Get them a drink, for the love of God, Husband.” She laid a little hot spit on the last word.

  “I’m figuring a man can be allowed to protect his own house,” muttered Grubb, but he shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen just the same.

  Catherine’s heart was still lodged up under her collarbone and she forced her breath downward. “We had a party with us. We were almost within smelling distance of the village and men came upon us from the woods.”

  Peter Grubb returned, bearing a tray with drinks. “Come out of the hall. Drink and settle your minds.”

  In the front room, Mistress Grubb poured for them all, latched the shutters, then squatted and took Veronica’s chin in her fingers. “Has anyone hurt this child?”

  “I am whole,” said Veronica. “My Auntie Ann put herself between me and those awful men.” She stood straight to show herself, but her legs shook.

  Mistress Grubb smiled and released her. “You come with me, girl, and you can have whatever suits your fancy.” She took Veronica by the hand and disappeared into the back.